V,3 (fjorttell Hnttterattg ICtbtarg LtBRARY OF LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE A. B., A.M., COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.'Tl .'Va WASHINGTON, D. C, THE GIFT OF MRS. MARY A. WYNNE AND JOHN H. WYNNE CORNELL '98 1922 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 3 1924 056 275 880 DATE DUE \ ■ The original of tinis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924056275880 C[lDaiiibers*8CIyclopflet>ia of6(ngli5bl:ireratttreoic> SIR WALTER Sf OIT. (I-'rom tlie Pnrlinit by Sir F.dwin Landseer in the Nalionnl Portiait (J illery.) /CHAMBERS'S CYCLOPEDIA OF ^ ENGLISH LITERATURE c*^ <*^ NEW EDITION BY DAVID PATRICK, LL.D. A HISTORY CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHI- CAL OF AUTHORS IN THE ENGLISH TONGUE FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TILL THE PRESENT DAY, WITH SPECI- MENS OF THEIR WRITINGS ^ ^ ^ ^ VOLUME III. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PHILADELPHIA W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED LONDON AND EDINBURGH I 904 c^^^ The following articles in this A'olume are copyrighted, 1903, by J. B. Lippincott Company in tlie United States of America : Tlie Nineteenth Century. By Theodore Watts-Dunton. William Wordsworth to the poem "Expostulation and Reply," page 17. By W. 1'. Ker, LL.D. Sir Walter Scott to the poem "The Minstrel," page 35. By W. P. Ker, LL.D. Samuel Taylor Coleridge to extract from " The Ancient Mariner," page 63. By Ernest Hartley Coleridge. John Keats to the second paragraph on page 102, beginning "In the following," etc. By A. Cecil Brad- ley, LL.D. Percy Bysshe Shelley to selection from the " Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," page 112. By Algernon Charles Swinburne. Byron to the poem " To Thyrza," page 130. By Theodore Watts-Dunton. Thomas Moore to the poem "At the Mid Hour of Night," page 348. By W. Litton Falkiner. Thomas Babington Macaulay to selection from " Horatius," page 369. By Professor Richard Lodge. Thomas Carlyle to letter entitled " Life in Dumfriesshire," page 407. By W. Wallace, LL.D. Charles Robert Darwin to the end of the first column of page 419. By Professor J. Arthur Thomson. George Henry Borrow to "The Flaming Tinman," page 434. By Theodore Watts-Dunton. Lord Beaconsfield to " Genius and Youth," page 438. By Charles Whibley. John Stuart Mill to "The Stationary State," page 445. By Hector Macpherson. William Makepeace Thackeray to " Sir Pitt Crawley Proposes," page 459. By John Arthur Blaikie. Charles Dickens to " Mr. Lenville's Apology," page 470. By R. C. Lehmann. James Anthony Froude to "History," page 504. By P. Hume Brown. Philip James Bailey. By James Douglas. Charlotte Bronte to " Mme. Rachel," page 523. By Rev. W. Robertson NicoU, LL.D. Lord Tennyson to the poem " The Bridal," page 543. By Mrs. Mary J. J. Brotherton. Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning to the poem " Cowper's Grave," page 559. By Mrs. Miller Morison. John Ruskin to " Restoration and Destruction," page 573. By J. W. Mackail. Herbert Spencer to " Evolution and Dissolution," page 589. By Hector Macpherson. Matthew Arnold to the poem "To a Friend," page 595. By Edward Dowden. Alfred Russel Wallace. By J. Arthur Thomson. Thomas Henry Huxley to " Aims in Life," page 618. By J. Arthur Thomson. Edward Augustus Freeman to " The Death of Harold," page 627. By Professor Richard Lodge. Dante Gabriel Rossetti to " Sonnet VII. — Supreme Surrender," page 644. By Walter Raleigh. Christina Rossetti to the poem " Shall I forget ?" page 647. By Walter Raleigh. John Richard Green to " Oxford in the Middle Ages," page 653. By Professor Richard Lodge. George Meredith to selection from " Love in the Valley," page 659. By James Oliphant. William Morris to "The Wedding Path," page 667. B\' Robert Steele. Theodore Watts-Dunton. By James Douglas. Algernon Charles Swinburne. By James Douglas. Thomas Hardy to selection from " The Return of the Native," page 682. By Dr. W. Robertson Nicoll. Robert Louis Stevenson to selection from " Notes on Edinburgh," page 702. By J. W. Mackail. Rudyard Kipling. By Rudolf C. Lehmann. American Literature. By G. E. Woodberr)'. Ralph Waldo Emerson to selection from " Nature," page 758. By J. G. Schurman. William Hickling Prescott to " Aguilar," page 763. By Ruth Putnam. Henry Wad.s\vorth Longfellow to the poem " Resignation," page 768. By John White Chadwick. John Greenleaf Whittier to selection from "Massachusetts to Virginia," page 773. By John White Chadwick. Nathaniel Hawthorne to selection from " The Great Stone Face," page 779. By John White Chadwick. Edgar Allan Poe to selecdon from " Silence : a Fable," page 785. By John White Chadwick. Oliver Wendell Holmes to the poem " The Chambered Nautilus," page 789. By John White Chadwick. Henry David Thoreau to " Building the Chimney," page 794. By John White Chadwick. James Russell Lowell to page 799, inclusive. By John White Chadwick. Walter Whitman to " Hours for the Soul," page 806. By John White Chadwick. Harriet Beecher Stuwe. By John \\'hite Chadwick, John Lothrop Motley to "The Beggars," page 813. By Ruth Putnam. Francis Parkman to " The Heights of Abraham," page 816. By Professor Charles H. Hull. l-^'^^'J M (- JiiL ENVOY. The New Edition of the Cyclopaedia of English Literature is completed by the issue of a third volume little over two years after the appearance of the first. The first volume carried the history down to near the close of the seventeenth century ; the second was mainly devoted to the men and women of the eighteenth. The third volume commences with the group of great writers who had begun their work in the eighteenth century, but were destined to be the glory of early nineteenth century letters ; and, refusing to attempt a hard and fast line between nineteenth and twentieth, essays to bring down the story to the present time and include — under obvious limitations and conditions — the writers of the day. In a work of this kind — which is essentially a history — it would be out of place, even if it were possible, to attempt to deal with contemporaries as has been done with the men of the past ; and the limits of the volume debar it from allotting to the incalculably more numerous writers of the present day — whose best work, it may be, is not yet given to the world — the same amount of illustrative quotation as has been conceded to the older writers. By favour of a few of the most eminent living authors, we are permitted to illustrate the brief articles on them with quotations from their choicest work. But in the case of the great majority of quite recent and living authors, it has been inevitable that the Cyclopaedia should limit its scope to giving the essential biographical and bibliographical facts demanded in a work of reference, and for the rest to refer to their books, which are even now passing from hand to hand, and are to be found in every library. And of even the ablest of the younger writers of the day, by far the larger number are, along with some older authors not fully in the main currents of national literature, commemorated only by a brief para- graph in a complementary list of British authors — an earnest surely that erelong an additional or supplementary volume may be required to give more adequate treatment than is here possible to those with whom lies the nearer future of British letters. In such a volume some account of the several Celtic literatures of the British Isles, and their chief ornaments, might well find a place. The limitations of space and detail in regard to recent writers must obviously press more closely on the younger branches — on the literature of the United States and of the British dominions beyond the seas. And it may be anticipated that in any future supplement to this work the contributions of Greater Britain in the wider sense will occupy a space proportionately much larger than in the century which saw the daughter literatures arise — for the story of American national literature may fairly be said to begin with the century so recently closed. And therefore it has been found advan- tageous to give here, and not in an earlier volume, a brief history of the origins of American literature ; yet of the authors separately treated there are only three who did not at least live into the nineteenth century. As in the corresponding British one, the complementary list of American authors is selective, suggesting rather than ' expressing multitude,' and does not pre- tend to be in any sense complete or exhaustive. The Editor and Publishers have again to thank the distinguished men — whose names will be found appended to their articles — who have contri- buted the large body of critical work to which this volume owes its main interest and value. They have further to thank Lord Tennyson for revising the article on his father, and for choosing the selections to be here presented in illustra- tion of it ; Mr Barrett Browning for his co-operation with the writer of the article on his father and mother ; Mr Watts-Dunton for invaluable advice VI in regard to other articles than the three important ones he has himself contributed ; Mr John Morley for revising the article on John Stuart Mill ; President Schurman of Cornell University and Mr W. P. Garrison of the New York Nation for advice in regard to some of the important American articles. Mr Robert Aitken has written not a few of the unsigned articles, and has assisted the Editor by reading the proofs of them all. Their thanks are due to Mr Swinburne and Mr Watts-Dunton, to Mr Austin Dobson and Mr Gosse, to Mr Andrew Lang, to Mr Herbert Spencer and the late Mr Lecky, to Mr George Meredith, Mr Thomas Hardy and the late Mr Blackmore, to Dr J. K. Ingram and Mr T. D. Sullivan, to Pro- fessor Masson and Mr John Morley, for permission to quote here the poems or passages taken from their works. In the case of authors here and in America whose works are copyright, they have to thank the following publishers and owners of copyrights for their courteous permission to print the quotations hereinafter given ; and they crave indulgence if they have unwittingly made encroachment on any right of literary property, or inadvertently failed here to make due and express acknowledgment of leave granted. Mr George Allen and Mi'l Ruskin's literary executors, / Messrs George Bell & Sons, Messrs Blackwood, Messrs Cassell & Co., Messrs Chapman & Hall, Messrs Chatto & Windus, The Delegates of the Claren-1 don Press, j Mr Bertram Dobell, Messrs Houghton, MifSin, and "I Co., Boston, J Miss Harriet Jay, Messrs Little, Brown, & Co. , 1 Boston, J" Messrs Longmans, Green, and) Co., and the Executors, / Messrs Sampson Low, Mar- \ ston, & Co., J Messrs Maclehose, Messrs Macmillan & Co., Mr Lloyd Osbourne, Mr Jolm D. Outram, The Owners of the Copyright, The Owner of the Copyrights, Mrs Coventry Patmore, Messrs G. P. Putnam's Sons, Messrs Seeley & Co., Messrs Smith, Elder, & Co., The Controller of H.M.\ Stationery Office, J Mr Walter Wingate, for quotations from John Ruskin. Calverley. Laurence Oliphant. Stevenson's Kidnapped. Carlyle's Friedrich. i Stevenson's Pulvis et \ Umbra, Unde7~woods, \ and Songs of Travel. Freeman's Norman Con- quest. Stubbs's MedicEval and Modern Histo7'y. f James Thomson's City of Dreadful AHght. ( Emerson. Holmes. ■! Longfellow. Lowell. (^Whittier. Robert Buchanan. Parkman. William Morris. Blackmore. David Gray. I'Matthew Arnold. J Carlyle's Reiiiiniscettces. j Tennyson. I. Christina Rossetti. R. L. Stevenson. Outram. Jowett's Flato. Mr and Mrs Browning. Coventry Patmore. Whitman. Stevenson's Edinburgh. Matthew Arnold. J Stubbs's Preface to the \ Chronicle of Henry II. Wingate. CONTENTS. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. The Renascence of Wonder in Poetry I William Wordsworth II Dorothy Wordsworth ... .. 29 Sir Walter Scott .. 30 Robert Southey 47 Samuel Taylor Coleridge .. 56 Hartley Coleridge 72 Sara Coleridge 72 Charles Lamb .. 72 William Hazlitt ... •■ 79 Francis Jeffrey... .. 85 Thomas de Quincey •• 92 John Keats •■ 99 Percy Bysshe Shelley ... .. 107 Byron .. 118 Thomas Hoou .. 136 Walter Savage Landor .. 141 Edwin Atherstone 146 James Henry Leigh Hunt - 147 Thomas Love Peacock ... .. 150 Sydney Smith •■ 155 Thomas Henry Lister ... .. 158 James and Horace Smith •• 159 Theodore Edward Hook .. 163 Richard Harris Barham .. 166 Henry Crabb Robinson ... .. 168 John Wilson Croker .. 170 George Croly .. 171 Charles Caleb Colton ... .. 172 Charles Waterton •• 173 Ann and Jane Taylor ... •• 174 Mary Russell Mitford ... .. .76 Mrs Mary Meeke .. 178 Lucy Aikin .. 178 Mrs Hemans .. 179 Letitia Elizabeth Landon .. 181 Anna Jameson .. 183 Mary Somerville .. 185 Eliza Fletcher .. 187 Anne Marsh-Caldwell ... .. 187 Thomas Chalmers .. 187 Lord Brougham .. 189 Lord John Campbkll .. 191 Henry Hallam ■ 193 Richard Whately .. 196 William Whewell George Grote Adam Sedgwick ... Thomas Arnold CONNOP Thirlwall Sir George Cornewall Lewis Charles Merivale Henry Hart Milman Reginald Heber John Keble George Finlay Colonel William Mure John Colin Dunlop Sir William Francis Patrick Sir John Kincaid James Silk Buckingham... James Sheridan Knowles Basil Hall Bryan Waller Procter... Bernard Barton Ebenezer Elliott John Clare George Darley Thomas Lovell Beddoes Robert Montgomery Thomas Haynes Bayly ... John Abercrombie Sir David Brewster Michael Faraday Sir John Herschel Isaac Taylor Sir William Hamilton ... John Wilson John Gibson Lockhart Thomas Hamilton Michael Scott Frederick Marryat William Nugent Glascock Edward Howard Frederick Chamier Charles Wentworth Dilke Thomas Keightley William Maginn Francis Sylvester Mahony Pierce Egan Napier Contents Pierce Egan thk Younger George Combe Thomas Erskine Sir Francis Palgrave John Lewis Burckhardt William Scoresby Charles Knight DioNYSius Lardner Sir Francis Bond Head Sir George Head John Edmund Reade Sir Roderick Ijipey Murchison Albany William Fonblanque ... William Hamilton Maxwell ... John Hamilton Reynolds John Abraham Heraud Edward Irving Augustus and Julius Hare John Sterling Robert Vaughan Sir John Bowring Henry Francis Lyte Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd ... Henry Fothergill Chorley ... Eliot Warburton Frances Trollope The Countess of Blessington... Mrs Bray Catherine Grace Frances Gore Catherine Crowe Mrs S. C. Hall Samuel Carter Hall Miss Agnes Strickland William and Mary Howitt ... Hugh Miller Sir Archibald Alison Patrick Eraser Tytler Cosmo Innes David Laing Mark Xapier George Lillie Craik Georgiana Marion Craik Joseph Train James Hogg ... John Galt Susan Edmondstone Ferrier ... Allan Cunningham Thomas Mounsey Cunningham David Vedder Sir Thomas Dick Lauder William Thom William Nicholson William L.\idl.aw William Tennant Andrew Picken EBKNEZER PlCKKV ... PAGE PiOB 265 William Glen ... 309 26S William Motherwell ... 309 265 James Hyslop ... ... 310 26S Henry Scott Riddell ... ... 311 266 Robert Gilfillan ... 311 266 David Macbeth Moir ... 311 266 Thomas Aird ... 312 266 Charles Neaves - 313 266 Henry Cockburn ■■• 313 266 Dean Ramsay ... 314 267 Robert Carruthers ■■• 315 267 William and Robert Chambers •■■ 315 267 Sir Charles Lyell •■• 317 267 Sir Richard Owen ... 318 268 Earl Russell ... 318 268 Charles Cavendish Fulke Greville .. 319 268 Sir John Gardner Wilkinson ... 321 269 Richard Ford ... 322 270 Baden Powell ... ■■■ 323 271 George Robert Gleig .. 323 271 Alaric Alexander Watts ■■ 323 271 John Moultrie ... ■■■ 323 272 Alexander Dyce ... 324 273 Mary Martha Sherwood ■•. 324 274 Loui.sA Stuart Ccstello ... 324 276 Sir Henry Taylor ... 324 278 Leitch Ritchie ... 327 279 Edward William Lane .. 327 279 Abraham Hayward •■■ 327 280 George Payne Rainsford James ■. 327 280 Douglas Jerrold ... 328 281 William John Thoms ... 331 281 Laman Blanchard .. 331 283 Edward Laman Blanchard ... 331 284 John Doran ... 33< 288 Lord Lytton ... 332 290 Henry Lytton Bulwer ... 336 291 Edward Bouverie Pusey ... 336 291 John Henry Newman ... 337 291 Francis William Newman ■■. 342 291 Thomas Guthrie ... 342 291 William Crowe ■■ 343 291 Nassau William Senior ... 343 292 Samuel Warren ... 344 296 Thomas Wade ... 344 300 William Drennan ... 344 303 C/ESAR Otway .- 345 305 Thomas Moore ... 345 305 Ja.mls Wills ... 350 305 Thomas Colley Grattan ... 350 305 Richard Lalor Sheil ... 351 306 William Carleton ... 352 307 Michael and John Banim .. 353 307 . Samuel Lover ■.. 355 308 Gerald Griffin ... 357 309 James Clarenck Mangan ... 358 Contents Charles James Lever Sir Samuel Ferguson John Francis Waller Thomas Osborne Davis Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu Mountstuart Elphinstone Thomas Babington Macaulay... John Austin John Kitto Henry Rogers Philip Henry, Earl Stanhope Charles Swain Thomas Cooper Thomas Miller James Ballantine William Harrison Ainsworth WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED ... Robert Stephen Hawker Lord Houghton ... Thomas Gordon Hake Elizabeth Penrose Julia Pardoe The Baroness von T.vutphceus The Countess of Dufferin The Hon. Mrs Norton Lady Eastlake Lady Charlotte Guest Sarah Ellis ... Harriet Martineau James Martineau Richard Chenevix Trench Arthur Penrhyn Stanley Henry Alford Norman Macleod James M'Cosh James Spedding Augustus de Morgan James Frederick Ferrier John Hill Burton William Forbes Skene Mark Lemon William Rathbone Greg Percy Greg Gilbert Abbott X Beckett James David Forbes Thomas Carlyle Thomas Wright Thomas Crofton Croker William Barnes Richard Henry Hornk Robert Smith Surtees George Outram Henry Glassford Bell Philip Meadows Taylor Charles Robert Darwin Alexander William Kinglake PAGE 359 362 364 364 365 366 367 373 373 374 374 376 376 377 377 377 379 381 382 384 384 384 38s 38s 38s 387 387 388 388 391 393 394 396 396 397 397 398 398 398 399 399 400 400 400 400 401 411 412 412 413 414 414 415 415 416 421 Kdw-vrd FitzGer.vld George Henry Borrow Lord Beaconsfield Frederick Denison Maurice ... John Stuart Mill William Ewart Gladstone Dr John Brown Bishop Colenso William Makepeace Thackeray Tom Taylor CH.A.RLES Dickens John Forsier Samuel Smiles William Edjionstoune Aytoun Sir Theodore Martin Sir Arthur Helps Sir William Smith Mark Pattison George Gilfillan David Livingstone Robert Nicoll Charles Mackay Frederick William Faber Sir John William Kaye William Henry Giles Kingston Samuel Phillips Charles Reade Anthony Trollope Thomas Adolphus Trollope ... Frances Eleanor Trollope Henry Cockton John Stuart Blackie William Bell Scott Sir Thomas Erskine May Whiiworth Elwin Martin Farquhar Tupper Albert Smith Edwin Waugh Charles William Shirley Brooks Francis Kdward Smedley Frederick William Robertson Benjamin Jowett George Henry Lewes Alexander Bain '. Henry Longueville Mansel ... Sir Austen Henry Layard Sir George Webbe Dasent Sir William Stirling-Maxwell James Anthony Froude Ernest Jones Angus Bbthune Reach Thomas Mayne Reid Ebenezer Jones John Tulloch Philip James Bailey Arthur Hugh Clough +'4 429 435 441 442 447 449 452 453 463 464 474 475 475 478 478 479 479 480 4S0 481 481 482 482 482 482 482 486 490 490 490 490 490 490 490 491 492 492 492 492 493 494 495 497 497 497 499 499 SCO S05 505 505 506 50& 507 511 Contents Charles Kingsley George Henry Kingsley Mary Henrietta Kingsley Henry Kingsley Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Geraldine Endsor Jewsbury ... Lady Georgian a Fullerton ... Mrs Henry Wood Charlotte Bronte Emily Jane Bronte Anne Bronte Mrs Gaskell Jean Ingelow Eliza Cook Adelaide Ann Procter .. George Eliot Charlotte Mary Yonge Mrs Craik Eliza Lynn Linton William James Linton . Frances Power Cobbe . Mrs Oliphant Frederick Tennyson Charles Tennyso.'^ Turner Lord Tennyson Arthur Henry Hallam William Cox Bennett John Tyndall Robert Browning Elizabeth Barrett Browning John Westland Marston Philip Bourke Marston Sir Henry James Sumner Maine John Ruskin William Johnson Cory James Robinson Planch^ Richard William Church Thomas Hughes ... Sir William Howard Russell William Hepworth Dixon James Gra.nt The Songs and Ballads of Ireland Aubrey de Verb John Mitchel Denis Florence MacCarthy ... Sir Charles Gavan Duffy Cecil Frances Alexander WiLLi.-iM Alexander William Gorman Wills Dion Boucicault George John Whyte-Melvillk John Francis Campbell Herbert Spencer Francis Trevelyan Bucki.and... Matthew Arnold Frederick Locker-Lampson PAGE PAGE 513 Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore ... 601 517 Sydney Thompson Dobeli ... 603 517 Alexander Smith . . . 604 517 William Allingham ... 605 519 George Macdonald ... 606 520 Walter Chalmers Smith ... £07 520 Thomas Woolner ... 607 520 Walter Horatio Pater ... 607 520 Joseph Skipsey ... 608 525 Gerald Massey ... 608 526 David Wingate ... 608 527 Francis Turner Palgrave ... 609 528 William Gifford Palgrave . . . 609 528 Sir Richard Francis Burton ... 609 528 Sir Samuel White Baker ... 610 529 John Stanning Speke ... 610 535 James Augustus Grant ... 610 536 Henry Thomas Buckle ... 611 536 James Hinton ... 613 536 John Ferguson McLennan ... 6.3 536 The Duke of Argyll ... 613 537 Alfred Russel Wallace ... 614 539 Thomas Henry Huxley ... 6IS 539 William Wilkie Collins . . . 620 540 Richard Doddridge Blackmore ... 622 548 Robert Michael Ballantyne ... 623 548 Andrew Kennedy Hutchison Boyd ... ... 624 548 Samuel Butler ... 624 549 Edward Bradley . . . 624 549 George Alfred Lawrence . . . 624 567 George Augustus Henry Sala ... 624 567 William Caldwell Roscoe ... ... 625 567 John Caird .. 625 568 Edward Caird ... 625 576 Joseph Barber Lightfoot ... 625 577 Henry Parry Liddon ... 625 577 Edward Augustus Freeman ... 625 577 William Stubbs .. 628 578 Walter Bagehot . . . 630 578 Samuel Rawson Gardiner ... 631 .^78 James Gairdner ... 632 579 Richard Holt Hutton ... 632 581 George Bruce Malleson ... 632 582 James Hannay ... 632 583 Henry Morley ... 632 583 David Masson •. 633 583 William Young Sellar ... 634 584 John Conington ... 634 584 Thomas Edward Brown ... 634 58s James Payn ... 634 585 Sir John Skelton ... 634 585 Edmund Yates -. 635 586 Laurence Oliphant ... 635 590 Thomas William Robertson ... 637 591 Henry James Byron ... 637 600 John Nichol ... 637 Contents RoDEN Noel Joseph Henry Shorthouse The Earl of Lytton Charles Stuart Calvbrley John Addington Symonds Richard Jefferies Dante Gabriel Rossetti Christina Rossetti Charles Lutwidge Dodgson Charles Haddon Spurgeon Sir John Robert Seeley Lord de Tabley Sir Walter Besant James Rice Thomas Hill Green John Richard Green James Thomson Robert Buchanan Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy David Gray Edward Lear Charles Jeremiah Wells George Meredith Justin M'Carthy James Hutchison Stirling Lewis Campbell Friedrich Max-Muller Thomas Hodgkin Frederic William Farrar Frederic Harrison Sir Leslie Stephen . Stopford Augustus Brooke James Cotter Morison Sir Lewis Morris Edward Burnett Tylor Sir Edwin Arnold Lord Avebury Sabine Baring-Gould William Morris Thomas Hood the Younger Richard Garnett Theodore Watts-Dunton Algernon Charles Swinburne Thomas Hardy Alfred Austin Sir Alfred Comyns Lyall Alfred Ainger William Edward Hartpole Lecky ... Lord Acton William John Courthope John Morley James Bryce Sir George Otto Trevelyan George Macaulay Trevelyan Mandell Creighton William Hale White PAGE 637 637 638 638 640 640 641 646 648 648 649 650 650 650 651 652 654 655 656 657 657 657 658 660 661 661 661 661 661 661 662 662 662 662 663 663 663 664 664 668 668 668 672 680 683 683 683 684 686 686 687 689 689 689 William Robertson Smith Edward Dowden John Pentland Mahaffy Henry Austin Dobson Mrs Richmond Ritchie Mary Elizabeth Braddon Augusta Webster... Rhoda Broughton OUIDA Wilfrid Scawen Blunt . Frederic William Henry Myers William Black William Clark Russell... Andrew Lang Robert Bridges William Minto Alexander Anderson Sidney Colvin George Edward Bateman Saintsbury Alfred Perceval Graves William Schwenck Gilbert Francis Cowley Burnand George Robert Sims Sydney Grundy Henry Arthur Jones Arthur Wing Pinero William Ernest Henley Edmund Gosse Robert Louis Stevenson John Churton Collins William Hurrell Mallock Henry Rider Haggard ... Mrs Humphry Ward Madame Duclaux Michael Field Alice Meynell Mary St Leger Harrison Fiona Macleod James Matthew Barrie George Bernard Shaw ... John Davidson William Watson Oscar O'Flahertie Wilde George Moore Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sidney Lee Israel Zangwill ... Anthony Hope Hawkins Rudyard Kipling Stephen Phillips William Butler Yeats ... PAOK 689 689 689 690 691 692 692 692 692 693 693 693 693 694 695 695 695 69s 695 696 696 696 696 697 697 697 697 69S 699 705 705 705 706 706 706 706 707 707 707 708 708 70S 708 709 709 709 709 709 710 711 711 COMPLEMENTARY LIST of Recent and Contemporary British Authors in various Departments of Literature 712 Contents ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE BRITISH DOMINIONS BEYOND THE SEAS English Literature i.\ Canada Thomas Chandler Halieurton Joseph Howe WiLLIAJI KiNGSFORD GoLDWiN Smith Sir John George Bourinot Charles Grant Allen John Beattie Crozier W. IT. Drummond Charles George Douglas Roberts Archibald Lampman William Bliss Carman William Wilfred Campbell Lily DoUGALL Mrs Everard Cotes Charles William Gordon Sir Gilbert Parker Australasian Literature Adam Lindsay Gordon Henry Clarence Kendall Marcus Clarke Alfred Domett James Brunton Stephens Thomas Alexander Browne Benjamin Leopold Farjeon Ada Cambridge Mrs Campbell Praed Tasma George Egerton English Literature in South Africa George M'Call Theal Mrs Cronwright Schreiner AMERICAN LITERATURE Cotton Mather Jonathan Edwards Benjamin Franklin John Woolman George Washington LiNDLEY Murray Joel Barlow ... Charles Brockden Brown James Kirke Paulding William Ellery Channing Daniel Webster Washington Irving Fitz-Greene Halleck George Ticknor Nathaniel Parker Willis Sara Payson Willis James Fenimore Cooper 722 722 723 723 724 724 724 724 724 725 725 725 725 72s 725 725 725 725 .726 727 728 728 729 729 729 729 729 729 729 730 730 730 730 731 734 735 736 738 739 740 740 740 740 740 741 742 746 746 746 746 747 William Gilmore Simms Richard Henry Dana Richard Henry Dana, Junior ,. Joseph Rodm.an Drake William Cullen Bryant George Bancroft Amos Bronson Alcott Louisa May Alcott Lydia Huntley Sigourney Lydia Maria Child Sarah Margaret Fuller Ralph Waldo Emerson George Ripley ... Theodore Parker William Hickling Prescott Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Sylvester Judd John Greenleaf Whittier JosiAH Gilbert Holland Nathaniel Hawthorne Abraham Lincoln William Wetmore Story Charles Godfrey Leland George William Curtis Edgar Allan Poe Oliver Wendell Holmes Susan Warner Henry David Thoreau James Russell Lowell Walter Whitman William Lloyd Garrison Horace Greeley Wendell Phillips Thomas Wentworth Higginson ... Harriet Beecher Stowe Henry Ward Beecher John Lothrop Motley Francis Parkman Herman Melville Donald Grant Mitchell Bayard Taylor Stephen Collins Foster Theodore Winthrop Lewis Wallace Richard Henry Stoddard Edmund Clarence Stedman Thomas Bailey Aldrich Francis Richard Stockton Edward Eggleston John Burroughs William Dwight Whitney Charles Eliot Norton Silas Weir Mitchell John William Draper Andrew Dickson White Horace Howard Furness ... PAGK 749 749 749 749 750 752 753 754 754 754 754 755 760 760 761 765 770 771 775 775 781 781 781 781 782 787 792 792 796 803 808 808 808 808 809 810 8n 814 818 818 818 820 820 820 820 821 821 821 821 821 821 822 822 822 822 822 Contents Phillips Brooks John Hay Edward Payson Roe Charles Heber Clark Charles Farrar Browne Samuel Langhorne Clemens Julia Ward Howe ... Alice Cary Phcebe Cary Maria Susanna Cummins .. Alfred Thayer Mahan Francis Bret Harte Joaquin Miller Sidney Lanier John Fiske William Dean Howells .. George Washington Cable Henry James William James Richard Watson Gilder Edward Noyes Westcott .. Julian Hawthorne Joel Chandler Harris James Lane Allen PAGE 822 822 822 822 823 823 82J 824 824 824 824 824 825 825 825 826 826 827 828 828 828 828 828 Eugene Field Edward Bellamy James Whitcomb Riley Francis Marion Crawford Harold Frederic Owen Wister Richard Harding Davis ... Paul Leicester Ford Robert William Chambers Stephen Crane Winston Churchill Elizabeth Stuart Phelps... Sarah Orne Jewett Frances Hodgson Burnett Mary Noailles Murfree ... jMargaret Deland Kate Douglas Wiggin Mary Eleanor Wilkins ... Gertrude Franklin Atherton John Oliver Hobbes Mary Johnston COMPLEMENTARY AUTHORS LIST OF AMERICAN PAGE 828 828 828 828 829 829 829 829 829 829 829 829 830 830 830 830 830 830 830 830 830 831 XIV The following Articles in this Volume are Copyright, 1903, by J. B. Lippincott Company in the United States of America : The Renascence of Wondev in Poetiy. By Theodore Watts-Dunton. American Literature (Early) By G. E. Woodberry. Meredith ■■ By Matthew Arnold By Edward Dowden. Mill ., By PhiHp James Bailey By James Douglas. Moore .. By Beaconsfield ... By George Whibley. Morris .. By Borrow By T. Watts-Dunton. Motley .. By The Brontes By W. Robertson Nicoll. Parkman .. By The Brownings By Jeanie Morison. Poe .. By Byron By T. Watts-Dunton. Prescott .. By Carlyle By William Wallace. Christina Rossetti ... .. By Coleridge By E. H. Coleridge. D. G. Rossetti •• By Darwin By J. Arthur Thomson. Ruskin .. By Dickens By R. C. Lehmann. Scott .. By Emerson By J. G. Schurman. Shelley .. By Freeman By Richard Lodge. Herbert Spencer .. By Fronde By P. Hume Brown. Stevenson .. By J. R. Green By Richard Lodge. Mrs Beeclier Stowe ... ■• By Hardy By W. Robertson Nicoll. Swinburne .. By Hawthorne ... By J. White Chadwick. Tennyson .. By Holmes By J. White Chadwick. Thackeray .. By Huxley By J. Arthur Thomson. Tlioreau .. By Keals By Andrew Cecil Bradley. A. Russel Wallace ... .. By Kipling By R. C. Lehmann. Watts-Dunton .. By Longfellow ... By J. White Chadwick. Whitman .. By Lowell By J. White Chadwick. Whittier .. By Macaulay By Richard Lodge. Wordsworth .. By ' James Oliphant. Hector Macpherson. ■ C. Litton Falkiner. Robert Steele. Ruth Putnam. Charles R. Hall. J. White Chadwick. Ruth Putnam. Walter Raleigh. ' Walter Raleigh. ' J. W. Mackail. William Paton Ker. A. C. Swinburne. Hector Macpherson. ' J. W. Mackail. ' J. White Chadwick. ' James Douglas. Mary J. J. Brotherton. ^ John Arthur Blaikte. ' J. White Chadwick. ' J. Arthur Thomson. ' James Douglas. ' J. White Chadwick. 'J. White Chadwick. William Paton Ker. PORTRAITS. Sir Walter Scott . . Frontispiece William Wordsworth ... ... 15 Sir Walter Scott •• 30 Robert Suuthey .. 48 Samuel Taylor Coleridge ■■ 57 Charles Lamb •• 73 William Hazlitt .. 80 Francis Jeffrey ,. 86 Thomas de Quincey ■■ 93 John Keats .. lOO Percy Bysshe Shelley ... .. 108 Lord Byron .. 119 Thomas Hood .. 136 Walter Savage Landor... .. 141 Leigh Hunt ■• 147 Thomas Love Peacock ... •■ 151 Sydney Smith •• 15s James Smith ■• 159 Horace Smith .. 159 Theodore Hook .. 163 Richard Harris Barham .. 167 Mary Russell Mitford ... .. 177 Mrs Hemans .. 180 Henry Hallam •• 193 George Grote .. 200 John Keble .. 215 Bryan Waller Procter... .. 227 Isaac Taylor .. 244 John Wilson .. 248 John Gibson Lockhart ... .. 252 Frederick Marry at .. 256 Francis Sylvester Mahony .. 264 Mary Howitt .. 284 Hugh Miller .. 285 James Hogg .. 292 John Galt .. 297 Henry Cockburn •■ 314 Sir Henry Taylor •■ 325 Douglas William Jbrrold •■ 329 Lord Lytton •• 332 John Henry Newman •• 338 Thomas Moore •• 346 Charles James Lever .. 360 Thomas B.'Vbington Macaulay . .. 368 William Harrison Ainsworth .. 378 Winthrop Mackworth Praed ■ • 379 Richard Monckton Milnes Caroline Norton Harriet Martineau James Martineau Arthur Penri-iyn Stanley Thomas Carlyle Charles Robert Darwin Edward FitzGerald George Henry Borrow ... Lord Beaconsfield Frederick Denison Maurice John Stuart Mill Dr John Brown William Makepeace Thackeray Charles' Dickens William Edmonstoune Aytoun Charles Reade Anthony Trollope Martin Farquhar Tupper Benjamin Jowett George Henry Lewes James Anthony Froude Thomas Mayne Reid Philip James Bailey Arthur Hugh Clough Charles Kingsley Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Charlotte Bronte Mrs Gaskell Jean Ingelow George Eliot Charlotte Mary Yonge... Mrs Craik Mrs Oliphant Lord Tennyson Robert Browning Elizabeth Barrett Browning.. John Ruskin Thomas Hughes George John Whyte-Melville Herbert Spencer Matthew Arnold Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore George Macdonald Walter Pater Sir Richard Francis Burton Portraits Henry Thomas Buckle ... Thomas Henry Huxley ... William Wilkie Collins Edward Augustus Freeman Samuel Rawson Gardiner Earl of Lytton C. S. Calverley Dante Gabriel Rossetti Christina Georgina Rossetti Charles Lutwidge Dodgson .Sir J. R. Seeley Sir Walter Uesant John Richard Green Robert Buchanan Sir Edwin Arnold William Morris Algernon Charles Swinburne Thomas Hardy Alfred Austin W. E. H. Lecky John Morley Mrs Richmond Ritchie ... OUIDA William Black Robert Louis Stevenson PAGE 6ii 6iS 621 626 631 638 639 641 646 648 649 651 653 655 663 666 674 682 683 686 687 691 692 693 700 Mrs Humphry Ward J. M. Barrie Rudyard Kipling Benjamin Franklin Daniel Webster ... Washington Irving James Fenimore Cooper... Richard Henry Dana William Cullen Bryant George Bancroft Ralph Waldo Emerson William Hickling Prescott ... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow John Greenleaf Whittier Nathaniel Hawthorne Edgar Allan Poe James Russell Lowell Walter Whitman ... Harriet Beecher Stowe John Lothrop Motley Bayard Taylor Samuel Langhorne Clemens ... Francis Bret Harte William Dean Howells... Henry James J' AGE 706 707 710 737 741 744 748 749 752 753 756 762 765 772 776 784 797 804 809 812 819 823 824 826 827 iENWHUTEFalURE Ti..Home 'f9 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. The Renascence of Wonder in Poetry.* ' AD the great change in the poetry of the end of the eight- eenth century and the begin- ning of the nineteenth been a revolution of artistic methods merely, it would still have been the most important change in the history of English literature. But it afiected the very soul of poetry. It had two sides : one 5ide concerned that of poetic methods, and one that of poetic energy. It was partly realistic as seen in Wordsworth's portion of the Lyrical Ballads, and partly imaginative as seen in Cole- ridge's portion of that incongruous but epoch- making book. As the movement substituted for the didactic materialism of the eighteenth century a new temper — or, rather, the revival of an old temper which to all appearance was dead — it has been called the Romantic Revival. The French Revolution is generally credited, by French writers at least,, with having been the prime factor in this change. Now, beyond doubt, the French Revolution, the mightiest social convulsion re- corded in the history of the world, was accom- panied in France by such romantic poetry as that of Andre Chenier, and was followed, many years afterwards, by the work of writers like 105 * Copyright 1903 by J. Dumas, Victor Hugo, and others, until at last the bastard classicism of the age of Louis XIV. was entirely overthrown. In Germany, too, the French Revolution stimulated the poetry of Goethe and Schiller, and the prose of Novalis, Tieck, and F. Schlegel. And in England it stimulated, though it did not originate, the romanticism of Scott, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. But in this as in so many matters, while other countries have had the credit of taking the lead in the great human march, the English race has really been in the van. Just as Crom- well and Washington preceded and were perhaps the main cause of Mirabeau and Danton, so Chatterton, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, and Byron preceded and were the cause of the romantic furore in France which, later on, was decided by the great battle of Hernani. As the storm-wind is the cause and not the effect of the mighty billows at sea, so the movement in question was the cause and not the effect of the French Revolution. It was nothing less than a great revived movement of the soul of man, after a long period of prosaic acceptance in all things, including literature and art. To this revival the present writer, in the introduction to an imagina- tive work dealing with this movement, has already B. Lippincott Company. \ The Nineteenth Century for convenience' sake, and in default of a better one, ifiven the name of the Renascence of Wonder. As was said on that occasion, ' The phrase, the Renascence of Wonder, merely indicates that there are two great impulses governing man, and probably not man only but the entire world of conscious life : the impulse of acceptance — the impulse to take unchallenged and for granted all the phenomena of the outer world as they are — and the impulse to confront these phenomena with eyes of inquiry and wonder.' In order, however, to explain the phrase fully it is neces- sary to postpone the discussion of the Lyrical Ballads until we have made a rapid sweep over antecedent methods and antecedent thought. It would seem that something works as inevitably and as logically as a physical law in the yearn- ing which societies in a certain stage of develop- ment show to get away — as far away as possible — from the condition of the natural man ; to get away from that despised condition not only in material affairs, such as dress, domestic arrange- ments and economies, but also in the fine arts and in intellectual methods, till, having passed that inevitable stage, each society is liable to suffer (even if it does not in some cases actually suffer) a reaction, when nature and art are likely again to take the place of convention and arti- fice. Anthropologists have often asked, what was that lever-power lying enfolded in the dark womb of some remote semi-human brain which, by first stirring, lifting, and vitalising other potential and latent faculties, gave birth to man ? Would it be rash to assume that this lever-power was a vigorous movement of the faculty of wonder? But certainly it is not rash, as regards the races of man, to affirm that the more intelligent the race the less it is governed by the instinct of acceptance, and the more it is governed by the instinct of wonder — that instinct which leads to the movement of challenge. The alternate action of the two great warring instincts is spe- cially seen just now in the Japanese. Here the instinct of challenge which results in progress became active up to a certain point and then suddenly became arrested, leaving the instinct of acceptance to have full play, and then every- thing became crystallised. Ages upon ages of an immense activity of the instinct of challenge were required before the Mongolian savage was developed into the Japanese of the period before the nature-worship of ' Shinto ' had been assaulted by dogmatic Buddhism. But by that time the instinct of challenge had resulted in such a high state of civilisation that acceptance set in, and there was an end, for the time being, of progress. There is no room here to say even a few words upon other great revivals in past times, such, for instance, as the Jewish-Arabian renascence of the ninth and tenth centuries, when the interest in philosophical speculation, which had previously been arrested, was revived ; when the old sciences were revived ; and when some modern sciences were born. There are, of course, different kinds of wonder. Primitive poetry is full of wonder — the naive and eager wonder of the healthy child. It is this kind of wonder which makes the Iliad and the Odyssey so delightful. The wonder of primitive poetry passes as the primitive conditions of civihsation pass. And then for the most part it can only be succeeded by a very different kind of wonder — the wonder aroused by a recognition of the mystery of man's life and the mystery of nature's theatre on which the human drama is played — the wonder, in short, of vEschylus and Sophocles. And among the Romans, Virgil, though living under the same kind of Augustan acceptance in which Horace, the typical poet of acceptance, lived, is full of this latter kind of wonder. Among the English poets who preceded the great Elizabethan epoch there is no room, and indeed there is no need, to allude to any poet besides Chaucer ; and even he can only be slightly touched upon. He stands at the head of those who are organised to see more clearly than we can ourselves see the wonder of the ' world at hand.' Of the poets whose wonder is of the simply terrene kind, those whose eyes are occupied by the beauty of the earth and the romance of human life, he is the English king. But it is not the wonder of Chaucer that is to be specially discussed in the following sentences. It is the spiritual wonder which in our literature came afterwards. It is that kind of wonder which filled the souls of Spenser, of Marlowe, of Shakespeare, of Webster, of Ford, of Cyril Tourneur, and of the old ballads : it is that poetical attitude which the human mind assumes when confronting those unseen powers of the universe who, if they did not weave the web in which man finds himself entangled, dominate it. That this high temper should have passed and given place to a temper of prosaic acceptance is quite inexplicable, save by the theory of the action and reaction of the two great warring impulses advanced in the fore- going extract from the Introduction to Alywin. Perhaps the difference between the temper of the Elizabethan period and the temper of the Chaucerian on the one hand, and Augustanism on the other, will be better understood by a brief reference to the humour of the respective periods. There are, of course, in all literatures two kinds of humour — absolute humour and relative humour. The difference between these is as fundamental as that which — as the present writer has pointed out in his article on 'Poetry' in the Encyclopedia Britannica — exists in poetry between absolute vision and relative vision. That a recognition and an enjoyment of incongruity is the basis of both absolute and relative humour is no doubt true enough ; but while in the case of relative humour that which amuses the humourist The Renascence of W^onder in Poetry IS the incongruity of some departure from the laws of convention, in the case of absolute humour it is the incongruity of some departure from the normal as fixed by Nature herself. In other words, while relative humour laughs at the breach of the conventional laws of man and the symmetry of the social pyramid of the country and the time — which laws and which symmetry it accepts as final — absolute humour sees the incongruity of these conventional laws and this pyramid with the absolute sanction of Nature's own harmony. It follows that in trying to estimate the value of any age's humour, the first thing to consider is how it stands in regard to absolute humour and how it stands in regard to relative humour. Was there more absolute humour in the age of wonder than in the age of acceptance ? On the whole, the answer must be, we think, in the affirmative. Chaucer's humour was more closely related to absolute humour than any kind of humour in English poetry which followed it until we get to the greatest absolute humourist in English poetry. Burns. The period of wonder in English poetry may perhaps be said to have ended with Milton. For Milton, although bom only twenty-three years before the first of the great poets of acceptance, Dryden, belongs properly to the period of romantic poetry. He has no relation whatever to the poetry of Augustanism which followed Dryden, and which Dryden received partly from France and partly from certain contemporaries of the great roman- tic dramatists themselves, headed by Ben Jonson. From the moment when Augustanism really began — in the latter decades of the seventeenth century — the periwig poetry of Dryden and Pope crushed out all the natural singing of the true poets. All the periwig poets became too ' polite ' to be natural. As acceptance is, of course, the parent of Augus- tanism or gentility, the most genteel character in the world is a Chinese mandarin, to whom every- thing is vulgar that contradicts the symmetry of the pyramid of Cathay. It was, notwithstanding certain parts of Virgil's work, the temper of Rome in the time of Horace as much as it was the temper of England in the time of Pope, Congreve, and Addison, and of France at that period when the blight of gentility did as much as it could to poison the splendid genius of Corneille and of Moliere. In Greek literature the genteel finds no place, and it is quite proper that its birth should have been among a people so comparatively vulgar as the Romans of the Empire. A Greek Horace would have been as much an impossibility as a Greek Racine or a Greek Pope. When English writers in the eighteenth century tried to touch that old chord of wonder whose vibrations, as we have above suggested, were the first movement in the development of man, it was not in poetry but in prose. Yet there was no more interesting period of English history than that in which Milton and Dryden lived — the period when the social pyra- mid of England was assaulted but not over- turned, nor even seriously damaged, by the great Rebellion. This Augustan pyramid of ours had all the symmetry which Blackstone so much ad- mired in the English constitution and its laws ; and when, afterwards, the American colonies came to revolt and set up a pyramid of their own, it was on the Blackstonian model. At the base — patient as the tortoise beneath the elephant in the Indian cosmogony — was the people, born to be the base and born for nothing else. Rest- ing on this foundation were the middle classes in their various strata, each stratum sharply marked off from the others. Then above these was the strictly genteel class, the patriciate, picturesque and elegant in dress if in nothing else, whose privileges were theirs as a matter of right. Above the patriciate was the earthly source of gentility, the monarch, who would, no doubt, have been the very apex of the sacred structure save that a little — a very little — above him sat God, the suzerain to whom the prayers even of the monarch himself were addressed. The leaders of the Rebellion had certainly done a daring thing, and an original thing, by striking off the apex of this pyramid, and it might reasonably have been expected that the building itself would collapse and crumble away. But it did nothing of the kind. It was simply a pyramid with the apex cut off — a struc- ture to serve afterwards as a model of the American and French pyramids, both of which, though aspiring to be original structures, are really built on exactly the same scheme of hereditary honour and dishonour as that upon which the pyramids of Nineveh and Babylon were no doubt built. Then came the Restora- tion : the apex was restored : the structure was again complete ; it was, indeed, more solid than ever — stronger than ever. Subject to the excep- tion of certain great and glorious prose writers of that period, the incongruity which struck the humourist as laughable was incongruity not with the order of nature and the elemental laws of man's mind, but with the order of the Augustan pyramid. It required the genius of a Swift in England, as it required in France the genius of a Moliere, to produce absolute humour. In Field- ing, to be sure (notably in Joseph Andrews), and sometimes in Addison, as in the famous scene of Sir Roger at church, and in the less known but equally fine description of the Tory squire in The Freeholder, we do sometimes get it ; but in poetry very rarely. As to the old romantic temper which had in- spired Spenser's Faerie Queene, Marlowe's Faustus, Shakespeare's Hamlet, that was dead and gone — seemed dead and gone for ever. In order to realise ho\i' the instinct of wonder had been wiped out of English poetry we have only to turn to Dryden's modernisation of Chaucer ; his translations from Virgil, Boccaccio, and others ; The Nineteenth Century and to Pope's translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Let us take first the later and smaller of these two Augustan poets. Instead of the unconscious and unliterary method of rendering the high temper of man in the heroic youth of the world — man confronting and daring the 'arrows of Fate and Chance' — what do we get? The artificial, high-sounding lines of a writer of worldly verse whom nature, no doubt, intended to be a poet, but whom Augustanism impelled to cultivate himself like a Dutch garden in order to become 'polite' all round. That Dryden should fail as Pope failed in catching the note of primi- tive wonder which characterises Homer was to be expected. But it might at least have been sup- posed that he would succeed better with Virgil ; for Virgil was born only five years before the typical Augustan poet of Rome, Horace. But then it chanced that Virgil was something much more than an Augustan poet. Nothing, in- deed, is more remarkable in connection with the chameleon-like character of Virgil's genius than the fact that in the laureate of Cassarism and the flatterer of Augustus we should get not only the dawn of modern \o\e. — love as a pure sentiment — but also that other romantic note of wonder — get, in a word, those beginnings of mysticism and that speculative temper which made him the domi- nant figure of the Middle Ages. Of all these qualities — of all that made Bacon call him the 'chastest poet and royalist that to the memory of man is known ' — the coarse, vigorous, materialistic mind of Dryden was as insensitive as was the society in which he moved. And does he prosper any better with his own countryman, Chaucer, whose splendid poem, 77;^? Knighfs Tale, he essayed to modernise with others? Upon the Knight's Tale, based upon Boccaccio's Teseide, Shakespeare and another built one of the great dramas of the modern world, and so far from depriving it of the charm of wonder, added to it a deeper wonder still — the wonder of their own epoch. This superb poem Dryden undertook to make Augustan. Again, see how his coarse fingers degraded Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida when he took upon himself to make that strange work 'polite.' No doubt the littleness of greatness is the humorous jnotif of the play. No doubt Shakespeare felt that there is no reason why the heroic should not be treated for once from the valet point of view. But how has Dryden handled the theme ? By adding to the coarseness of Ther- sites and Pandarus in the play — coarse enough already — and by simply excising all the poetry. But if his treatment of Troilus and Cressida is grotesque, what shall be said of his treatment of the most romantic of all plays. The Tempest, where, in order to improve the romantic interest of the play, he and D'Avenant give us a male Miranda who had never seen a woman, and a female Caliban to match the male monster of Shakespeare ? The same fate befell him when he undertook to modernize Boccaccio. The one quality which saves the cruel story of Theodore and Honoria from disgusting the truly imagina- tive reader is the air of wild romance in which it is enveloped. Remove that and it becomes a story of mutilation, blood, and shambles. Dryden does take away that atmosphere from the story and ruins it. Again, take Boccaccio's beautiful story of Sigismonda and Guiscardo. It seems impossible to coarsen and brutalise this until we read Dryden's modernisation. Nothing shows more forcibly the distinctive effect of the new temper of acceptance than the ill-fortune that befell those priceless romantic ballads which in their oral form had been so full of the poetry of wonder in the days of the poetical past. From various European countries — from Germany, from Italy, from France, from Spain, from Roumania — a stream of legendary lore in ballad form had flowed into Great Britain and spread all over the island, not in Scotland and the Border country merely, but in mid and southern England also, where it had only an oral life. But when there came from the Continent the prosaic wave of materialism which killed poetry properly so called, inasmuch as it stifled for a time the great instinct of wonder, it killed, as far as mid and south England are concerned, the romantic ballad also. For during this arid period the ballad in, the southern counties passed into type. The 'stall copy,' as has been pointed out by Mr Lang, destroyed the South English ballad. For the transcriber of ballads for the stall was under the influence of the anti-poetic literature of his time, and the very beauties of the ballads as they came from the reciter's mouth seemed to him barbarisms, and he sub- stituted for them his notions of ' polite ' poetic diction. With regard to what we have called the realistic side of the romantic movement as distinguished from its purely poetical and supernatural side, Nature was for the Augustan temper much too un- genteel to be described realistically. Yet we must not suppose that in the eighteenth century Nature turned out men without imaginations, without the natural gift of emotional speech, and without the faculty of gazing honestly in her face. She does not work in that way. In the time of the mam- moth and the cave-bear she will give birth to a great artist whose materials may be a flint and a tusk. In the period before Greece was Greece, among a handful of Achaians she will give birth to the greatest poet, or, perhaps we should say, the greatest group of poets, the world has ever yet seen. In the time of Elizabeth she will give birth, among the illiterate yeoman of a diminutive country town, to a dramatist with such incon- ceivable insight and intellectual breadth that his generalisations cover not only the intellectual limbs of his own time, but the intellectual limbs The Renascence of Wonder in Poetry of so complex an epoch as those of the twentieth century. Poetic art had come to consist in clever manipu- lations of the stock conventional language common to all writers alike — the language of poetry had become so utterly artificial, so entirely removed from the language in which the soul of man would naturally express its emotions, that poetry must die out altogether unless some kind of reaction should set in. Roughly speaking, from the appearance of the last of Milton's poetry to the publication of Parnell's Night-piece, the business of the poet was not to represent Nature, but to decorate her and then work himself up into as much rapture as gentility would allow over the decorations. Not that Parnell got free from the Augustan vices, but partially free he did get at last. Among much that is tawdry and false in his earher poems, the lines describing the osier-banded graves, given in the notice of Parnell in Volume II. of this work, might have been written at the same time as Wordsworth's Excursion so far as truthful repre- sentation of Nature is concerned. Then came Thomson's Seasons and showed that the worst was over. If we consider that his Winter ap- peared as early as 1726, and Summer ^nA Spring in 1727 and 1728, and if we consider the intimate and first-hand knowledge Thomson shows of Nature in so many of her moods in the British Islands, it is not difficult to find his place in 'English poetry. No doubt his love of Nature was restricted to Nature in her gentle and even her homely moods. He could describe as ' horrid ' that same Penmaenmawr which to the lover of Wales is so fascinating. Still, from this time a new life was breathed into English poetry. But the new growth was slow. Take the case of Gray, for instance. Not even the Chinese mandarin above described was more genteel than Gray. In him we get the very quintessence of the Augustan temper. Yet no one who reads his letters can doubt that Nature had endowed him with a true eye for local colour. And although Gray was not strong enough to throw off the conventional diction of his time, he was yet strong enough to speak to us sometimes through the muffler of that diction with a voice that thrills the ears of those who have listened to the song of Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley. As the present writer has said on the occasion above mentioned, his chief poem, the famous elegy, furnishes a striking proof of the poet's slavery to Augustanism. While reading about 'the solemn yew-tree's shade,' 'the ivy- mantled tower,' and the rest of the conventional accessories of such a situation, the reader yearns for such concrete pictures as we get in plenty not only in Wordsworth and those who succeeded him, but even in Parnell and Thomson. Noble as this poem is, it has a fundamental fault — a fault which is great — it lacks individual humanity. Who is the ' me ' of the poem — this ' me ' to whom, in company with ' Darkness,' the home- ward-plodding ploughman 'leaves the world'? The thoughts are fine ; but is the thinker a moralising ghost among the tombstones, or is he a flesh-trammelled philosopher silting upon the churchyard wall? The poem rolls on sonorously^ and the reader's imagination yearns for a stanza full of picture and pathetic suggestion of individual life — full of those bewitching qualities, in short, which are the characteristics of all English poetry save that of the era of acceptance, the era of gentility — the Augustan era. At last, however, the poet does strike out a stanza of this kind, and immediately it sheds a warmth and glow upon all that has gone before — vitalises the whole, in short. Describing the tomb of the hitherto shadowy moraliser. Gray says : There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground. Now at last we see that the moraliser is not a spectre whose bones are marrowless and whose blood is cold, but a man, the homely creature that Homer and Shakespeare loved to paint ; a man with friends to scatter violets over his grave and little children to come and mourn by it ; a man so tender, genial, and good that the very red- breasts loved him. And having written this beautiful stanza, full of the true romantic temper, having printed it in two editions. Gray cancelled it, and no doubt the age of acceptance and gentility approved the omission. For what are children and violets and robins warbling round a grave compared with ' the muse's flame ' and ' the ecstasy ' of the ' living lyre ' and such elegant things ? And again, who had a finer imagination than Collins ? Who possessed more fully than he the imaginative power of seeing a man asleep on a loose hanging rock, and of actualising in a dramatic way the peril of the situation ? But there is something very ungenteel about a mere man, as Augustanism had discovered. A man is a very homely and common creature, and the worker in 'polite letters' must avoid the homely and the common ; whereas a per- sonification of Danger is literary, Augustan, and 'polite.' Hence Collins, having first imagined with excessive vividness a man hanging on a loose rock asleep, set to work immediately to turn the man into an abstraction : Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixed behold ? Who stalks his round, a hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep. But if Gray and Collins were giants imprisoned in the jar of eighteenth-century convention, they were followed by a ' marvellous boy ' who refused to The Nineteenth Century be so imprisoned. It may be said of Chatterton that he was the Renascence of Wonder incarnate. To him St Mary Redchffe Church was as much alive as were the men about whom Pope wrote with such astonishing; prosaic brillance. This is one of the reasons why he bulks so largely among the poets of the Renascence of Wonder. For this renascence Avas shown not merely in the way in \\hich Man's mysterious destiny was conceived, but also in the way in which the theatre of the human drama was confronted. This theatre became as fresh, as replete with wonder, as the actors themselves. A new seeing was lent to man's eyes. And of this young poet it may almost be said that he saw what science is now affirming — the kinship between man and the lower animal ; nay, eien the sentience of the vegetable world : further still, he felt that what is called dead matter is — as the very latest science is telling us — in a certain sense alive, shedding its influence around it. Then came Cowper, whose later poetry, when it is contrasted with the jargon of Hayley, seems to belong to another world. But it is possible, perhaps, to credit Cowper with too much in this matter. He was followed by a poet who did more for the romantic movement than even the 'mar\'el- lous boy' himself could do. Although Burns, like so many other fine poets, has left behind him some poor stuff, it would be as difficult to exaggerate his intellectual strength as to overestimate his genius. For not one of his predecessors — not even Chatterton — had been able to get away from the growth of poetic diction which had at last become so rank that originality of production was in the old forms no longer possible. The dialect of the Scottish peasantry had already been admirably worked in by certain of his predecessors ; but it was left to Burns to bring it into high poetry. In mere style he is, when writing in Scots, to be ranked with the great masters. No one realised more fully than he the power of verbal parsimony in poetry. As a quarter of an ounce of bullet in its power of striking home is to an ounce of duck- shot, so is a line of Burns to a line of any other poet save two, both of whom are extremely unlike him in other respects and extremely unlike each other. To conciseness he made everything yield as com- pletely as did Villon in the ' Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis ' and in ' Les Regrets de la Belle Heaulmiere,' and as completely as did Dante in the most concise of his Unes. As surely as Dante's condensation is born of an intensity of imaginative vision, so surely is Burns's condensation born of an intensity of passion. Since Drayton wrote his sonnet beginning — Since ther's no helpe, come let us kiss and part ! there had been nothing in the shape of passionate poetry in rhyme that could come near Burns's lines — Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. But, splendid as is his passionate poetry, it is specially as an absolute humourist that he towers above all the poets of the eighteenth century. Un- doubtedly, to get away on all occasions from the shadow of the great social pyramid was not to be expected of a poet at the time and in the conditions in which Burns was born. Yet it is astonishing how this Scottish yeoman did get away from it at times, as in 'A Man 's a Man for a' that.' It is astonishing to realise how he was able to show a feeling for absolute humour such as in the eighteenth century had only been shown by prose writers — prose writers of the first rank — like Swift and Sterne. Indeed, if we did not remember that he followed the creator of Uncle Toby, he would take, if that were possible, a still higher place than he now does as an absolute humourist. Not even Uncle Toby's apostrophe to the fly is finer than Burns's lines to a mouse on turning her up with a plough. But his lines to a mountain daisy which he had turned down with the plough are full of a deeper humour still — a humorous sympathy with the vegetable no less than with the animal king- dom. There is nothing in all poetry which touches it. Much admiration has been given, and rightly given, to Dorothy Wordsworth's beautiful prose words in her diary about the daffodil, as showing ' how a nature-lover without the 'accomplishment of verse' can make us conscious of the conscious- ness of a wild-flower. But they were written after Burns, and though they have some of Burns's play- fulness, they cannot be said to show his humour. It is in poems of another class, however — in such poems as the 'Address to the De'il' — that we get his greatest triumph as an absolute humourist, for there we get what the present writer has called ' cosmic humour ' — the very crown and flower of absolute humour. And take ' Holy Willie's Prayer,' where, biting as is the satire, the poet's humorous enjoyment of it carries it into the rarest poetry. In ' Tam o' Shanter' we get the finest mixture of humour and wisdom, the finest instance of Teutonic grotesque, to be found in all English poetry. In 'The Jolly Beggars' Burns now and again shows that he could pass into the mood of true Pantagruelism — a mood which is of all moods the rarest and the finest — a mood which requires in the humourist such a blessed mixture of the juices as nature cannot often in a climate like ours achieve. A true child of the Renascence of Wonder who followed Burns, William Blake, though he was entirely without humour, and showed not much power of giving realistic pictures of nature, had a finer sense of the supernatural than any of his predecessors. And now, after this wide circuit, we are able to turn, better equipped for understanding them, to The Renascence of 'Wonder in Poetry those writers of the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth who are the accredited fathers of the Renascence of Wonder. It is not the purpose of the present essay to discuss the poetry of any one of the poets of this great epoch except in regard to this Renascence. Their work will be found fully presented and analysed by eminent specialists in this volume. In 1765 Percy had published his famous collection of old ballads, and this directed general attention to our ballad literature. The first poet among the great group who fell under the influence of the old ballads was probably Scott, who in 1802 brought out the first two volumes of his priceless Border Minstrelsy. The old ballads were, of course, very unequal in quality ; but among them were ' Clerk Saunders,' ' The Wife of Usher's Well,' ' The Young Tamlane,' the ballad which Scott afterwards named 'The Demon Lover,' and certain others which compel us to set the ' Border Ballads,' as they are called, at the very top of the pure poetry of the modern world. Coleridge, as we are going to see, could give us the weird and the beautiful combined, but he could not blend with these qualities such dra- matic humanity and intense pathos as are expressed in such a stanza as this from ' Clerk Saunders,' where Saunders's mistress, after he has been assas- sinated by her brothers, throws herself upon his grave and exclaims : Is there ony roome at your head, Saunders ? Is there ony roome at your feet ? Or ony roome at your side, Saunders ? Where fain, fain, I wad sleep ? Scott, we say, is entitled to be placed at the head of those who are generally accredited with originating the Renascence of Wonder in the nineteenth century. But great as was the influ- ence of Scott in this matter, it is hard to see how the effect of his romantic work would have been so potent as it now is without the influ- ence of Coleridge. For, as has been pointed out in the notice of Byron in this volume, Scott's friend Stoddart, having heard Coleridge recite the first part of Christabel while still in manu- script, and having a mefnory that retained every- thing, repeated the poem to Scott, and Scott at once sat down and produced The Lay of the Last Minstrel. There is no need to say with Leigh Hunt that Scott's vigorous poem is a coarse travesty of Christabel in order to admit that, full as it is of splendid poetical qualities, it is defective in technic and often cheap in diction. Some of Scott's romantic lyrics, however, scattered through his novels show that it was a languid artistic con- science alone that prevented him from taking a much higher place as a poet than he now takes. If he never learnt, as Coleridge did, the truth so admirably expressed in Joubert's saying that 'it is better to be exquisite then to be ample,' it really seems to have been because he did not care to learn it. For the distinctive quality of Scott is that he seems to be greater than his work — as much greater, indeed, as a towering oak seems greater than the leaves it sheds. Coleridge's Christabel., The Ancient Mariner, and Kiibla Khan are, as regards the romantic spirit, above — and far above — any work of any other English poet. In- stances innumerable might be adduced showing how his very nature was steeped in the fountain from which the old balladists themselves drew, but in this brief and rapid survey there is room to give only one. In the 'Conclusion' of the first part of Christabel he recapitulates and summarises, in lines that are at once matchless as poetry and matchless in succinctness of statement, the entire story of the bewitched maiden and her terrible foe which had gone before : A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine ! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — Thou 'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still. But now they are jubilant anew, From clilif and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell ! Here we get that feeling of the inextricable web in which the human drama and external nature are woven which is the very soul of poetic wonder. So great is the maleficent power of the beautiful witch that a spell is thrown over all Nature. For an hour the very woods and fells remain in a shud- dering state of sympathetic consciousness of her — The night-birds all that hour were still. When the spell is passed Nature awakes as from a hideous nightmare, and 'the night-birds' are jubilant anew. This is the very highest reach of poetic wonder — finer, if that be possible, than the night-storm during the murder of Duncan. And note the artistic method by which Coleridge gives us this amazing and overwhelming picture of the oneness of all Nature. However the rhymes may follow each other, it is always easy for the critic, by studying the intellectual and emotional movement of the sequence, to see which rhyme-word first came to the poet's mind and suggested the rhyme- words to follow or precede it. It is the witch's maleficent will-power which here dominates the poet's mind as he writes. Therefore we know that he first wrote — Thou 'st had thy will. In finding a rhyme-word for 'will' and 'rill,' the word ' still ' would of course present itself, among others, to any poet's mind ; but it required a poet steeped in the true poetic wonder of pre- Augustanism — it required Coleridge, whose genius was that very Lady of the Lake, Sole-sitting by the shores of Old Romance — to feel the most tremendous and awe-inspiring The Nineteenth Century picture, perhaps, in all poetry called up to his imagination — The night-birds all that hour were still. The nearer in temper any other line approaches this, the nearer does it approach the ideal of poetic wonder. It is, however, owing to the very rarity of Coleridge's genius that not he but Scott popularised the romantic movement. In such purely poetical work as the first part of Christabel, which was entirely unlocalised, realistic mediffival pictures were not requisite as they were in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. After such work as Coleridge's all that the romantic revival needed was a poet who would supply it with feet in addition to wings. Scott sup- plied those feet. However, in the second part of Christabel, written later — in which the poem is localised after Scott's manner — Coleridge showed so much of Scott's influence that it may not be too fanciful to call these two immortal poets 'the binary star of romanticism revolving around one common poetic centre. Scott's poetry became so immensely popular that it soon set every poet and every versifier, from Byron downwards, writ- ing romantic stories in octosyllabic couplets, with the old anapaestic lilt of romantic poetry. As regards Wordsworth's share in this move- ment, though it was, no doubt, confined largely to poetic methods, the following superb lines from ' Yew Trees ' can be set beside even Coleridge's masterpieces as regards the romantic side of the Renascence of Wonder : Beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow ; — there to celebrate As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship ; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. Whether the reaction would have died out (as did the revival of natural language by Theocritus after such comparatively feeble followers as Bion and Moschus) had not Wordsworth's indomitable will and masterful simplicity of character stood up and saved it, or whether, on the contrary, the movement was injured and delayed by this obstinacy and simplicity of character — which led him into exaggerated theories, exposing it to ridicule — is perhaps a debatable question. How- ever, it ended by the 'poetic diction' of the eighteenth century being swept away. But as to real knowledge of the mere physiognomy of medi- asvalism, Coleridge and Scott were perhaps on a par. Indeed, imperfect knowledge of this physiognomy was a weak point in the entire group of poets who set to work to revive it. Coleridge showed a certain knowledge of it, which, like Scott's, was no doubt above that of Horace Walpole and Mrs Radcliffe. But since the great accumulation of learning upon this subject which came after- wards for the use of English poets it seems slight enough. Abbotsford alone is enough to show that Scott did not fully escape the bastard medisevalism of the eighteenth century. If he in Ivanhoe vanquished every difficulty and wrote an immortal mediaeval romance with not many touches of true medisevalism, that is only another proof of his vitalising imagination and genius. Fortunately, however, Scott was something more than a man like his successor Meinhold, who had every mediaeval detail at his command. Had \h& a.n'Caox oi Ivanhoe been as truly mediaeval as the author of Sidonia, he would have appealed to a leisured few by whom the past is more beloved than the present ; but he would not have given the English-speaking race those superb works of his which are A largess universal like the sun. Though the Ettrick Shepherd, in The Queen's Wake, shows plenty of the true feeling for the supernatural side of the movement, he had not sufficient governance over his vivid imagination to express himself with that concentrated energy which is one of the first requisites. As to Wordsworth as a nature-poet, there are, of course, three attitudes of the poet towards Nature. There is Wordsworth's attitude — that which recog- nises her as Natura Benignaj there is the attitude which recognises her as Natura Maligna, that of the poet who by temperament exclaims with the Syrian Gnostics, ' Matter is darkness — matter is evil, and of matter is this body, and to become incarnate is to inherit sorrow and grievous pain ;' and there is the attitude which recognises her as being neither benign nor malignant, but the cold, passionless, unloving mother to whom the sorrows, fears, and aspirations of man are indifferent be- cause unknown— the attitude, in a word, of Matthew- Arnold and other recent poets who have written after the general acceptance of the evolutionary hypothesis. Wordsworth's influence in regard to the painting of Nature was no doubt great upon all the poets of his time, and upon none was it greater than upon Byron, who scoffed at him. In order to see Wordsworth's influence upon Byron we have only to compare the third and fourth cantos of Childe Harold with the first and second. But besides this, Byron was evidently in the later decade of his life a student of Wordsworth's theories as to the use of natural language instead of poetic diction. In Julia's letter in Don Juan, notwithstanding occa- sional echoes like that of Barton Booth's couplet given on page 290, Vol. II. of this work- So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fixed soul, is an admirable illustration of Wordsworth's aphorism, 'What comes from the heart goes to The Renascence of W^onder in Poetry the heart.' The same may be said concerning the pathetic naturalness of the Haidee episode. Would this ever have been written as we now have it had it not been for Wordsworth's Pre- face? What makes Byron an important figure in the romantic revival is that, while his own draughts of romanticism were drawn from the well-springs of Scott, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, it was from his own reservoir that the French romantiques drank. Indeed, it may almost be said that to his influence was largely due that revival which, according to Banville, ' made French poetry leap from the sixteenth century to the nineteenth.' As regards, however, the French romantiques of the thirties to whom Banville alludes — those whose revolt against French classicism culminated, perhaps, in that great battle of Hernani before mentioned — their revolt was even more imperfectly equipped with knowledge of the physiognomy of medisevalism than that of Scott. With regard to Victor Hugo, however, it may be said that, modern as he was in temper, he was able by aid of his splendid imagination in La Pas d'Armes du Roi Jean, and indeed in many other poems, to feel and express the true renascence of wonder. But in poetry the mere physiognomy of life is only suggested : in prose it has to be secured. Hugo never secured it. Shelley's place in the Renascence of Wonder is peculiar. His vigorous imagination was partially strangled by his humanitarianism and ethical im- pulse, inherited largely from Rousseau. Of all the poets of this group he was by far the most in- fluenced by the social upheaval of the French Revolution ; and, of course, apart from his splendid work in so many kinds of poetry, he is a very im- portant figure in the revival of romanticism broadly considered. But those poems of his dealing with subjects akin to those represented by the purely romantic works of the old ballads and Christabel show that in the Renascence of Wonder his place is not among the first. Queen Mab is not the least in touch with the spiritual world. And there is more of the pure romantic glamour in Keats's two lines — Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn, than in the whole of The Witch of Atlas. Southey's voluminous and industrious work upon romantic lines is receiving at this moment less attention than it deserves. There is really a fine atmosphere of romance thrown over Thalaba and The Curse of Kehama. But the atmosphere is cold. With regard to Keats in relation to it, the present writer has elsewhere dwelt upon the fact that, brief as was his life, he who had already passed through so many halls of the poetic palace was at one time passing into yet another — the magic hall of Coleridge and the old ballads. As expressions of the highest romantic temper there are not many things in our literature to be set above The Eve of St Mark and La Belle Dame sans Merci. Our object being merely to trace to its sources that stream of Romanticism upon which the poetry of the nineteenth century has been nourished, this essay should properly close with Keats. And if a word or two is here said upon the poets who immediately followed the great group, it must not be supposed that any general criticism of these latter poets is attempted. Tennyson, in virtue of the large mass of per- fect work actually done, would perhaps be the greatest poet of the nineteenth century if Cole- ridge had not left us among his own large mass of inferior work half-a-dozen poems which will be the wonder and the despair of English poets in all time to come. In the blending of music and colour so that each seems born of each, it is hard to think that even the poet of The Eve of St Agnes and The Ode to a Nightingale was the superior of him who gave us The Lady of Shalott and The Lotos-Eaters. But when it comes to the true romantic glamour it cannot be said that he was instinctively in touch with the old spirit. The magnificent Ldylls of the King, in temper as well as in style one of the most modern poems of its time, does occasionally, as in the picture of the finding of Arthur, give us the old glamour very finely. But the stately rhetorical movement of his blank verse is generally out of harmony with it. That romantic suggestion which Shakespeare's blank verse catches in such writing as we get in the fifth act of the Merchant of Venice, and in hundreds of other passages, shows, however, that blank verse, though not so 'right' in romantic poetry as rhyme, can yet be made sufiiciently flexible. It is only in the poetic methods of his rhymed poems that Tennyson successfully worked on romantic lines, though of course the ndivetky the fairy-like, unconscious grace of Coleridge at his best, were never caught by any of his suc- cessors. And yet above all nineteenth- century poets Tennyson is steeped in the absolute humour of romanticism. In Shakespeare himself there is no finer example of absolute humour than he gives us in those lines where the 'Northern Farmer' expresses his views on the immorality of Bessy Harris : Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun under- stond ; I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. As to Browning, in order to discuss adequately his place as regards the Renascence of Wonder a long treatise would be required. On the realistic side of the Romantic movement he is, of course, very strong. His sympathies, however, are as modern as Matthew Arnold's own, except, of course, on the theological side, where he is a century behind his great poetic contemporaries. His The Nineteenth Century desire is to express not wonder but knowing- ness, the opposite of wonder. In a study of his works made by the present writer many years ago, the humour of Browning was named Teutonic grotesque. The name is convenient, and nearly, though not quite, satisfactory. But subsequent writers on Browning seem to have caught it up. Perhaps Teutonic grotesque, which, in architecture at least, lies in the expression of deep ideas through fantastic forms, is the only absolute grotesque. In Italian and French grotesque the incongruity throughout all art lies in a simple departure from the recognised line of beauty, spiritual or physical ; but in the Teutonic mind the instinctive quest is really not — save in music — beauty at all, but the wonderful, the profound, the mysterious ; and the incongruity of Teutonic grotesque lies in expressing the emotions aroused by these qualities in forms that are unexpected and bizarre. It is easy, however, to give too much heed to Browning's grotesquery in considering his relation to Roman- ticism. Ruskin has affirmed that such poems as Tlie Bishop Orders his Tomb is the best rendering to be found in literature of the old temper, and on this point Ruskin speaks with authority. With regard to Matthew Arnold, in The Scholar Gypsy he undoubtedly shows, reflected from Words- worth, a good deal of the realistic side of Roman- ticism. But there is no surer sign that his temper was really Augustan than the fact that in his selections from Gray in Ward's English Poets, he actually omits the one stanza in Gray's Elegy which shows him to have been a true poet — the stanza about the robin, above quoted in the re- marks upon Gray. The Forsaken Merman, whose very name suggests the Renascence of Wonder, beautiful as it is, is quite without the glamour and magic of such second-rate poets as the author of the Queen's Wake, and has no kinship with Cole- ridge or the old ballads. As to his attitude towards Nature, it is in such poems as Morality and In Harmony with Nature that Arnold shows that he comes under the third category of nature-poets above mentioned. With regard to his humour, Arnold was essentially a man of the world — of the very modern world — and his humour, though peculiarly delicate and delightful, must perhaps be called relative and not absolute. As regards the Romantic temper, two English imaginative writers only have combined a true sympathy with a true knowledge of it, and these were of more recent date — Rossetti and William Morris. They had, of course, immense advan- tages owing to such predecessors in literature as Meinhold, and also to the attention that had been given to the subject in Pugin's Gothic Architec- ture and in the works of other architects, English and foreign. The poet of Christabel himself was scarcely more steeped in the true magic of the romantic temper than was the '^x\\.^\ oi The Blessed Damozel and Sister Helen, while in knowledge of romance he was far behind the later poet. With regard to humour, he and Morris hold in their poetry no place either with the absolute or relative humourists, but those who knew them intimately can affirm that personally they were both humourists of a very fine order. The truth is that Rossetti con- sciously, and Morris unconsciously, worked upon the entirely mistaken theory that in romantic poetry humour has properly no place. It is want of space alone that prevents our bringing prose fiction into this essay ; otherwise Mr Meredith would receive more attention in these remarks than almost any other writer ; but to dis- cuss so vast a subject as that of the Renascence of Wonder as seen in prose fiction would require the space of a large book, or rather of a library. It is hard to think that even the singer of the Ode to the West Wind is in lyric power greater than he who wrote the choruses of Atalanta and the still more superb measures of Songs before Sunrise and Erechtheus. Indeed, we have only to recall the fact that before Shelley wrote it was an axiom among poets and critics that few, if any, more metres could ever be invented in order to give his proper place to a poet who has invented more metres than all the poets combined from the author of Piers Plowman down to the present day. Mr Swinburne too seems, consciously or uncon" sciously, to act upon the theory that humour is out of place in romantic poetry. For in his prose writings he shows a great deal of wit and humour. With regard to form and artistic qualities generally, a new kind of poetic diction now grew up — a diction composed mainly of that of Shelley and of Keats, of Tennyson, of Rossetti, of Mr Swinburne, yet mixed with Elizabethan and more archaic forms — a diction, to be sure, far more poetic in its elements than that which Coleridge, Scott, and Wordsworth did so much to demolish, but none the less arti- ficial when manipulated by a purely artistic im- pulse for the production of purely artistic verse. It is, we say, true enough that the gorgeous and beautiful word-spinning of writers like Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Philip Bourke Marston, and those called the Pre-Raphaelite poets is far more like genuine poetry than was the worn-out, tawdry texture of eighteenth-century platitudes in which Hayley and Samuel Jackson Pratt bedecked their puny limbs. Rossetti, the great master of this kind of poetic diction, saw this, and during the last few years of his life endeavored to get away from it when writing his superb poems, A King's Tragedy and The White Ship. His rela- tive, Mr Ford Madox Hueffer, in his monograph on Rossetti tells us that it should be pointed out that the White Ship was one of Rossetti's last works, and that in it he was aiming at simplicity of narrative under the advice of the present writer. THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. "William Words-worth William Wordsworth. The story of Wordsworth's eariier life is told in The Prelude, 'the long poem on my own educa- tion,' finished in 1805, but not published till after the authoif's death in 1850. This poem was ad- dressed to Coleridge, who described it in the verses written in acknowledgment : An Orphic song indeed, A song divine of high and passionate thoughts To their own music chanted. It had to be kept back, because the great work to which it was an introduction — The Recluse, of which The Excursion is only a fragment — was never completed. If Wordsworth had published the Prelude immediately, it might have saved his literary reputation from some tedious contro- versies ; it would certainly have given pleasure to Shelley and Keats, both of whom were fascinated by Wordsworth and anxious to discover his mean- ing. It is an authentic story ; the course of his life and the growth of his faculties are described sincerely. It is one of the happiest of lives ; blest from the outset with natural gifts of the most fortunate kind, a pilgrim's progress, in which the ordeals are indeed severe, but saved from the worst afflictions, and especially from low spirits. By keeping back the Prelude Wordsworth made the Excursion his most authoritative work regard- ing his own temper and ideas. His contemporaries generally judged him from the Excursion; and the Excursion, taken by itself, gives a false impression of Wordsworth. It makes him too much of a philosopher, too sedate, too tame. The Prelude is a story of life and will, not mainly of meditations or theories ; these have their place in it, but the purport of the whole book is to show that his re- flections spring from what is aUve. Wordsworth's life, which to many of his readers has appeared a monotonous affair, comes out in the Prelude as a life of pure energy from the beginning, wakeful, alert, self-willed. Also by accident (or 'divine chance') he was carried into the middle of great things. He stood nearer to the reality of the French Revolution than any of his contemporaries in England, and he discovered the secret of the Alps. The slow mooning person which Words- worth seemed to be in later life is hardly to be found in the Prelude. The story of his childhood and boyhood is an enthusiastic description of all kinds of adventure. The pride of life kindled and lit up his world for him ; Nature for him was full throughout of 'danger and desire.' He was born at Cockermouth, on 7th April 1770, the son of John Wordsworth, law-agent to Sir James Lowther. His mother, who died when he was eight years old, was anxious about him, owing to the faults of his disposition, more than about any of her other children. He says him- self that he was 'of a stiff, moody, and violent temper; but his wilfulness had nothing unsound * Copyright 1903 by J. B. Lippincott Company to in it. His account of his school-life (at Hawks- head) would be interesting simply as a story of a boy's adventures. The early revelations of sublime things came to him not in moments of a wise passiveness, but in the crisis of heroic action : When I have hung Above the raven's nest by knots of grass And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock But ill-sustained, and almost (so it seemed) Suspended by the blast that blew amain, Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind Blow through my ear ! The sky seemed not a sky Of earth — and with what motion moved the clouds ! The first book of the Prelude is a commentary on the lines in Tintern Abbey : The coarser pleasures of my boyish days And their glad animal movements all gone by. It explains how different Wordsworth's love of Nature was from mere critical observation of the ' beauties ' of Nature or what is called ' scenery.' It is through life that Nature is revealed to him, in rowing, riding, and skating ; and the old panic terror found him, about his tenth year, in night raids on the fells : I heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me, and sounds Of undistinguishable motion, steps Almost as silent as the turf they trod. In October 1787 Wordsworth went up to St John's College, Cambridge. The change of scene was a trial for him, but he was not de- pressed. He found that his mistress. Nature, was lady of the fens also ; and in the flat country he surrendered himself to the elemental beauty of light and air, and the broad general aspect of the earth : As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained, I looked for universal things, perused The common countenance of earth and sky. There was at the same time a certain lowering of temperature in his life, as was perhaps natural and right. The touch of worldliness in his conversation at Cambridge gave him tolerance, and saved his enthusiasm from wasting itself In his third long vacation (1790) Wordsworth went for a walking tour in France and Switzerland with his friend Jones, of the same college, and found himself in the middle of the Revolution : — Europe at that time was thrilled with joy, France standing on the top of golden hours. And human nature seeming born again. There is no one who has borne better witness than Wordsworth to the unselfish happiness, the over- powering hope, that seemed to attend the first movement of the Revolution. The two Cambridge men, however, saw one the poem "Expostulation and Reply,'' page 17, "William Wordsworth thing to suggest what unexplored caprices might be latent in the power that had restored the golden age : ' arms flashing, and a military glare,' intrud- ing into the quiet of the Grande Chartreuse. The contrast between the hopes and the disappoint- ments of the Revolution was expressed in 1802 in a sonnet to his travelling companion : Composed near Calais, on the Bead leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802. Jones ! when from Calais southward you and I Went pacing side by side, this public Way Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day, When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty : A homeless sound of joy was in the sky ; From hour to hour the antiquated Earth Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, mirth. Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! And now, sole register that these things were. Two solitary greetings have I heard, * Good-mor7'ow i Citizen ! * a hollow word. As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair Touches me not, though pensive as a bird Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. In 1790 Wordsworth confesses that he was as yet hardly able to appreciate the issues : A stripling, scarcely of the household then Of social life, I looked upon these things As from a distance, heard and saw and felt, Was touched, but with no intimate concern. The year after he was to grow out of the stripling, and to give to a political cause all that energy of mind which had been bestowed before by him on the study of Nature. He took his degree in 1791, and spent some time in London, where he saw and heard a good deal, including the other great imaginative reasoner — Burke : With high disdain Exploding upstart theory. In November he went to France, meaning to spend the winter and learn the language. He stayed first at Orleans, then at Blois. Of all the Englishmen who were affected by the French Revolution, none entered like Wordsworth into its vicissitudes of hope and fear. He had been welcomed by the people of France in their first revolutionary holiday. He listened, not long after, to the chaos of the Palais Orleans : I stared and listened with a stranger's ears To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild. And his.sing Facdonists with ardent eyes In knots or pairs or single. Not a look Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to wear, But seemed there present, and I scanned them all. At Orleans in the society of royalist officers he recognised their magnamity, but was not affected by their political views ; there, too, he met and conversed intimately with Beaupuy, one of the most honourable and high-minded of the reformers. There can hardly have been anywhere in Europe a nobler devotion to high causes than in these two chance acquaintances ; they have the inextinguish- able grace of lofty ideas, which were not refuted, though frustrated, by the events that followed. Wordsworth's political enthusiasm had the same root as his poetry— in his early life. He was not carried away by rhetoric merely ; the new revo- lutionary world appeared to him as eomething familiar, and he interpreted equality and fraternity as what he had always known among his own people in the dales. There was a pith of common- sense in his revolutionary beliefs ; they were not all vapourings, though both Wordsworth and Beaupuy failed. Beaupuy became a general, and was killed in 1796. Wordsworth thought at one time of throwing in his lot with the Girondists, in October 1792, when he had returned to Paris, a month after the September massacres ; but his supplies came to an end, and that prosaic cause brought him back to England. Wordsworth has uttered the hopes of his youth in a passage of verse which is to the political revival what Tintern Abbey is with regard to the poetical worship of Nature. It is one of the fragments of the Prelude published in Coleridge's Friend: Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven ! O times In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute took at once The attraction of a country in romance ! Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty Did both find helpers to their hearts' desire And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish, — Were called upon to exercise their skill Not in Utopia, subterranean fields. Or some secreted island. Heaven knows where ! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us, — the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all ! The return from France was more than a change of climate to Wordsworth. The outbreak of the great war caused the most serious, perhaps the only dangerous, intellectual crisis in the whole of his life. When Shelley afterwards reproached him as a lost leader, whose early love of liberty had grown ossified, he did not know the full story, the tragic conflict through which Wordsworth had passed. Wordsworth was not frightened, and there was no inconsistency. He found himself divided between his patriotism, which was always strong, and his love for the ideas and the country of Beaupuy. He saw the worst parties in France gaining by the war : Tyrants strong before In wicked pleas were strong as demons now. And thus on every side beset with foes The goaded land waxed mad. Wordsworth, in division against himself, fell into despondency and scepticism. He tried to find some new principles ; but his critical inquiry was fruitless, or worse. Analysis could not provide him even with a theory ; and it was not a theory William Wordsworth 13 he required, but motives. He verified the saying of Burke, that the world would be ruined ' if the practice of all moral duties and the foundations of society rested upon having their reasons made clear and demonstrative to every individual.' His progress led him through the valley of Abstract Thought, where he was not happy : Viewing all objects unremittingly In disconnexion dead and spiritless, as it is expressed in the Excursion j or as in the Prelude : Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, creeds Like culprits to the bar ; calling the mind Suspiciously to establish in plain day Her titles and her honours. His deliverance from futile analysis was in great part due, he says, to his sister Dorothy : She in the midst of all preserved me still A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, And that alone, my office upon earth. In 1795 tli^y settled at Racedown, a house near Crewkerne in Dorset. There in June 1797 they were visited by Coleridge, who had read Words- worth's Descriptive Skeiclies (published in 1793); the next month the Wordsworths moved to Alfoxden, a house in the Quantocks not far from Coleridge's home at Nether Stowey. Coleridge and Wordsworth, walking about the hills, found occasion for all sorts of imaginative projects ; Lyrical Ballads, their common venture, came out in 1798, beginning with the 'Ancient Mariner' and ending with ' Tintern Abbey.' Coleridge explained their partnership later : 'It was agreed that my efforts should be directed to persons and charac- ters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspen- sion of disbelief for the moment which constitutes poetic faith. Mr Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from the lethargy of custom and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us ; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.' Wordsworth and his sister did not stay long in Somerset. In the autumn of 1798 they went to Germany, travelling with Coleridge in the earlier part of their journey. German literature did not affect Wordsworth strongly ; he imitated Burger's verse in two of his worst poems, and disapproved of it in one of his critical essays. But his German winter was productive ; the poems of that year are among the finest in the second volume of Zywa/ Ballads, published in 1800. He came back to England in 1799, and settled at Grasmere. The Prelude was already begun, part of the great ambition of Wordsworth's life — 'a philosophical poem containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled The Recluse ; as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.' The Prelude was finished in 1805, but it was not the only work of these years. In 1807 appeared two volumes, about the same size as the Lyrical Ballads of 1800, containing poems in some respects considerably different from anything of Wordsworth's hitherto published : the ' Sonnets on Liberty ; ' the ' Happy Warrior ; ' the ' Ode to Duty ; ' and at the end, with a motto of its own, paullo majora canamus, the ' Ode on Intimations of Immortality.' There were also the poems of the tour in Scotland in 1803 re- corded in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal — Yarrow Unvisited, Stepping Westward, The Solitary Reaper. The most obvious difference between 1800 and 1807 in Wordsworth's poetry was the result of his studies among the older English poets — Chaucer, Drayton, Daniel, Sidney — of whom he had known little or nothing before. Milton and Spenser he had long known and praised : now their influence returned to him along with the others, and gave a new character to his poetical language. In 1813 he went to Rydal Mount, his home for the rest of his life. About the same time he obtained the office of Distributor of Stamps for Westmoreland. In 1814 he made his second tour in Scotland ( Yarrow Visited), and published the Excursion, ' being a portion of The Recluse, a Poem.' A collected edition of his Poems was published in the following year ; and also in 1815, separately. The White Doe of Rylstone. Peter Bell, a tale in verse, begun long before among the Quantocks, but not included in Lyrical Ballads, was pubhshed in 1819, preceded by the mis- chievous work of the same name, ' the ante-natal Peter,' a parody of Wordsworth by Keats's friend Reynolds, and followed by Shelley's Peter Bell the Third. Other publications are The Waggoner (1819), The River Duddon (1820), Memorials of a Tour on the Continent (1820), Ecclesiastical Sketches (1822). There were few adventures in Wordsworth's later life. He travelled in Switzer- land, Italy, Holland, Wales, Ireland ; in 1831, with his daughter, he went to see Scott at Abbotsford, just before his departure for Naples ; Scott refus- ing Wordsworth's commendation of the Italian landscape, and quoting 'although 'tis fair, 'twill be another Yarrow.' Yarrow Revisited and other poems appeared in 1835 ; and at the end of the year, in the Athenceum, the ' Extempore Effusion on the Death of James Hogg' — Wordsworth's lament for the poets. Coleridge and Lamb had died the year before : Like clouds that rake the mountain summits, Or waves that own no curbing hand. How fast has brother followed brother From sunshine to the sunless land. 14 William Wordsworth Wordsworth became Poet Laureate in succession to Southey in 1843. He wrote nothing after 1846 ; one of his latest poems in 1845 '^ constant to his early modes of thought and style : So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that the little flowers were born to live Conscious of half the pleasure which they give. That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone. He died on St George's Day 1850 ; the Prelude was published a few months later. One book of the Recluse — that is, the first book of what was to have been the first part — was left in manuscript ; it was printed in 1888. Wordsworth claims for himself a mission to interpret Nature. He found himself 'a dedicated spirit' (early one morning on his way home from a dancing party; Prelude, Book IV.); he was more definitely and intensely conscious of his mission than any poet has ever been, more even than Milton. For Milton's ambition had always something of the school, something formal or abstract, in it ; he was to compete with the old masters of heroic verse, to win the prize of Epic or Tragedy. Wordsworth took his start from reality ; he had something to say which had been specially revealed to him in the accidents of his life. His poetical task was to find expression for this acquired and always increasing knowledge of his. Milton, with equal confidence in his vocation, was less certain about his themes. But this is saying little ; for Wordsworth's security in the value of his own experience goes beyond all possibility of comparison and calculation. It is not easy to determine or explain what Wordsworth meant by Nature ; or rather it is easy to explain prosaically in such a way as to leave the result unprofitable. It may be turned from poetry into metaphysics ; it is so translated, sometimes, by Wordsworth himself But the essence of Wordsworth's theory is poetical, not distinctly philosophical, though it touches on philosophy. Where it is most philosophical, it is a belief in imagination, sometimes called the Imaginative Will, as a power of interpreting the world — not altering reality, nor remoulding the scheme of things, but reading it truly. It is this faculty that gets beyond ordinary trivial, partial, disconnected perceptions, and finds the solemn life of the universe astir in every moment of expe- rience. Through imagination Wordsworth attains something like a mystical vision of the whole world as a living thing, every fragment of the world alive with the life of the whole. But this is hardly what is distinctive of his poetry, for such visions have come to many, without the accom- plishment of verse, sometimes in opposition to all poetry. Also a formal theory of this sort is not protected against base uses ; it may become, as Blake says of general ideas, the refuge of the scoundrel and the hypocrite ; it may be imitated without conviction or insight. Poetry cannot be reduced to ideas ; and Wordsworth is not to be judged by the theories that may be abstracted from his poems. Wordsworth separates himself, explicitly, from the eighteenth-centurypursuit of the beauties of Nature: Even in pleasure pleased Unworthily, disliking here and there Liking, by rules of mimic art transferred To things above all art — though the Picturesque, as studied, for example, by Gilpin, was some part of his education. He liked to notice and recollect aspects of scenery, facts of Nature, hitherto unused in art. But this kind of observation, never without interest for Wordsworth, and proved, as has been seen already, in his latest poem, was always a subordinate part of his work. Closeness to reality, 'with his eye on the subject,' was consistently his aim ; but his study of Nature involved more than observation, Nature was more than the object of perception ; Nature 'full of danger and desire' could be rendered poetically only by enthusiastic imagina- tion. The Picturesque might be taken coolly and examined technically, but Wordsworth's point of view is generally different. His didactic expo- sition no doubt often seemed to be much the same thing as had been customary for a genera- tion or two before him with students of Nature, but his imagination was original and his own, and he knew that it derived its strength ' from worlds not quickened by the sun : ' the poetic vision was idle, was nothing at all, without the poetic impulse. Even in the more didactic of his writings, and even apart from his poetical work altogether, as in the tract on the Convention of Cintra, he declares himself for passionate imagination as the guide of life; he speaks of 'the dignity and intensity of human desires;' imagination is not theoretic, it is 'imaginative will.' Though he has come to be with many readers the poet of meditation above all things, this was not what his youth desired. His poetry is ' a creature of a fiery heart,' and is not fit reading for the dispassionate understanding. Wordsworth's policy has some resemblance to what is commonly called Realism, in its inclusion of subjects beneath the conventional dignity of art. But Realism, as that is generally understood, ^ works in a cool temper, making intelligent notes, without affection. This was not Wordsworth's way. He does not fix upon common or mean things with a calm determination to make them interesting, to force them into the mould of his poetry. This is what he often appeared to be doing, and this irritated his fastidious readers. They thought that they were being held down by the uncourtly poet and compelled to look at dis- gusting objects— duffel cloaks, wash-tubs, poly- gamic potters, and so forth, according to the familiar catalogue which was repeated in various William WordsAArorth 15 tones of resentment or ridicule by the adverse and protesting critics. But the motive of Words- worth (apart from some extravagances) was not the prosa,ic revolutionary prejudice for common things as such, against the noble and magnificent. On the contrary, the loftiness of his poetic thought and the fire of his poetic zeal make him the most exacting of all poets with regard to his themes. Instead of sweeping everything into his net, his policy is to discriminate values exactly. He does not take things as they come ; he takes them each for its separate value — that is, for its value as part of his own life, before the poetic meaning is de- veloped out of the casual impression, the chance of en- counter. And the perceptions and experiences from which his poetry was drawn were never purely theo- retical or contem- plative, but 'quick and eager visit- ings.' His theory of poetical diction, like his study of Nature, has some superficiallikeness to things already current in litera- ture. Churchill and Cowper had dissented from the traditional rhetoric ; Johnson himself had contrasted Truth and Nature with the ' sleepy bards ' and their ' mechanic echoes ; ' Goldsmith had attacked 'the pompous epithet, laboured diction, and every other deviation from common-sense, which procures for the poet the applause of the month.' Wordsworth, however, had a meaning of his own in the doctrine of poetical language which he expounded in his Preface of 1800. His argument included at least two distinct positions : first, a commonplace and generally plausible objection to ' poetical diction,' in so far as that was merely a conventional vocabulary, to be learned like grammar by practi- tioners of verse, and applied as a sort of ornamental plaster to any subject. So far, the spirit of the time was with him. The periphrastic method, so splendid in Darwin's Botanic Garden, was at the end of its course, though Wordsworth himself WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. From the Portrait by Pickersgill in the National Portrait Gallery. might keep some of its old devices ; ' deadly tube, for example, in the Recluse, means 'gun,' and the game of Noughts and Crosses, in the Prelude, is 'strife too humble to be named in verse.' But besides the correction of false rhetoric, about which there was no real difference of opinion among his contemporaries, Wordsworth had a theory of his own, which went somewhat- further, and emphati- cally recommended the use of colloquial language, 'a selection of the language really spoken by men.' In his endeavour to comply with this theory there may have been something of bra- vado, as Coleridge thought ; in some of the Lyrical Ballads he had to force himself to write down to his formula. The fallacies were examined and de- tected by Cole- ridge in Biogra- phia Literaria ; Wordsworth's own practice was easily shown to be in- consistent. But there still re- mained something unrefuted in the theory, when the worst had been said. It looked at first like a revolu- tionary levelling of diction, a polemic assertion of the equality of words, a denunciation of the vanity of class distinctions in the vocabulary — ending, like other democratic equalities, in a preference for the lower and a proscription of the nobler orders. But Wordsworth had other motives than a precon- ceived and wilful sansculottism in his regard for plain language. He wished to get rid of all inter- ference between the poetical object and the mind ; the theme as conceived by the poet must tell itself in its own way. The true poetic con- ception must find its own language, and that language must be such as to convey, not particular fragmentary beauties, but the whole poetic idea, the emotional and imaginative creature of the mind, with no distraction or encumbrance. There is nothing new in this ; it is the classical law of expression and right proportion. But few poets have lived in this artistic faith with such constancy as Wordsworth, with such fervent sincerity. After i6 William Wordsworth. 1800 he became more magriificent ; he went back to the Ehzabethans and used more elaborate forms of verse and a richer language, 'armoury of the invincible knights of old.' But this implicit with- drawal of his thesis did not affect his main position except to strengthen it : the conviction, namely, that the poetical idea or view, or whatever it may be called — the poetical comprehension of the theme — must determine the expression of it to the minutest point of detail. When the eye is single, the body of poetry is full of light. Further, the poetic vision is not mere vision : poetical insight (which he called imagination) is one with its passionate mot'.ve ; the demonstration of this is the whole scope and upshot of the Prelude. He meant to write a great philosophical poem, and he failed to complete his design. Nothing would have contented him in it unless it had included all the poetical meaning of all his works ; when finished, it was to be 'a Gothic church' in regard to which his shorter poems were to be chapels and oratories. With all his sense of the value of his work, he underrated these shorter poems, not to speak of the Prelude., which was, as he says, his ' portico.' He did not know that in some of these poems and in some passages of the Prelude., he had gone to the very verge of what is permissible in the use of poetry dealing with the mystery of the world. The tension of mind in the Ti7itern poem, in part of the Ode on Immortality, in the verses on the Simplon, is near the limits of speech ; a little more, and speech and thought would vanish ; above these heights of speculation there is no footing for mere humanity. Beyond them poetry can hardly go without turning into something else than poetry. And it is not certain what it may be- come ; it is certain there is danger. If a loftier mode of vision is denied, then what remains is apt to be mere talk about the Universe, no more inspiring than the talk about education noted by Mr Arnold in his essay on Wordsworth. Not even the philosophical poem which he imagined, and hoped for, could take the place of Wordsworth's actual accomplished work in the smaller chapels and oratories. The variety of his style is not shown in the Recluse as it is, for example, in the poems of 1807 ; and luckily there is no need to restrict one's self to these two glorious volumes. He had command of many different instruments, and was more sensitive to poetical influences, more humble as a student of old masters, than is commonly supposed. The Yarrow poems are on the beautiful old model : Sing Erceldoune and Cowdenknowes \\Tiere Homes had once commanding. Resolution and Independence is in Milton's stanza — a Spenserian variety — used in the proem of the Nativity ode. The verse of The Green Linnet is borrowed from Drayton's Nymphidia, the form of the Ode to Duty from Gray. His poetry is full of reminiscences, sometimes acknowledged. Michael and The Brothers, poems that work out his principle of plain language, also justify it by the commanding dignity and pathos of their thought transforming the simple words into sublimity. But the author of Michael could also use, in spite of all his prefaces, the language of the courtly schools, — 'invested with purpureal gleams.' And no one since Dryden has used the heroic couplet like Wordsworth — with an onward rush, sometimes louder, as in the Expected Invasion j sometimes more varied and musical, as in the Happy Warrior. His poetry of the 'trump and timbrel' is irresistible ; no fighting poet, not even Byron, ever struck harder at the enemy than Wordsworth : no political satire ever went home more cleanly and effectively than Wordsworth's conclusion against a certain possible type of Ministry : A servile band Who have to judge of danger which they fear And honour which they do not understand. This, it is true, is borrowed from Sir Philip Sidney, but the edge is given to it by Wordsworth. The moral of Yarrow Revisited, its pure and reverend grace, gives a new meaning to the old poetic praise of righteousness, 'more beautiful than the morning or the evening star ; ' the friendship of Wordsworth and Scott is recorded in words that seem to have the whole soul of human goodness and nobility in them : For busy thoughts the stream flowed on In foamy agitation, And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation ; No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours Our happy days recalling. Into a single phrase — ' breaking the silence of the seas ' — he can put the spirit of all the myths about the powers of Winter and Spring : the voice of the Spring triumphing in the very heart of the vast desolation. He has a new mythology of his own, not displayed in large works like Hyperion or Prometheus Unbound, but expressing itself in apparently casual ways. The Ode to Duty is his largest mythological poem, and there the personi- fying imagination really does its work in one sentence. With his poetical magic he scatters phrases that fill the mind as if they were complete works, like flaunting Summer when he throws His soul into the briar rose. The simplicity of Wordsworth's style is more varied than most poets' opulence ; just as the tranquillity of his life, the contemplative quiet of much of his writings, is consistent with a rebellious energy : law and impulse in him were reconciled, but impulse was not degraded or diluted in this harmony of opposite powers. The things that give him most delight are lawless : his heart leaps 'William "Wordsworth 17 up at the humour of the two Thieves. His zest for happiness is unfailing, and he finds it out and blesses it with the same sincerity as wisdom or heroism. In two different ways he has praised the River — once in the morning at Westminster Bridge, and again because he saw a miller and two women dancing at sunset on one of the floating mills. ' Charles Lamb was with me at the time ; and I thought it remarkable that I should have to point out to him, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as the happy group dancing on the platform.' Nature has more meanings for him even than those of Tintern Abbey, and his poetical mind has regard to many things that are neither solemn nor contemplative. It has not been found necessary here to consider the less interesting parts of his work ; it may be observed, however, that the later poems, which are seldom read, include many things like those of 1800 and 1807: one of them, that may be called his last word, written in his seventy-fifth year, has already been quoted. Wordsworth's prose is not all of one kind, but it is all good. It has given some phrases to litera- ture that have the currency of Milton's, like ' the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge ; ' and there are others less known, especially in the blazing tract on the Convention of Cintra (1809), as vehe- ment as Burke. He had not lost his power in 1844 when he wrote against the proposed Kendal and Windermere Railway. The Guide to the Lakes is in a different style. Expostulation and Eeply. ' Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind ! Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you ! ' One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. When life was sweet, I knew not why. To me my good friend Matthew spake. And thus I made reply. ' The eye — it cannot choose but see : We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be. Against or with our will. Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking. That nothing of itself will come. But we must still be seeking ! 106 — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone. And dream my time away.' (From Lyrical Ballads, 1798.) The Tables Turned. Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you '11 grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet. How sweet his music ! on my life, There 's more of wisdom in it. And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no m.ean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good. Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : — We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. 1798. Lines, composed a few miles above Tintem Abbey, on revisiting' the Banks of the 'Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798. Five years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. i8 "William Wordsworth These beauteous forms, Tlirough a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind. With tranquil restoration : — feelings too Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened : — that serene and blessed moOd, In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft; in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint. And somewhat of a sad perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope. Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. Wherever nature led : more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm. By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more. And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains ; and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create. And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay : For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once. My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and, in after years. When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then. If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence— wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long William "WordsAArorth 19 A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! (.798.) 1 have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode ; but it was written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versification, would be found the principal requisites of that species of composition. {Note^ 1800.) The Simplon Pass. ■ Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn. Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky. The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The. unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light — Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. (From The Prelude.) Strange fits of passion have I known : And I will dare to tell. But in the Lover's ear alone. What once to me befel. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye. All over the wide lea ; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot ; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept. Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage-roof. At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head ! ' O mercy ! ' to myself I cried, ' If Lucy should be dead ! ' (From Lyrical Ballads, vol. ii., 1800.) She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh. The difference to me ! (From Lyrical Ballads, vol. ii., 180Q.) Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, ' A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This Child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own. Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round. And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.' Thus Nature spake — The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been. And never more will be. l^xoTa Lyrical Ballads, vol. ii., 1800.) A slumber did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears ; She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. 20 William Words-vrortli No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. (From Lyrical Ballads, vol. ii., 1800.) I travelled among unknown men. In lands beyond the sea ; Nor, England ! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time ; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played ; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. (From Poems, 1807.) I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay. In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. (From Poems, 1807.) Resolution and Independence. There was a roaring in the wind all night ; The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; The birds are singing in the distant woods ; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. All things that love the sun are out of doors ; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth ; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun. Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a Traveller then upon the moor, I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; I heard the woods and distant waters roar ; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : The pleasant season did my heart employ : My old remembrances went from me wholly ; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go. As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low ; To me that morning did it happen so : And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; [name. Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could, I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; And I bethought me of the playful hare : Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; But there may come another day to me — Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood ; As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side ; By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given. Yet it befel that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven. Beside a pool Ijare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares : The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence ; So that it seems a thing endued with sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead. Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood : And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call : And moveth all together, if it move at all. W^illiam Wordsworth At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned. As if he had been reading in a book : And now a stranger's privilege I took ; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, ' This morning gives us promise of a glorious day. ' A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : And him with further words I thus bespake, ' What occupation do you there pursue ? This is a lonesome place for one like you.' Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. His words came feebly, from a feeble chest. But each in solemn order followed each. With something of a lofty utterance drest — Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor : Employment hazardous and wearisome ! And he had many hardships to endure : From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The old Man still stood talking by my side ; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; Or like a man from some far region sent. To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills ; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. My question eagerly did I renew, 'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?' He with a smile did then his words repeat ; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and Avide He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. ' Once I could meet with them on every side ; But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may. ' While he was talking thus, the lonely place. The old Man's shape, and speech — all troubled me : In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued , He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind. But stately in the main ; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. ' God,' said I, ' be my help and stay secure ; I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! ' (From Poems, 1807.) The Green Linnet. Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather. In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat ! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest : Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion ! Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day. Dost lead the revels of the May ; And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flosvers Make all one band of paramours. Thou, ranging up and down the bovvers, Art sole in thy employment : A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care Too blest with any one to pair ; Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze. Behold him perched in ecstasies. Yet seeming still to hover ; There ! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives, A Brother of the dancing leaves ; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes ; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign. While fluttering in the bushes. (From Poems, 1807.) The Solitary Reaper. Behold her, single in the field. Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself ; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; O listen ! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt So sweetly to reposing bands Of travellers in some shady haunt. Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things. And battles, long ago : William Wordsworth Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again ? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work. And o'er the sickle bending ; — I listened, motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill. The music in my heart I bore. Long after it was heard no more. (From Poems, 1807.) Yarrow Unvisited. (See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning, * Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! ' — ) From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled ; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled ; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my * winsome Marrow^ ' Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside. And see the Braes of Yarrow. ' ' Let Yarrow folk, /rae Selkirk town. Who have been buying, selling. Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; Each maiden to her dwelling ! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. Hares couch, and rabbits burro%v ! But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow ? What 's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under ? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder. ' — Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; My True-love sighed for sorrow : And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! ' Oh ! green,' said I, ' are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; The swan on still St Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow ! We will not see them ; will not go, To-day nor yet to-morrow ; Enough if in our hearts we know There 's such a place as Yarrow. Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! It must, or we shall rue it : We have a vision of our own ; Ah ! why should we undo it ? The treasured dreams of times long past. We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we 're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow ! If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly, — Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy ; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow 1 ' (From Poejfis, 1807.) Yarrow Visited— September 1814. And is this — Yarrow ? — TAis the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream ? An image that hath perished ! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness. And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness ! Yet why? — a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale. Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding : And haply from this crystal pool. Now peaceful as the morning. The Water-wraith ascended thrice — And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow. The unconquerable strength of love ; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! William Wordswortli But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still ^nd holy ; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ; And, rising from those lofty groves. Behold a Ruin hoary ! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. For sportive youth to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength ; And age to wear away in I Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — The brood of chaste affection. How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather. And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather ! And what if I enwreathed my own ! 'Twere no offence to reason ; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see — but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; A ray of fancy still survives — • Her sunshine plays upon thee ! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure : And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish ; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — Sad thought, which I would banish. But that I know, where'er I go. Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! Will dwell with me — to heighten joy. And cheer my mind in sorrow. Yarrow Revisited. (The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbots- ford, for Naples. The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation, for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that celebrated Stream.) The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a ' winsome Marrow,' Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow ; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, . Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bow, or falling ; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — The forest to embolden ; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation ; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation : No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling. We made a day of happy hours. Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth. With freaks of graceful folly, — Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy ; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united. Like guests that meet, and some from far. By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face. Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over. The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment ; Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded ; And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking ! O ! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age With Strength her venturous brother ! And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story. With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory ! For Thou, upon a hundred streams. By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth. Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee. 24 William Wordswrortk A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her ; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams 'reasured up from early days. The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer. Did no responsive harp, no pen. Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self ? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us ? Nor deem that localised Romance Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears — made sport For fanciful dejections : Oh, no ! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is — our changeful Life With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness. Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the ' last Minstrel,' (not the last !) Ere he his Tale recounted. Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-light dear while yet unseen. Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine ! (1831 ; publislied 1835.) Gipsies. Yet are they here the same unbroken knot Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! Men, women, children, yea the frame Of the whole spectacle the same ! Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light. Now deep and red, the colouring of night. That on their Gipsy-faces falls. Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. — Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I Have been a traveller under open sky, Much witnessing of change and cheer. Yet as I left I find them here ! The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; — Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west. Outshining like a visible God The glorious path in which he trod. And now, ascending, after one dark hour And one night's diminution of her power, Behold the mighty Moon ! this way She looks as if at them — but they Regard not her : — oh better wrong and strife (By nature transient) than this torpid life ; Life which the very stars reprove As on their silent tasks they move ! Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! In scorn I speak not ; — they are what their birth And breeding suffer them to be ; Wild outcasts of society ! (y,„„ p„„,„^ ^^^y Ode to Duty. ' Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eb perductus, ut non tantiim recte facere possim, sed nisi rect^ facere non possim.' Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! Duty ! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; Who do thy work, and know it not : Oh ! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around their cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried. No sport of every random gust. Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust : And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, 1 supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stem Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. "William WordsAAAorth 25 To humbler functions, awful Power ! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh, let my weakness have an end ! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! (From Poems, 1807.) Character of the Happy Warrior. Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be ? — It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright : Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care ; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train I Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower ; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives : By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; Is placable — because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice ; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more ; more able to endure As more exposed to suffering and distress ; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends ; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse iH, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows : — Who, if he rise to station of command. Rises by open means ; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire. And in himself possess his own desire ; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all : Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind. Is happy as a Lover ; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; Or if an unexpected call succeed. Come when it will, is equal to the need : — He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be. Are at his heart ; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve ; More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 'Tis, finally, the Man who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won ; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; Who, not content that former worth stand fast. Looks forward, persevering to the last From well to better, daily self-surpast : Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. And leave a dead unprofitable name — Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : This is the happy Warrior ; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be. (From Poems, 1807.) Ode.— Intimations of Immortality from Recollec- tions of Early Childliood. The Child is father of the Man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. The earth, and every common siglit, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may. By night or by day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; The sunshine is a glorious birth ; But yet I know, where'er I go. That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound. To me alone there came a thought of grief : A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong : The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng. The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay ; 26 William Wordsworth Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy ! Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all, Oh evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But there 's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon. Both of them speak of something that is gone : The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting. And Cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows He sees it in his joy ; The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim. The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral. And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage ' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity ; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods hke the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight. Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things. Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised. High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, "WTilliam Wordsworth 27 Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be. Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither. And see the Children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play. Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet ; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. (From Poems, 1807.) If this great world of joy and pain Revolve in one sure track ; If freedom, set, will rise again. And virtue, flown, come back ; Woe to the purblind crew who fill The heart with each day's care ; Nor gain, from past or future, skill To bear, and to forbear ! (1833 ; published 1835.) Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802. Earth has not any thing to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic. Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; And was the safeguard of the west : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade. Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away. To Toussaint L'Ouverture. Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — miserable Chieftain 1 where and when Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies. And love, and man's unconquerable mind. September 1802. Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France — the coast of France how near ! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! What mightiness for evil and for good ! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll. Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul Only, the Nations shall be great and free. It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, ' with pomp of waters, unwithstood, ' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 28 William Wordsworth That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish ; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and moi-als hold Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. The world is too much with us : late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours. And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array ; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe She cares for ; let her travel where she may She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! (From PoeiiiSj 1807.) Burns. In illustration of this sentiment, permit me to remind you that it is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found — in the walks of nature, and in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects of war : nor does he shrink from the com- pany of the passion of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intemperate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Bums given way to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself and in describing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- minded puritan in works of art, ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the convivial exalta- tion of the rustic adventurer. Tarn o' Shanter? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset that his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were frequent as his opportunities. This repro- bate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence— selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality — and, while these various ele- ments of humanity are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy- ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. ' Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills of life victorious.' (From ' A letter to a friend of Robert Burns,' 1816.) A Delusion Confuted. But it is a belief propagated in books, and which passes currently among talking men as part of their familiar wisdom, that the hearts of the many are con- stitutionally weak ; that they do languish, and are slow to answer to the requisitions of things. I entreat those who are in this delusion to look behind them and about them for the evidence of experience. Now this, rightly understood, not only gives no support to any such belief but proves that the truth is in direct opposition to it. The history of all ages ; tumults after tumults ; wars, foreign or civil, with short or with no breathing-spaces, from generation to generation ; wars — why and where- fore? yet with courage, with perseverance, with self- sacrifice, with enthusiasm — with cruelty driving forward the cruel man from its own terrible nakedness, and attracting the more benign by the accompaniment of some shadow which seems to sanctify it ; the senseless weaving and interweaving of factions — vanishing and reviving and piercing each other like the Northern Lights ; public commotions, and those in the bosom of the individual ; the long calenture to which the Lover is subject ; the blast, like the blast of the desert, which sweeps perennially through a frightful solitude of its own making in the mind of the Gamester ; the slowly quickening but ever quickening descent of appetite down which the Miser is propelled ; the agony and cleaving oppression of grief; the ghost- like hauntings of shame; the incubus of revenge ; the life-distemper of ambition ; — these inward existences, and the visible and familiar occurrences of daily life in every town and village ; the patient curiosity and contagious acclamations of the multitude in the streets of the city and within the walls of the theatre ; a procession, or a rural dance ; a hunting, or a horse-race ; a flood, or a fire ; rejoicing and ringing of bells for an unexpected gift of good fortune, or the coming of a foolish heir to his estate ; these demon- strate incontestably that the passions of men (I mean, the soul of sensibility in the heart of man) — in all quarrels, in all contests, in all quests, in all delights, in all em- ployments which are either sought by men or thrust upon them— do immeasurably transcend their objects. The true sorrow of humanity consists in this ; — not that the mind of man fails, but that the course and demands of action and of life so rarely correspond with the dignity and intensity of human desires : and hence that which is slow to languish is too easily turned aside and abused. But — with the remembrance of what lias been done, and in the face of the interminable evils which are threatened — a Spaniard can never have cause to complain of this William "Wordsworth 29 ■while a follower of the tyrant remains in arms upon the Penmsula. (From Tlie Comeiitian o/Cintra, 1809.) Osslan. All hail, Macpherson ! hail to thee, Sire of Ossian ! The Phantom was begotten by the smug embrace of an impudent Highlander upon a cloud of tradition — it travelled southward, where it was greeted with acclama- tion, and the thin Consistence took its course through Europe, upon the breath of popular applause. The Editor of the Reliques had indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of invention, by not concealing that his supplementary labours were considerable ! How selfish his conduct, contrasted with that of the disinterested Gael, who, like Lear, gives his kingdom away, and is content to become a pensioner upon his own issue for a beggarly pittance ! — Open this far-famed Book ! — I have done so at random, and the beginning of the ' Epic Poem Temora,' in eight Books, presents itself. ' The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear sup- ports the king ; the red eyes of his fear are sad, Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds.' Precious memorandums from the pocket-book of the blind Ossian ! If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for the most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of Works that have enjoyed for a length of time a widely-spread repu- tation, without at the same time producing irrefragable proofs of their unvvorthiness, let me be forgiven upon this occasion. — Having had the good fortune to be born and reared in a mountainous country, from my very childhood I have felt the falsehood that pervades the volumes imposed upon the world under the name of (Jssian. From what I saw with my own eyes, I knew that the imagery was spurious. In Nature everything is distinct, yet nothing defined into absolute independent singleness. In Macpherson's work it is exactly the reverse ; everything (that is not stolen) is in this manner defined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, — yet nothing distinct. It will always be so when words are substi- tuted for things. To say that the characters never could exist, that the manners are impossible, and that a dream has more substance than the whole state of society, as there depicted, is doing nothing more than pronouncing a censure which Macpherson defied ; when, with the steeps of Morven before his eyes, he could talk so familiarly of his Car-borne heroes ; — of Morven, which, if one may judge from its appearance at the distance of a few miles, contains scarcely an acre of ground sufficiently accommodating for a sledge to be trailed along its surface. — Mr Malcolm Laing has ably shown that the diction of this pretended translation is a motley assemblage from all quarters ; but he is so fond of making out parallel passages as to call poor Macpherson to account for his ' ands ' and his ' iuis ' ! and he has weakened his argument by conducting it as if he thought that every striking resemblance was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough that the coincidences are too remarkable for its being probable or possible that they could arise in different minds without communication between them. Now, as the Translators of the Bible, and Shakespeare, Milton, and Pope, could not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows that he must have owed his fine feathers to them ; unless we are prepared gravely to assert, with Madame de Stael, that many of the characteristic beauties of our most celebrated English Poets are derived from the ancient Fingallian ; in which case the modern trans- lator would have been but giving back to Ossian his own. — It is consistent that Lucien Buonaparte, who could censure Milton for having surrounded Satan in the infernal regions with courtly and regal splendour, should pronounce the modern Ossian to be the glory of Scotland — a country that has produced a Dunbar, a Buchanan, a Thomson, and a Burns ! (1813.) The chief editions of Wordsworth's poetry are the author's editions published by Moxon (1836-37, 184s, and 1849-50), the library edition by Proressor Knight (1882-86), that t^y Mr John Morley (1888), the Aldine edition by Professor Dowden (1893', and the complete edition, with prose works, life, and Dorothy's journals and letters, by Professor Knight (16 vols. 1896-97)^ The text of the Lyrical Ballads (1798) has been reprinted with notes by Professor E. Dowden (1890) and Mr T. Hutchinson (1898) ; and the Poems of 1807 have been also edited by Mr Hutchinson (2 vols. 1897). There are selections by Palgrave (1865), Matthew Arnold (1879), and Knight (1888). The prose works were collected by Grosart (3 vols. 1876) There are Lives by his nephew, [Bishop] Christopher Wordsworth (1851); F. W. H. Myers (1880); J. M. Suther- land (1887) ; Elizabeth Wordsworth (1891) ; and Professor Knight (1889). The most important criticisms are those of Coleridge, M. Arnold, Pater, Swinburne, and W. Raleigh i^Word^vorlh^ 1903)- See also De Quincey's Recollections 0/ the Lake Poets; J. S. Cottle's Early Recollections of Coleridge (1837) : Memorials 0/ Coleortott (1887) : H. Crabb Robinson's Diary (1869) ; Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections 0/ a Tour made in Scotland, edited by Principal Shairp (1874); the Wordsworth Society's Proceedings (1880-89) ! ^"^ ^^ yennesse de William Wordsworth, by Emile Legouis (i8g6 ; trans. 1897). W. P. KER. Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855), only sister of the poet, set up housekeeping with her brother in 1795 at Racedown Lodge in Dorset- shire. In 1832 she had an attack of brain-fever from which she never entirely recovered. Her Journals kept at Alfoxden and Grasmere, and the records of her journeys in Scotland, the Isle of Man, Germany, France, Switzerland, and Italy, reveal a mind as subtly sensitive to nature as the poet's own, and an exquisiteness of expression which he hardly surpassed. ' She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,' said her brother ; and, as Pro- fessor Shairp pointed out, his poems 'are some- times little more than poetic versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and which he treated as if seen by himself Com- pare these sentences from her journal with Words- worth's poem quoted above (page 20) : Daffodils. When we were in the woods below Gowbarrow Park, we saw a few daffodils close by the water-side. As we went along there were more and yet more ; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw there were a long belt of them along the shore. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about them. Some rested their heads on the stones, as on a pillow ; the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, they looked so gay and glancing. Dorothy Wordsworth's Tour in Scotland was edited by Principal Shairp in 1874; \i^x Jottmals were edited by Professor Knight in 1897. 30 Sir Walter Scott Sir Walter Scott.* Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh on the 15th of August 1771. His father, a Writer to the Signet, was of the family of Scott of Harden ; his mother, Anne Rutherford, was also of good Border descent on both sides. The Border was truly Scott's own country, and he spent much of his childhood there ; he had to be sent away from Edinburgh after the fever which lamed him. In his third year, at Sandyknowe, he used to be left to lie on the grass all day long,with his friend Sandy Ormistoun, the cow-bailie, to take care of him. 'The local in- formation, which I conceive had some share in forming my fut- ure taste and pursuits, I de- rived from the old songs and tales which then formed the amusement of a retired coun- try family. My grandmother, in whose youth the old Border de- predations were matter of recent tradition, used to tell me many a tale of Wat of Harden, Wight Willie of Aik- wood, Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead, and other heroes — merry men all of the persuasion and calling of Robin Hood and Little John.' Scott in his later life, when the younger generation was writing new romances, looked on comfortably at their historical studies and their industry after ' local colour.' He himself had taken in his knowledge in a different way, beginning at Sandyknowe. As he told Miss Seward, he had a regiment of horse exercising through his head ever since he was five years old. Whatever may be due to his ancestry for this bent of mind, at any rate it was helped in the most natural and old-fashioned way by his upbringing. He learned the history of his country as history was learned by Homer, not out of books, to begin with. The Bride of Lammermoor, for example, is a story that came to Scott's knowledge by oral tradition, like the stories of the heroic ages. SIR WALTER SCOTT. From a sketch taken in the Court of Session by John Sheriff about 1825, His lameness as he grew older ceased to inter- fere with his activity and enjoyment. At the High School of Edinburgh, to which he went in 1778, he was not prevented from taking part in the common amusements ; he climbed ' the kittle nine steps ' of the Castle Rock, like Darsie Latimer, and shared in the battles of the Crosscauseway and the Potterrow. The episode of Greenbreeks gave him an example of what is meant by chivalry ; the story, as he tells it, is as good as Richard and Saladin. From the High School he went to the College of Edin- burgh. By this time books had come to be more important ; he took sides with the Moderns against the An- cients in that old controversy, and learned Ita- lian for himself, but no Greek from his profes- sor. Then he began inventing stories. He and his friend John Irving used to go every Satur- day to Salisbury Crags, Arthur's Seat, or Black- ford Hill, climb up into some difficult corner of the rocks, and read. Then they thought of inventing romances for themselves. ' The stories we told were intermin- able, for we were unwilling to have any of our favourite knights killed. . . . He began early to collect old ballads,' says John Ii-ving. In 1786 Scott was apprenticed to his father; in the next year he saw Burns at Professor Ferguson's, and was thanked by him for giving the author of a quotation which no one else in the company knew (see Vol. II. p. 521). In 1792 he was called to the Bar ; this was the year of his first raid into Liddesdale to look for ballads, along with Mr Shortrede, the Sheriff-Substitute of Roxburgh, who accompanied him in all these expeditions for seven years. 'He was makin' himsell a' the time,' said Mr Shortrede, 'but he didna ken maybe what he was about till years had passed ; at first he thought o' little, I dare say, but the queerness and the fun.' In 1793 he saw the * Copyright 1903 by J. B. Lippincott Company to the poem "The Minstrel," page 35. Sir Walter Scott 31 scenery of The Lady of the Lake, and heard from old men such stories of the Highlands as formed the groundwork of many of his novels. He took up German, which at that time meant Romance and Poetry, and in 1795 made his translation of Burger's Lenore, the ballad of terror and wonder. Later, he translated Goethe's adventurous drama of Goetz of the Iron Hand (1799). Foreign romance and historical fiction doubtless helped him to find his way among his own subjects, the mingled likeness and difference of the German work quickening (if that were possible) his interest in kindred themes at home, such as True Thomas or Kinmont Willie, and encouraging him to think of modern renderings on his own account. For a time he was strongly affected by the German manner, not to his advantage, and indulged in horrors ' written at the request of Mr Lewis,' and too like Mr Lewis's own productions. A dis- appointment in love, referred to long afterwards in 'StcaVCs fournal, was at the time kept to himself; it was not his habit to complain. After his marriage to Miss Charpentier in 1797 he had many years of prosperity before him, making himself known as ' the hardest worker and the heartiest player,' and steadily going on with his poetry, then with his novels ; at the same time carrying on all sorts of historical and antiquarian researches, besides mis- cellaneous literary work by the way, not to speak of his duties as Sheriff of Selkirk and (after 1806) as Clerk of Session. He had also a commission in the Edinburgh Light Horse (a yeomanry regi- ment), and did not neglect his military calling. The Lay of the Last Minstrel was published in 1805. It followed close upon the Border Minstrelsy (1802-3) and the edition of the old rhyming romance Sir Tristrem (1804), from the famous Auchinleck manuscript, to which Scott was attracted (among other reasons) because it begins with Erceldoune. Scott added some stanzas of his own in the old language, the original of Sir Tristrem having lost its proper ending. After this antiquarian work came the Lay, Marmion, and their successors, down to the year 18 14, when The Lord of the Isles closed the series and another order of romance was founded in Waverley. Neither the poems nor the novels kept him fully occupied even in the time that he gave to litera- ture, which was no means the whole of his life. His edition of Dryden, which appeared in the same year as Marmion (1808), might have served any ordinary man of letters for a long task ; that book, with its admirable biography and its rich historical notes, was followed by an edition of Swift, and by innumerable miscellaneous articles and reviews, without hindering the poems or the novels. Very few people could make out how he worked ; his visitors never knew that he was working at all. Scott moved from Ashestiel in 181 2 to a place lower down the Tweed near Melrose, where he built the house he called Abbotsford. His reputa- tion, wealth, and power of mind went on increasing together. His health was not always good : the Bride of Lammennoor was composed in pain so great, and with such an effort, that the author's mind refused to remember the story afterwards ; the opera of Ivanhoe in Paris amused him by recalling the distressing conditions (cramp in the stomach) in which the novel had been put together. But his strength seemed inexhaustible ; he had sons and daughters and many friends, and the affection of all who knew him. Beyond American tourists and literary ladies there were few griev- ances. In 1822, at the king's visit to Edinburgh, Scott, who had been made a baronet in 1820, found himself the representative of his country, as well as his town, by a kind of general consent ; every one knew that he was the greatest man there. In 1826 the reverse came ; in his fifty-fifth year, when he was beginning to feel himself no longer young, he was involved in Constable's failure to the amount of ^117,000. Shortly before that he had begun to keep a journal, and he continued it — his own story, told without any illusions, sad enough, but never dispirited nor merely pathetic. On the contrary, the humour of Scott is shown nowhere more truly than in the ' Gurnal.' Between 1826 and 1828 he earned for his creditors nearly £i,o,ooo. But he was an old man, before his time ; he himself did not reckon on living much over sixty. He had to leave Abbotsford for Naples in September 1831, the day after the expedition to Yarrow along with Wordsworth, who wrote the best memorial of Scott in his poem on that day, and in the verses on Scott's departure : A trouble not of clouds nor weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height. Spirits of Power assembled there complain For kindred power departing from their sight ; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain. Saddens his voice again and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners, for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows Follow this wondrous potentate. Be true Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope ! Scott went first to Malta ; at Naples he showed himself still unbeaten, though, as he had told Wordsworth beforehand, he got little good from the beauty of Italy. He was interested in the manuscript of Sir Bevis of Hamtoun at Naples r at Lake Avernus the verse that ran in his head was about ' Charlie and his men.' He spent a short time in Rome in the spring of 1832 ; then he came home. On the 2ist of September he died at Abbotsford. Goethe had died earlier in the same year, a much older man. Scott's poetry, at any rate the common form of his tales in verse, was well described, some years 3^ Sir Walter Scott before he acknowledged himself the author of Waverley, in the comparison of the poems and novels by J. L. Adolphus, of which there is a fair account in Lockhart. The passage is worth quot- ing, for many reasons. It is one of the soundest pieces of criticism ever written by a contemporary. It uses the favourite method of Mr Arnold, and with equal judgment, in the choice of illustrative lines to express the different types of poetry. The book appears to be almost unknown to Scott's country- men (apart from Lockhart's quotations), and is not to be found in the most learned libraries of Edinburgh. ' If required to distinguish the poetry of the author of Marmion from that of other writers by a single epithet, I should apply to it the term Popular. The same easy openness which was remarked in his prose style is also a prevailing quality in his poetical composition, where, however, it appears not so much in verbal arrangement as in the mode of developing and combining thoughts. Few authors are less subject to the fault of over- describing, or better know the point at which a reader's imagination should be left to its own activity ; but the images which he does supply are placed directly in our view, under a full noonday light. It is a frequent practice of other poets, instead of exhibiting their ideas in a detailed and expanded form, to involve them in a brilliant com- plication of phrase, high-wrought and pregnant with imagery, but supplying materials only, which the reader may shape out in his own mind accord- ing to his reach of fancy or subtlety of appre- hension, and not presenting in itself any regular, fixed, or definite representation of objects. This style of composition is well exemplified in the TTovTiuv KVfidruv avjjptd^ov yeAaufia of ^schylus ; the lines of Shakespeare : Now . . . . . creeping murmur, and the poring dark, Fills the wide vessel of the universe ; (Chorus to Henry V., Act iv.) these of Milton : The sands and seas, with all their finny drove, Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; [Cojnus. ) and when, describing the battle of the angels, he says, that the " war " Soaring on main wing, Tormented all the air. {Paradise Lost, Book vi.) In no instance that I recollect does the author of Marmion adopt this kind of poetical phraseology, which conveys in a few words the germ and essence of a beautiful or sublime description, but is not itself that description. I do not insist upon the circumstance as a subject of either praise or censure ; I only point to it as distinguishing the method of an individual writer from those of his brethren and predecessors. ' Again, it is very common with poets of strong feeling and exuberant fancy to describe (if that word may be applied to such a process) by accumu- lating round the principal ouject a number of images not physically connected with it, or with each other, but which, through the unfailing association of ideas, give, unitedly, the same im- pulse to the imagination and passions as would have been produced by a finished detail of strictly coherent circumstances. Such is the effect of that well-known passage in Macbeth, where murder is thus personified : Now . . . . wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. {Macbetli, Act. ii. so. i.) This method, also, appears unsuitable to the simplicity with which the author of Marmion is accustomed to unfold his poetical conceptions. In his mode of describing, the circumstances, however fanciful in themselves, still follow each other by natural consequence, and in an orderly series ; and hang together, not by the intervention of unseen links, but by immediate and palpable con- junction. His epithets and phrases, replete as they often are with poetic force and meaning, have always a direct bearing on the principal subject. He pursues his theme, in short, from point to point, with the steadiness and plainness of one who descants on a common matter of fact. The difference between his style of description and the two kinds from which I have distinguished it, is very perceptible in the following lines : They . . . . . hade the passing knell to toll P"or welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled. His beads the wakeful hermit told ; The Bamborough peasant raised his head. But slept ere half a prayer he said ; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind. Then couched him down beside the hind. And quaked among the mountain fern. To hear that sound so dull and stern. {Marmion, Canto ii. St. 33.) ' These remarks, which in part explain my appli- cation of the term "popular," will not, I think, appear irrelevant, when it is considered that a poet accustomed to express himself in this ex- panded, simple, and consecutive style can readily transfer the riches of his genius to prose com- position, while the attempt would be almost hope- less to one who delighted in abrupt transition and fanciful combination, and whose thoughts habitually condensed themselves into the most compendious phraseology.' It is impossible to find a better description of Sir Walter Scott 33 Scott's narrative style, or of the difference between his plain, straightforward method and that of the great tragic poets. What is wanting in the passage quoted is something that did not suit the writer's purpose at the time. For a comparison of the poems with the Waverley Novels it was expedient to take what might be called ordinary passages from both ; not the exceptional things in either. But it is in the large number of exceptions to his •ordinary style that Scott shows his quality as a poet, especially in the songs and lyrical poems, of which there is a great variety. Scott gave way to Byron in poetry. ' I gave over writing romances because Byron beat me. He hits the mark where I don't even pretend to fledge my arrow. He has access to a stream of sentiment unknown to me.' The public generally accepted this view, and pre- ferred the Giaour and its successors to Marmion and the Lady of the Lake. Neither Scott nor Byron nor their readers seem to have known the value of Scott's lyrical poetry. His songs are as distinct in quality as Shakespeare's, and Byron had no access to the sources of their music. Some of them, like the songs of Burns, are founded on the Scottish tradition of popular songs, and take up old phrases and rhythms : He turned his charger as he spake Upon the river shore. ■•O Brignall banks are fresh and fair' was prob- ably suggested by the verse of 'Bothwell banks,' ■which the traveller in Palestine, long before, heard sung by a woman to her child — the beautiful story is told by Scott in the Minstrelsy. Scott, like Burns, had his own way of deahng with these suggestions, and the best of his lyrics are in the poet's own style, as clearly as those of Keats or Shelley. They also have in them the magic that is found so seldom in the course of Scott's narra- tive verse. Proud Maisie and County Guy are as different from the narrative verse as from the prose of the novels. They belong, as the Ettrick Shepherd put it (in speaking of his own poetry compared with Scott's), to 'a far higher order.' 'Dear Sir Walter, ye can never suppose that I belang to your school o' chivalry ! Ye are king o' that school, but I'm the king o' the mountain and fairy school, which is a far higher ane nor yours.' Hogg, whatever his manners may have been, had a sense of the difference between pic- turesque romance like Marmion and the kind that will not bear strong lights or definite language, that is all vague— a thing of dreams.' He was right also in feeling the want of this 'fine fabling' in Scott's tales. But the songs are different, and claim their place in that kingdom of fantasy which the author of Kilmeny asserted for himself, in which the true queen is La Belle Dame sans Mercy. Besides these, which are the essential part of Scott's poetry, there are other songs of a different and less exacting kind, like Jock (f Hazeldean and 107 Donald Caird, and the noble lyrics in the old- fashioned reflective style of the eighteenth century, recitative rather than lyrical — the poems of the Ettrick sunset, ' The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,' and Rebecca's hymn, 'When Israel of the Lord beloved.' Scott professed no greater care for the niceties of verse, and took small interest in the run of syllables and the other technical details that Dryden was so fond of. But, careless as he might be, he had the gift of verse, and struck out harmonies such as many weaker poets have laboured hard for : There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen. This is a different kind of lyric poetry from County Guy, but it has a rank of its own, and an honour- able one ; much of Johnson's verse belongs to the same kind, serious and dignified, and there is one other poem of Scott's there also, the quatrain in which his work is summed up, the utterance of almost his whole heart : Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. Many of the shorter poems were written after the tales in verse had been given up. Scott's poetical genius did not fail when he took to prose for story-telling. The tales themselves were hardly treated by their author, and in yielding to Byron he gave his own work less than its due. There was more of passion in Byron, but he could not tell a story like Scott. William of Deloraine and Roderick Dhu are stronger in adventures than The Corsair. The Corsair may be better at getting sympathy from his readers ; but one cannot be always giving sympathy, whereas a large number of people can always be found to listen to stories of adventure even when the hero is wanting in the passionate attractions of Conrad. The battle passages, especially Flodden in Marmion and the battle of Beal' an Duine in the Lady of the Lake, have a sound and swell in them beyond the ordinary tone of the stories. This is heard not less plainly in some of the shorter poems : Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van, And clash'd their broadswords in the rear The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. How much of Scott's war-songs may have gone to fortify the old ballads in the Minstrelsy is hard to say. There is something of him in Kinmont Willie; and though his confessed additions to the Minstrelsy axe inferior to that heroic poem, he wrote, later, the ballad of the Harlaw : What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay. That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day And I were Roland Cheyne ? 34 Sir Walter Scott This is nearer the old style than the Eve of St John or Glenfinlas, and it is better poetry. It is also different from the style of the Lay and Marmion. The ballad is essentially unlike the long romance, however much in common the two kinds may have in their matter and their morals. The great want in the verse romances, Marmion and the rest, compared with the novels, is in their drama. Good stories as they are, they bring out only a small part of Scott's strength. It was not till he began his prose stories that he made his people talk. The dialogue in the poems is mostly conventional and rhetorical. Roderick wants the idiom of Rob Roy ; he is a romantic personage, but he is not a character as Rob Roy is. Scott put much of his knowledge and his local sympathies into the Lay; it takes in most of the Border country, but it could not give the accent like Dan die Dinmont. The Waverley Novels made their fortune as historical romances. What was first of all attrac- tive in them was what had given most pleasure in the poems earlier : the scenery, dresses, adven- tures, everything ' picturesque ' in them, as that term was generally understood. Gilpin, an autho- rity on the Picturesque, had pointed out that there was a common confusion between 'picturesque' and ' romantic ; ' but the confusion was not abolished by his explanation of the terms, and the inaccurate word is useful in describing the literary taste of the age. Scott, in fact, was admired at first for the sort of decoration which his imitators learned to supply equally well, and for the battles, duels, escapes, disguises, which were more difficult to imitate rightly. There is no doubt about his success ; the most grudging of Scott's critics have borne witness most freely, like Hazlitt and Stendhal. The latter of these, while depreciating the machinery of the historical novel in comparison with the novel of character and sentiment, makes no attempt to lessen Scott's popular fame. He, not Byron, is the ' chief of the romantics.' He has all the ' translators by the yard ' scrambling for his books at Madrid, Stuttgart, Paris, and Vienna — a proof that he has 'divined the moral tendencies of his epoch.' What no foreign reader saw, and many English readers missed, was the absolute difference between different parts of the novels. Not every one distinguished what Scott himself called ' the big bow-wow strain ' from the speeches in character, the idiomatic conversations. Scott's plan of work was generally casual ; he did not think much about his stories, and he had many resources in his memory, besides his fluent style, to help him through his morning's task. But his imagination was roused when it was most wanted, and he found in prose an opening for dramatic work, especially for comedy, such as Marmion and Rokeby had never afforded him. Dandie Dinmont, Mr Oldbuck, Edie Ochiltree, Andrew Fairservice, the Bailie, Caleb Balderstone, Cuddie Headrigg and his mother, are only a few of the chief characters, and it is their talk that makes the greatness of Scott as a novelist. Stendhal was right about the historical trappings. The pageantry of Ivanhoe and Kenilworth was learned and repeated, like a lesson, by professional novelists, East and West, till the wearied reader would almost have turned, like Niebuhr, to Josephus for recreation. It was not so easy to imitate the other things, except by a share of Scott's genius. Scenes like the beginning of the Antiquary, the drama of the slow coach and the start for Queens- ferry, are to be copied, like Hamlet, by ' those who have the mind.' But the imitators, as happened with Chaucer also, generally repeated the least characteristic things in their master, the conven- tional framework and decorations, and made a living that way. But the real excellence of Scott is in the dramatic dialogue. Sometimes there are curious discrepancies in Scott ; inequalities and incongruities, of which the most obvious is in Rob Roy, in the conversation of the Bailie with Helen MacGregor. The two characters are not in the same world : the Bailie is alive ; the wife of Rob Roy has no language but that of rhetoric. There is the same sort of thing in Shakespeare : only in Shakespeare the mere rhetoric is usually kept in its place — he does not produce one of his humorous characters talking, at the front of the stage, with one of the rhetorical personages ; or if he does, the rhetoric is for the time modified. Scott's style has been severely treated by many critics, and it has become permissible to speak of his carelessness, his slipshod grammar, and so forth. But there is no way of summing up the qualities of Scott's style in prose or verse, because in both he has many varieties. There is a common, plain manner, fluent and clear, in his prose as in his verse ; there are also passages in his prose as distinct from this as his lyrics from his narrative poetry, and fortunately in much greater profusion. Wandering Willie's tale in Redgauntlet is the most famous of these, a story in which the strong and careless writer proves himself inferior to none of the careful artists in composition and elegance of phrasing. The readers of Scott have grown so familiar with his easy methods that they do in- justice to his powers of compression, and forget the literary reserve, the concentration of the tragic motive, in the Highland Widow, the Two Drovers, and the story of Elspeth Mucklebackit. Yet it is manifest enough on the face of his writings how his style is quickened to meet the crisis of action ; how the leisurely, expository manner that came natural to Scott as a historian is exchanged for another sort of language in such places, for example, as Inveraray Castle in the Legend of Montrose, when Sir Dugald Dalgetty is setting his wits against Argyle. Scott was treated by Carlyle in the same way as Fielding by Johnson, and almost in the same terms. 'There is as great a difference between Sir. "Walter Scott 35 Richardson and Fielding as between a man who knows how a watch is made and a man who can tell the hour by looking on the dial-plate.' Scott imitates the surface of life, says Carlyle ; he does not imagine his characters from within. There is the less need to discuss this since Mr Ruskin's praise of Scott in Fors Clavigera, a piece of criticism not easily refuted with regard to dramatic imagination in the Waverley Novels. No analytic novelist ever showed a finer psychological sense than the author who kept two such characters as the Bailie and Andrew Fairservice on the stage at the same time. They belong to the same country, they breathe the same Westland air, they have the same sort of humour in many ways, the same power of evasion and escape when they are asked to commit them- selves, the same comfortable sense of their own importance. But they are never allowed to inter- fere with one another ; there is no discord or confusion. The character, the man himself, shines through the humour of Mr Jarvie ; there is a grip in his talkative discourse, something of substance and courage. The likeness in garrulous humour does not in the least obscure the difference in character between the honourable man and the churl. Scott as a leader in the romantic movement, followed by the authors of The Three Musketeers and Notre-Dame de Paris, and many more beyond counting, was never in full sympathy with the ideals of the romantic school, except in the short poems already mentioned. The unrest, the mystery of romance, felt by many poets of that time, was not attractive to Scott. Notably, there was little of the mediaeval spirit in his study of mediaeval literature. He speaks of what Milton might have done for King Arthur, and finds in the books of Lancelot and Tristram 'a thousand striking Gothic incidents, worthy subjects of the pen of Milton.' ' What would he not have made of the adventure of the Ruinous Chapel, the Perilous Manor, the Forbidden Seat, the Dolorous Wound, and many others susceptible of being described in the most sublime poetry ! ' Scott himself does not make anything of these ' Gothic incidents,' and never comes nearer than this to the sources most revered by some other scholars in romance. He loves Froissart ; he is not greatly touched by the Quest of the Grail. His medievalism is generally positive and reasonable ; there is great variety in it, great historical interest. But it was not by his antiquities that Scott established his lasting fame. The dia- logue in his novels is little in debt to the romantic accessories, except where the problems of an older time give an opportunity for modern character to show itself. Cuddie Headrigg, for example, belongs to the seventeenth century in precisely the same sense as Falstaff to the time of Henry IV. Before either of these humourists the ordinary critical formulas of 'reaHst' and 'romantic' dis- appear ; they are irrelevant. The injustice from which Scott's reputation has suffered most is that which assumes his mastery of romantic fiction, and undervalues his triumphs in the more difficult art of comedy. The Minstrel. The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infirm and old ; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-a-day ! their date was fled ; His tuneful brethren all were dead ; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He caroled, light as lark at morn ; No longer, courted and caressed. High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay : Old times were changed, old manners gone ; A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor. He begged his bread from door to door, And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a king had loved to hear. (■From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.) My Native Land. 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 ; 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, doubly 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'er untie the filial band 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 friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still. Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break. Although it chill my withered cheek ; 36 Sir "Walter Scott Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan. (From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.) Norham Castle. Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep. And Cheviot's mountains lone : The battled towers, the donjon lieep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high. Moving athwart the evening sky. Seemed forms of giant height : Their armour, as it caught the rays. Flashed back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light. St George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower. So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch. Timing his footsteps to a march, The warder kept his guard, Low humming, as he paced along. Some ancient Border gathering-song. (From Martnion.) Flodden. ' But see ! look up — on Flodden bent, The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' And sudden, as he spoke. From the sharp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke ; Volumed and fast, 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 blown. 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. They 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. . . . 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 falchions flashed amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. . . But as they left the darkening heath. More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed : Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow. Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow. Unbroken was the ring ; The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood. The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight ; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well ; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands ; And from the charge they drew. As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know ; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band. Disordered, through her currents dash. To gain the Scottish land ; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden 's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong : Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stem strife and carnage drear Of Flodden 's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield ! ,^ (From Marmion.} The Sun upon the Welrdlaw Hill. The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush and still. The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore ; Thohgh evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. Sir Walter Scott 37 With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. And coldly mark the holy fane When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. Out from the land of bondage came, The quiet lake, the balmy air, Her father's God before her moved. The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree — An awful guide in smoke and flame. Are they still such as once they were. By day, along the astonished lands Or is the dreary change in me ? The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Alas, the warped and broken board, Returned the fiery column's glow. How can it bear the painter's dye ? The harp of strained and tuneless chord. There rose the choral hymn of praise. How to the minstrel's skill reply ? And trump and timbrel answered keen ; To aching eyes each landscape lowers, And Zion's daughters poured their lays. To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; With priest's and warrior's voice between. And Araby's or Eden's bowers No portents now our foes amaze. Were barren as this moorland hill. Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know Thy ways. Coronach. And Thou hast left them to their own. He is gone on the mountain. But, present still, though now unseen ! He is lost to the forest, When brightly shines the prosperous day, Like a summer-dried fountain. Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. When our need was the sorest. To temper the deceitful ray. The font, reappearing, And oh, when stoops on Judah's path From the rain-drops shall borrow, In shade and storm the frequent night, But to us comes no cheering. Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath. To Duncan no morrow ! A burning and a shining light ! The hand of the reaper Our harps we left by Babel's streams. Takes the ears that are hoary. The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; But the voice of the weeper No censer round our altar beams. Wails manhood in glory. And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. The autumn winds rushing, But Thou hast said, ' The blood of goat. Waft the leaves that are searest. The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; But our flower was in flushing A contrite heart, a humble thought, When blighting was nearest. Are mine accepted sacrifice. ' ^^^^^ ^^^„^^, Fleet foot on the correi. Sage counsel in cumber. The Battle of Bear an Duine. Red hand in the foray, The minstrel came once more to view How sound is thy slumber ! The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For ere he parted, he would say Like the dew on the mountain. Like the foam on the river. Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — Like the bubble on the fountain. Where shall he find, in foreign land, Thou art gone, and for ever ! So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — (From Tlie Lady of the Lake.) There is no breeze upon the fern, Nor ripple on the lake. County Guy. Upon her eyry nods the erne. Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The deer has sought the brake ; The sun has left the lea. The small birds will not sing aloud, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The springing trout lies still, The breeze is on the sea. So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud. The lark, his lay who thrilled all day. That swathes, as with a purple shroud. Sits hushed his partner nigh, Benledi's distant hill. Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, Is it the thunder's solemn sound But where is County Guy ? That mutters deep and dread. Or echoes from the groaning ground The village maid steals through the shade, The warrior's measured tread ? Her shepherd's suit to hear ; Is it the lightning's quivering glance To beauty shy, by lattice high. That on the thicket streams, Sings high-born cavalier. Or do they flash on spear and lance The star of Love, all stars above. The sun's retiring beams ? Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, And high and low the influence know — I see the Moray's silver star. But where is County Guy? Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, (From Quentin DuTWard.) That up the lake comes winding far ! 38 Sir Walter Scott To hero bound for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array ! Their light-arm'd archers far and near Survey'd the tangled ground. Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frown'd. Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crown'd. No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum ; Save heavy tread, and armour's clang. The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad ; Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, That shadow'd o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe. Nor spy a trace of living thing. Save when they stirr'd the roe ; The host moves like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is pass'd, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain. Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws ; And here the horse and spearmen pause, While, to explore the dangerous glen, Dive through the pass the archer-men. At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell. As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! Forth from the pass in tumult driven. Like chaff before the wind of heaven, The archery appear ; For life ! for life ! their plight they ply — And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued ; Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place. The spearmen's twilight wood ? — 'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down ! Bear back both friend and foe ! ' — Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levell'd low ; And closely shouldering side to side. The bristling ranks the onset bide. — ' We '11 quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel cows the game ! They come as fleet as forest deer, We '11 drive them back as tame. ' — (From The Lady of the Lake.) O, Brignall Banks. O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there. Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton-hall, Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily — Chorus — ' O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair. And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there. Than reign our English queen.' — ' If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we. That dwell by dale and down ? And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may. Then to the greenwood shall thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May. ' — Chorus — Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen. ' I read you, by your bugle horn. And by your palfrey good, I read you for a ranger sworn. To keep the king's greenwood.' — ' A ranger, lady, winds his horn. And 'tis at peep of light ; His blast is heard at merry morn. And mine at dead of night.' — Chorus — Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay ; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May ! ' With burnish'd brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.' — ' I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear ; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. Chorus — ' And, O ! though Brignall banks be fair. And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May ! ' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I '11 die ; The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead. Were better mate than I ! And when I 'm with my comrades met. Beneath the greenwood bough. What once we were we all forget. Nor think what we are now. Chorus—' Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.' (From Rokeby.) A Weary Lot is Thine. ' A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! Sir Walter Scott 39 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green — No more of me you knew, My love ! No more of me you knew. ' This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ; But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.' He turn'd his charger as he spake, Upon the river shore, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said, • Adieu for evermore, My love ! And adieu for evermore.' ,„ „ . , , (From Rokeiy.) Proud Malsie. Proud Maisie is in the wood. Walking so early ; Sweet Robin sits on the bush. Singing so rarely. ' Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me ? ' — ' When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' ' Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' — ' The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. ' The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady. The owl from the steeple sing, "Welcome, proud lady." ' (From The Heart of Midlothian.') St Mary's. When, musing on companions gone. We doubly feel ourselves alone. Something, my friend, we yet may gain ; There is a pleasure in this pain : It soothes the love of lonely rest. Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 'Tis silent amid worldly toils. And stifled soon by mental broils ; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, 'Twixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake. By lone Saint Mary's silent lake ; Thou know'st it well — nor fen, nor sedge. Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink ; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view ; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there. Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. Yet even this nakedness has power. And aids the feeling of the hour : Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed might lie ; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell. Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell ; There 's nothing left to fancy's guess. You see that all is loneliness : And silence aids — though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills ; In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude. Nought living meets the eye or ear. But well I ween the dead are near ; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath lain Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil. The peasant rests him from his toil. And, dying, bids his bones be laid. Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. (From Introduction to Canto ii. oi Marmlon^ Harla'w. As the Antiquary lifted the latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear the shrill tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting forth an old ballad in a wild and doleful recitative — ' The herring loves the merry moonhght. The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang, For they come of a gentle kind.' A diligent collector of these legendary scraps of ancient poetry, his foot refused to cross the threshold when his ear was thus arrested, and his hand instinctively took pencil and memorandum-book. From time to time the old woman spoke as if to the children — ' Oh ay, hinnies, whisht ! whisht ! and I '11 begin a bonnier ane than that— ' Now hand your tongue, baith wife and carle. And listen, great and sma'. And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw. ' The cronach 's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a'. And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw. I dinna mind the neist verse weel — my memory 's failed, and there 's unco thoughts come ower me — God keep us frae temptation ! ' Here her voice sunk in indistinct muttering. 'It's a historical ballad,' said Oldbuck, eagerly, 'a genuine and undoubted fragment of minstrelsy ! Percy would admire its simplicity — Ritson could riot impugn its authenticity.' ' Ay, but it 's a sad thing,' said Ochiltree, ' to see human nature sae far owertaen as to be skirling at auld sangs on the back of a loss like hers.' ' Hush ! hush ! ' said the Antiquary — ' she has gotten the thread of the story again.' — And as he spoke, she sung— ' They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds. They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head. And a good knight upon his back. ' 40 Sir "Walter Scott ' Chafron ! ' exclaimed the Antiquary, — ' equivalent, perhaps, to ckeveron ; — the word 's worth a dollar,' — and down it went in his red book. ' They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile, but barely ten. When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men. ' Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, Their pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear. ' The great Earl in his stirrups stood That Highland host to see : Now here a knight that 's stout and good May prove a jeopardie : ' " What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne ? ' " To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril. What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl ? " Ye maun ken, hinnies, that this Roland Cheyne, for as poor and auld as I sit in the chimney-neuk, was my fore- bear, and an awfu' man he was that day in the fight, but specially after the Earl had fa'en, for he blamed himsell for the counsel he gave, to fight before Mar came up wi' Mearns, and Aberdeen, and Angus.' Her voice rose and became more animated as she recited the warlike counsel of her ancestor — ' " Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide. And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side. And the bridle upon his mane. ' " If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men. ' " My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude. As through the moorland fern. Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne." ' 'Do you hear that, nephew?' said Oldbuck ; — 'you observe your Gaelic ancestors were not held in high repute formerly by the Lowland warriors.' ' I hear,' said Hector, ' a silly old woman sing a silly old song. I am surprised, sir, that you, who will not listen to Ossian's songs of Selma, can be pleased with such trash. I vow, I have not seen or heard a worse halfpenny ballad ; I don't believe you could match it in any pedlar's pack in the country. I should be ashamed to think that the honour of the Highlands could be affected by such doggrel. ' — And, tossing up his head, he snuffed the air indignantly. Apparently the old woman heard the sound of their voices ; for, ceasing her song, she called out, ' Come in, sirs, come in — good- will never halted at the door-stane.' They entered, and found to their surprise Elspeth alone, sitting ' ghastly on the hearth,' like the personifi- cation of Old Age in the Hunter's song of the Owl, 'wrinkled, tattered, vile, dim-eyed, discoloured, torpid.' ' They 're a' out,' she said, as they entered ; ' but an ye will sit a blink, somebody will be in. If ye hae business wi' my gude-daughter, or my son, they '11 be in belyve, — I never speak on business mysell. Bairns, gie them seats — the bairns are a' gane out, I trow,' — looking around her ;— ' I was crooning to keep them quiet a wee while since ; but they hae cruppen out some gate. Sit down, sirs, they '11 be in belyve ; ' and she dismissed her spindle from her hand to twirl upon the floor, and soon seemed exclusively occupied in regulating its motion, as unconscious of the presence of the strangers as she appeared indiiferent to their rank or business there. ' I wish,' said Oldbuck, ' she would resume that can- ticle, or legendary fragment. I always suspected there was a skirmish of cavalry before the main battle of the Harlaw. ' ' If your honour pleases,' said Edie, ' had ye not better proceed to the business that brought us a' here? I'se engage to get ye the sang ony time.' (From The Antiquary.') Neist, next; mico, strange; belyve, presently; crufpen, crept. Dandle Dinmont and Counsellor Pleydell. Dinmont, who had pushed after Mannering into the room, began with a scrape of his foot and a scratch of his head in unison. ' I am Dandie Dinmont, sir, of the Charlies-hope — the Liddesdale lad — ye '11 mind me ? It was for me you won yon grand plea. ' ' What plea, you loggerhead ? ' said the lawyer ; ' d' ye think I can remember all the fools that come to plague me?' ' Lord, sir, it was the grand plea about the grazing n' the Langtae-head,' said the farmer. ' Well, curse thee, never mind ; — give me the memo- rial, and come to me on Monday at ten,' replied the learned counsel. 'But, sir, I haena got ony distinct memorial.' ' No memorial, man ? ' said Pleydell. ' Na, sir, nae memorial,' answered Dandie; 'for your honour said before, Mr Pleydell, ye '11 mind, that ye liked best to hear us hill-folk tell our ain tale by word o' mouth. ' ' Beshrew my tongue that said so ! ' answered the counsellor ; ' it will cost my ears a dinning. — Well, say in two words what you 've got to say — you see the gentle- man waits.' ' Ou, sir, if the gentleman likes he may play his- ain spring first ; it 's a' ane to Dandie. ' ' Now, you looby,' said the lawyer, ' cannot you con- ceive that your business can be nothing to Colonel Mannering, but that he may not choose to have these great ears of thine regaled with his matters ? ' ' Aweel, sir, just as you and he like, so ye see to my business,' said Dandie, not a whit disconcerted by the roughness of this reception. ' We 're at the auld wark o' the marches again, Jock o' Dawston Cleugh and me. Ye see we march on the tap o' Touthop-rigg after we pass the Pomoragrains ; for the Pomoragrains, and Slackenspool, and Bloodylaws, they come in there, and they belang to the Peel ; but after ye pass Pomoragrains at a muckle great saucer-headed cutlugged stane, that they ca' Charlies Chuckle, there Dawston Cleugh and Charlies-hope they march. Now, I say, the march rins on the tap o' the hill where the wind and water shears ; but Jock o' Dawston Cleugh again, he contravenes that, and says that it hands down by the auld drove-road that Sir W^alter Scott 41 gaes awa by the Knot o' the Gate ower to Keeldar-ward — and that makes an unco difference.' 'And what difference does it malce, friend?' said Pleydell. ' How many sheep will it feed ? ' ' Ou, no mony,' said Dandie, scratching his head ; ' it 's lying high and exposed — it may feed a hog, or aiblins twa in a good year. ' 'And for this grazing, which may be worth about five shillings a-year, you are willing to throw away a hundred pound or two ? ' 'Na, sir, it's no for the value of the grass,' replied Dinmont ; ' it 's for justice.' 'My good friend,' said Pleydell, 'justice, like charity, should begin at home. Do you justice to your wife and family, and think no more about the matter. ' Dinmont still lingered, twisting his hat in his hand — ' It 's no for that, sir — but I would like ill to be bragged wi' him ; — he threeps he '11 bring a. score o' witnesses and mair — and I'm sure there's as mony will swear for me as for him, folk that lived a' their days upon the Charlies-hope, and wadna like to see the land lose its right.' ' Zounds, man, if it be a point of honour,' said the lawyer, ' why don't your landlords take it up ? ' ' I dinna ken, sir ' (scratching his head again) ; ' there 's been nae election-dusts lately, and the lairds are unco neighbourly, and Jock and me cannot get them to yoke thegither about it a' that we can say ; but if ye thought we might keep up the rent' ' No ! no ! that will never do,' said Pleydell ; — ' confound you, why don't you take good cudgels and settle it?' ' Od, sir,' answered the farmer, ' we tried that three times already — that's twice on the land and ance at Lockerby fair. But I dinna ken — we 're baith gey good at single-stick, and it couldna weel be judged.' ' Then take broadswords, and be d — d to you, as your fathers did before you,' said the counsel learned in the law. ' Aweel, sir, if ye think it wadna be again the law, it's a' ane to Dandie.' ' Hold ! hold ! ' exclaimed Pleydell, ' we shall have another Lord Soulis' mistake — Pr'ythee, man, compre- hend me ; I wish you to consider how very trifling and foolish a lawsuit you wish to engage in. ' 'Ay, sir?' said Dandie, in a disappointed tone. 'So ye winna take on wi' me, I 'm doubting ? ' ' Me ! not I — Go home, go home, take a pint and agree.' Dandie looked but half contented, and still remained stationary. ' Anything, more, my friend ? ' ' Only, sir, about the succession of this leddy that 's dead — auld Miss Margaret Bertram o' Singleside. ' ' Ay, what about her ? ' said the counsellor, rather surprised. ' Ou, we have nae connection at a' wi' the Bertrams,' said Dandie — 'they were grand folk by the like o' us. — But Jean Liltup, that was auld Singleside's housekeeper, and the mother of these twa young ladies that are gane — the last o' them 's dead at a ripe age, I trow — Jean Liltup came out o' Liddel water, and she was as near our connection as second cousin to my mother's half sister. She drew up wi' Singleside, nae doubt, when she was his housekeeper, and it was a sair vex and grief to a' her kith and kin. But he acknowledged a marriage, and satisfied the kirk — and now I wad ken frae you if we hae not some claim by law ? ' ' Not the shadow of a claim. ' 'Aweel, we're nae puirer,' said Dandie — 'but she may hae thought on us if she was minded to make a testament. — Weel, sir, I 've said my say — I'se e'en wish you good-night, and ' putting his hand in his pocket. ' No, no, my friend ; I never take fees on Satur- day night, or without a memorial — away with you, Dandie. ' And Dandie made his reverence, and departed ^ •'* (From Giiy Mantierhig.) Hog, a young sheep ; aiblins, perhaps ; bragged wi, crowed over by ; threep, insist ; yoke thegither^ engage in a contest ; draw up ■wi', keep company with. Monkbams and Saunders Mucklebackit. The Antiquary, as we informed the reader in the end of the thirty-first chapter, had shaken off the company of worthy Mr Blattergowl, although he offered to entertain him with an abstract of the ablest speech he had ever known in the teind court, delivered by the procurator for the church in the remarkable case of the parish of Gatherem. Resisting this temptation, our senior pre- ferred a solitary path, which again conducted him to the cottage of Mucklebackit. When he came in front of the fisherman's hut, he observed a man working intently, as if to repair a shattered boat which lay upon the beach, and going up to him was surprised to find it was Muckle- backit himself. ' I am glad,' he said in a tone of sym- pathy — ' I am glad, Saunders, that you feel yourself able to make this exertion.' ' And what would ye have me to do,' answered the fisher gruffly, ' unless I wanted to see four children starve, because ane is drowned? It's weel wi' you gentles, that can sit in the house wi' handkerchers at your een when ye lose a friend ; but the like o' us maun to our wark again, if our hearts were beating as hard as my hammer. ' Without taking more notice of Oldbuck, he proceeded in his labour ; and the Antiquary, to whom the display of human nature under the influence of agitating passions was never indifferent, stood beside him, in silent atten- tion, as if watching the progress of the work. He observed more than once the man's hard features, as if by the force of association, prepare to accompany the sound of the saw and hammer with his usual sym- phony of a rude tune, hummed or whistled, — and as often a slight twitch of convulsive expression showed that ere the sound was uttered, a cause for suppressing it rushed upon his mind. At length, when he had patched a considerable rent, and was beginning to mend another, his feelings appeared altogether to derange the power of attention necessary for his work. The piece of wood which he was about to nail on was at first too long ; then he sawed it off too short, then chose another equally ill adapted for the purpose. At length, throwing it down in anger, after wiping his dim eye with his quivering hand, he exclaimed, ' There is a curse either on me or on this auld black bitch of a boat, that I have hauled up high and dry, and patched and clouted sae mony years, that she might drown my poor Steenie at the end of them, an' be d — d to her ! ' and he flung his hammer against the boat, as if she had been the intentional cause of his misfortune. Then recollecting himself, he added, ' Yet what needs ane be angry at her, that has neither soul nor sense? — though I am no that muckle better mysell. She 's but a rickle n' auld rotten deals nailed 42 Sir Walter Scott thegither, and warped wi' the wind and the sea — and I am a dour carle, battered by foul weather at sea and land till I am maist as senseless as hersell. She maun be mended though again the morning tide — that 's a thing o' necessity.' Thus speaking, he went to gather together his instru- ments, and attempt to resume his labour, — but Oldbuck took him kindly by the arm. 'Come, come,' he said, ' Saunders, there is no work for you this day. I '11 send down Shavings the carpenter to mend the boat, and he may put the day's work into my account — and you had better not come out to-morrow, but stay to comfort your family under this dispensation, and the gardener will bring you some vegetables and meal from Monkbarns.' 'I thank ye, Monkbarns,' answered the poor fisher; ' I am a plain-spoken man, and hae little to say for mysell ; I might hae learned fairer fashions frae my mither lang syne, but I never saw muckle gude they did her ; however, I thank ye. Ye were aye kind and neighbourly, whatever folk says n' your being near and close ; and I hae often said, in thae times when they were ganging to raise up the puir folk against the gentles — I hae often said ne'er a man should steer a hair touching to Monkbarns while Steenie and I could wag a finger — and so said Steenie too. And, Monkbarns, when ye laid his head in the grave (and mony thanks for the respect), ye saw the mouls laid on an honest lad that likit you weel, though he made little phrase about it. (From Tlie Aiitiguary.) Doitr carle, stiff, rough fellow ; ike mouls, the mould, earth. Cuddle Headrigg and Mause. Cuddie, whose malady, real or pretended, still detained him in bed, lay perdu during all this conference, snugly ensconced within his boarded bedstead, and terrified to death lest Lady Margaret, whom he held in hereditary reverence, should have detected his presence, and be- stowed on him personally some of those bitter reproaches with which she loaded his mother. But as soon as he thought her ladyship fairly out of hearing, he bounced up in his nest. ' The foul fa' ye, that I suld say sae,' he cried out to his mother, ' for a lang-tongued clavering wife, as my father, honest man, aye ca'd ye ! Couldna ye let the leddy alane wi' your whiggery? And I was e'en as great a gomeral to let ye persuade me to lie up here amang the blankets like a hurcheon, instead o' gaun to the wappenschaw like other folk. — Od, but I put a trick on ye, for I was out at the window-bole when your auld back was turned, and awa' down by to hae a baff at the popinjay, and I shot within twa on 't. I cheated the leddy for your clavers, but I wasna gaun to cheat my joe. But she may marry whae she likes now, for I 'm clean dung ower. This is a waur dirdum than we got frae Mr Gudyill when he garr'd me refuse to eat the plum-porridge on Yule-eve, as if it were ony matter to God or man whether a pleughman had suppit on minched pies or sour sowens.' ' Oh, whisht, my bairn ! whisht ! ' replied Mause ; ' thou kensna about thae things — It was forbidden meat, things dedicated to set days and holidays, which are inhibited to the use of Protestant Christians.' ' And now,' continued her son, ' ye hae brought the leddy hersell on our hands ! An I could but hae gotten some decent claes in, I wad hae spanged out o' bed, and tauld her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an she wad but leave us the free house, and the yaird that grew the best early kale in the haill country, and the cow's grass.' ' O wow ! my winsome bairn, Cuddie, ' continued the old dame, 'murmur not at the dispensation; never grudge suffering in the gude cause.' ' But what ken I if the cause is gude or no, mither,' rejoined Cuddie, ' for a' ye bleeze out sae muckle doctrine about it ? It 's clean beyond my comprehension a'the- gither. — I see nae sae muckle difference atween the twa ways o't as a' the folk pretend. It 's very true the curates read aye the same words ower again : and if they be right words, what for no?— a gude tale's no the waur o' being twice tauld, I trow ; and a body has aye the better chance to understand it. Everybody's no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.' ' O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a',' said the anxious mother. ' O, how aften have I shown ye the difference between a pure evangelical doctrine, and ane that 's corrupt wi' human inventions ? O, my bairn, if no for your ain saul's sake, yet for my grey hairs '• ' Weel, mither,' said Cuddie, interrupting her, ' what need ye mak sae muckle din about it ? I hae aye dune whate'er ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare'er ye likit on the Sundays, and fended weel for ye in the ilka days besides. And that 's what vexes me mair than a' the rest, when I think how I am to fend for ye now in thae brickie times. I am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the Mains and Mucklewhame ; at least I never tried ony other grund, and it wadna come natural to me. And nae neighbouring heritors will daur to take us, after being turned aff thae bounds for non-enormity. ' ' Non-conformity, hinnie,' sighed Mause, ' is the name that thae warldly men gie us.' ' Aweel, aweel — we '11 hae to gang to a far country, maybe twall or fifteen miles aff. I could be a dragoon, nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi' the broadsword a bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your grey hairs.' (Here Mause's exclamations became ex- treme.) 'Weel, weel, I but spoke o't; besides, ye 're ower auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-waggon, wi' Eppie Dumblane, the corporal's wife. Sae what 's to come o' us I canna weel see — I doubt I '11 hae to take the hills wi' the wild whigs, as they ca' them, and then it will be my lot to be shot down like a mawkin at some dike-side, or to be sent to Heaven wi' a Saint Johnstone's tippet about my hause. ' ' O, my bonny Cuddie,' said the zealous Mause, ' forbear sic carnal, self-seeking language, whilk is just a misdoubting o' Providence — I have not seen the son of the righteous begging his bread, — sae says the text; and your father was a douce honest man, though some- what warldly in his dealings, and cumbered about earthly things, e'en like yoursell, my jo ! ' 'Aweel,' said Cuddie, after a little consideration, 'I see but ae gate for 't, and that 's a cauld coal to blaw at, mither. Howsomever, mither, ye hae some guess o' a wee bit kindness that 's atween Miss Edith and young Mr Henry Morton, that suld be ca'd young Milnwood, and that I hae whiles carried a bit book, or maybe a bit letter, quietly atween them, and made believe never to ken wha it cam frae, though I ken'd brawly. There 's whiles convenience in a body looking a wee stupid — and Sir Walter Scott 43 I have aften seen them walking at e'en on the little path by Dinglewood-burn ; but naebody ever ken'd a word about it frae Cuddle. I ken I 'm gey thick in the head, but I 'm as honest as our auld fore-hand ox, puir fallow, that I '11 ne'er work ony mair — I hope they '11 be as kind to him that come ahint me as I hae been. — But, as I was saying, we '11 awa' down to Milnwood and tell Mr Harry our distress. They want a pleughman, and the grund 's no unlike our ain — I am sure Mr Harry will stand my part, for he 's a kind-hearted gentleman. — I '11 get but little penny-fee, for his uncle, auld Nipple Milnwood, has as close a grip as the deil himsell. But we '11 aye ■win a bit bread, and a drap kale, and a fire-side, and theeking ower our heads ; and that 's a' we '11 want for a season. — Sae get up, raither, and sort your things to gang away ; for since sae it is that gang we maun, I wad like ill to wait till Mr Harrison and auld Gudyill cam to pu' us out by the lug and the horn.' (f-„^ old Mortality.-) Gomeral, simpleton ; hurcheon, hedgehog ; dirduin, hubbub ; sowejts, a kind of thin porridge ; kale, greens : gleg, keen, quick ; uptake, comprehension ; heritors, landlords ; -mawkin, hare ; a Saint yohnstojte^s tippet, halter ; kause, throat ; brawly, bravely, perfectly ; tlieeking, thatch ; lug, ear. Bailie Nlcol Jarvie and Andre'W Palrsenrtce. 'Keep back, sir, as best sets ye,' said the Bailie, as Andrew pressed forward to catch the answer to some question I had asked about Campbell; — 'ye wad fain ride the fore-horse, an ye wist how. — That chield's aye for being out o' the cheese-fat he was moulded in. — Now, as for your* questions, Mr Osbaldistone, now that chield's out of ear-shot, I'll just tell you it's free to you to speer, and it's free to me to answer, or no — Gude I canna say muckle o' Rob, puir chield ; ill I winna say o' him, for, forby that he 's my cousin, we 're coming near his ain country, and there may be ane o' his gillies ahint every whin-bush, for what I ken — And if ye '11 be guided by my advice, the less ye speak about him, or where we are gaun, or what we are gaun to do, we '11 be the mair likely to speed us in our errand. For it 's like we may fa' in wi' some o' his unfreends — there are e'en ower mony o' them about — and his bonnet sits even on his brow yet for a' that ; but I doubt they '11 be upsides wi' Rob at the last — air day or late day, the fox's hide finds aye the flaying knife.' ' I will certainly,' I replied, ' be entirely guided by your experience. ' ' Right, Mr Osbaldistone — right. But I maun speak to this gabbling skyte too, for bairns and fules speak at the Cross what they hear at the ingle-side.— D'ye hear, you, Andrew^ what 's your name ? — Fairservice ! ' Andrew, who at the last rebuff had fallen a good way behind, did not choose to acknowledge the summons. ' Andrew, ye scoundrel ! ' repeated Mr Jarvie ; ' here, sir ! here ! ' ' Here is for the dog,' said Andrew, coming up sulkily. ' I '11 gie you dog's wages, ye rascal, if ye dinna attend to what I say t'ye — We are gaun into the Hielands a bit' 'I judged as muckle,' said Andrew. ' Haud your peace, ye knave, and hear what I have to say till ye — We are gaun a bit into the Hielands ' 'Ye tauld me sae already,' replied the incorrigible Andrew. ' I '11 break your head,' said the Bailie, rising in wrath, 'if ye dinna haud your tongue.' ' A hadden tongue,' replied Andrew, ' makes a slab- bered mouth.' It was now necessary I should interfere, which I did by commanding Andrew, with an authoritative tone, to be silent at his peril. ' I am silent,' said Andrew. ' I'se do a' your lawfu' bidding without a nay-say. My puir mother used aye to tell me, ' " Be it better, be it worse, Be ruled by him that has the purse. " Sae ye may e'en speak as lang as ye like, baith the tane and the tither o' you, for Andrew.' Mr Jarvie took the advantage of his stopping after quoting the above proverb, to give him the requisite instructions. ' Now, sir, it 's as muckle as your life 's worth — that wad be dear o' little siller, to be sure — but it is as muckle as a' our lives are worth, if ye dinna mind what I say to ye. In this public whar we are gaun to, and whar it is like we may hae to stay a' night, men o' a' clans and kindred — Hieland and Lawland — tak up their quarters — And whiles there are mair drawn dirks than open Bibles amang them, when the usquebaugh gets uppermost. See ye neither meddle nor mak, nor gie nae offence wi' that clavering tongue o' yours, but keep a calm sough, and let ilka cock fight his ain battle.' ' Muckle needs to tell me that,' said Andrew, con- temptuously, 'as if I had never seen a Hielandman before, and ken'd nae how to manage them. Nae man alive can cuitle up Donald better than mysell — I hae bought wi' them, sauld wi' them, eaten wi' them, drucken wi' them ' ' Did ye ever fight wi' them ? ' said Mr Jarvie. ' Na, na,' answered Andrew, ' I took care o' that : it wad ill hae set me, that am an artist and half a scholar to my trade, to be fighting amang a wheen kilted loons that dinna ken the name o' a single herb or flower in braid Scots, let abee in the Latin tongue.' 'Then,' said Mr Jarvie, 'as ye wad keep either your tongue in your mouth, or your lugs in your head (and ye might miss them, for as saucy members as they are), I charge ye to say nae word, gude or bad, that ye can weel get by, to onybody that may be in the Clachan. And ye '11 specially understand that ye 're no to be bleez- ing and blasting about your master's name and mine, or saying that this is Mr Bailie Nicol Jarvie o' the Saut Market, son o' the worthy Deacon Nicol Jarvie, that a' body has heard about ; and this is Mr Frank Osbal- distone, son of the managing partner of the great house of Osbaldistone and Tresham, in the City.' ' Eneuch said,' answered Andrew — 'eneuch said. What need ye think I wad be speaking about your names for? — I hae mony things o' mair importance to speak about, I trow.' ' It 's thae very things of importance that I am feared for, ye blethering goose ; ye maunna speak ony thing, gude or bad, that ye can by any possibility help.' ' If ye dinna think me fit,' replied Andrew, in a huff, ' to speak like ither folk, gie me my wages and my board- wages, and I'se gae back to Glasgow — There 's sma' sorrow at our parting, as the auld mear said to the broken cart.' ,„ t> , t> \ (From Rob Roy.) Cheese-fat, cheese-vat ; speer, ask ; uiifreetids, enemies ; a calm sough, quiet ; cuitle, tickle ; drucken, drunk; tuear, mare. 44 Sir Walter Scott David Deans and Bartoline Saddletree. These are kittle times — kittle times, Mr Deans, when the people take the power of life and death out of the hands of the rightful magistrate into their ain rough grip. I am of opinion, and so I believe will Mr Crossmyloof and the Privy Council, that this rising in effeir of war, to take away the life of a reprieved man, will prove little better than perduellion.' ' If I hadna that on my mind whilk is ill to bear, Mr Saddletree,' said Deans, ' I wad make bold to dispute that point wi' you.' ' How could you dispute what 's plain law, man ? ' said Saddletree, somewhat contemptuously ; ' there 's no a callant that e'er carried a pock wi' a process in 't, but will tell you that perduellion is the warst and maist virulent kind of treason, being an open convocating of the king's lieges against his authority (mair especially in arms, and by touk of drum, to baith whilk accessories my een and lugs bore witness), and muckle warse than lese-majesty, or the concealment of a treasonable purpose — It winna bear a dispute, neighbour. ' 'But it will, though,' retorted Douce Davie Deans; ' I tell ye it will bear a dispute — I never like your cauld, legal, formal doctrines, neighbour Saddletree. I haud unco little by the Parliament House, since the awfu' downfall of the hopes of honest folk that followed the Revolution.' ' But what wad ye hae had, Mr Deans ? ' said Saddle- tree, impatiently ; ' didna ye get baith liberty and con- science made fast, and settled by tailzie on you and your heirs for ever? ' ' Mr Saddletree,' retorted Deans, ' I ken ye are one of those that are wise after the manner of this world, and that ye haud your part, and cast in your portion, wi' the lang heads and lang gowns, and keep with the smart witty-pated lawyers of this our land — Weary on the dark and dolefu' cast that they hae gien this unhappy king- dom, when their black hands of defection were clasped in the red hands of our sworn murtherers : when those who had numbered the towers of our Zion, and marked the bulwarks of Reformation, saw their hope turn into a snare and their rejoicing into weeping.' ' I canna understand this, neighbour,' answered Saddle- tree. ' I am an honest Presbyterian of the Kirk of Scotland, and stand by her and the General Assembly, and the due administration of justice by the fifteen Lords o' Session and the five Lords o' Justiciary.' ' Out upon ye, Mr Saddletree ! ' exclaimed David, who, in an opportunity of giving his testimony on the offences and backslidings of the land, forgot for a moment his own domestic calamity — 'out upon your General Assembly, and the back o' my hand to your Court o' .Session ! — What is the tane but a waefu' bunch o' cauld- rife professoi's and ministers, that sate bien and warm when the persecuted remnant were warstling wi' hunger, and cauld, and fear of death, and danger of fire and sword, upon wet brae-sides, peat-haggs and flow-mosses, and that now creep out of their holes, like bluebottle flees in a blink of sunshine, to take the pu'pits and places of better folk — of them that witnessed, and testified, and fought, and endured pit, prison-house, and transportation beyond seas ? — A bonny bike there 's o' them ! — And for your Court o' Session ' ' Ve may say what ye will o' the General Assembly,' said Saddletree, interrupting him, ' and let them clear them that kens them ; but as for the Lords o' Session, forby that they are my next-door neighbours, I would have ye ken, for your ain regulation, that to raise scan- dal anent them, whilk is termed to murmur again them, is a crime sui generis, — sui generis, Mr Deans — ken ye what that amounts to ? ' ' I ken little o' the language of Antichrist,' said Deans ; ' and I care less than little what carnal courts may call the speeches of honest men. And as to murmur again them, it 's what a' the folk that loses their pleas, and nine-tenths o' them that win them, will be gey sure to be guilty in. Sae I wad hae ye ken that I haud a' your gleg-tongued advocates, that sell their knowledge for pieces of silver — and your worldly-wise judges, that will gie three days of hearing in presence to a debate about the peeling of an ingan, and no ae half-hour to the gospel testimony — as legalists and formalists, countenancing by sentences, and quirks, and cunning terms of law, the late begun courses of national defections — union, tolera- tion, patronages, and Yerastian prelatic oaths. As for the soul and body-killing Court o' Justiciary ' The habit of considering his life as dedicated to bear testimony in behalf of what he deemed the suffering and deserted cause of true religion, had swept honest David along with it thus far ; but with the mention of the criminal court, the recollection of the disastrous condition of his daughter rushed at once on his mind ; he stopped short in the midst of his triumphant declamation, pressed his hands against his forehead, and remained silent. (From Tlie Heart of Midlothian.') Kittle, ticklish ; ^ocJi, bag ; toitk, tap ; tailzie, entail ; cauldrife, cold ; bieii, snug ; bike, hive ; Jbrby, besides ; gleg, quick ; ingan, onion. Jeanie Deans and Queen Caroline. The queen seemed to acquiesce, and the duke made a signal for Jeanie to advance from the spot where she had hitherto remained, watching countenances which were too long accustomed to suppress all apparent signs of emotion, to convey to her any interesting intelligence. Her majesty could not help smiling at the awe-struck manner in which the quiet, demure figure of the little Scotchwoman advanced towards her, and yet more at the first sound of her broad northern accent. But Jeanie had a voice low and sweetly toned, an admirable thing in woman, and she besought 'her leddyship to have pity on a poor misguided young creature,' in tones so affecting that, like the notes of some of her native songs, provincial vulgarity was lost in pathos. ' Stand up, young woman,' said the queen, but in a kind tone, ' and tell me what sort of a barbarous people your country-folk are, where child-murder is become so common as to require the restraint of laws like yours. ' ' If your leddyship pleases,' answered Jeanie, ' there are mony places besides Scotland where mothers are unkind to their ain flesh and blood.' It must be observed that the disputes between George II. and Frederick, Prince of Wales, were then at the highest, and that the good-natured part of the public laid the blame on the queen. She coloured highly, and darted a glance of the most penetrating character, first at Jeanie, and then at the duke. Both sustained it unmoved ; Jeanie from total unconsciousness of the offence she had given, and the duke from his habitual composure. But in his heart he thought, ' My ymWcVy protlgie has with this luckless answer shot dead, by a kind of chance-medley, her only hope of success.' Lady Suffolk, good-humouredly and skilfully, inter- Sir "Walter Scott 45 posed in this awlcward crisis. 'You should tell this lady,' she said to Jeanie, 'the particular causes which render this crime common in your country.' ' Some thinks it 's the Kirk-session — that is — it 's the — it 's the cutty-stool, if your leddyship pleases, ' said Jeanie, looking down and courtesying. 'The what?' said Lady Suffolk, to whom the phrase was new, and who besides was rather deaf. ' That 's the stool of repentance, madam, if it please your leddyship,' answered Jeanie, ' for light life and con- versation, and for breaking the seventh command. ' Here she raised her eyes to the duke, saw his hand at his chin, and, totally unconscious of what she had said out of joint, gave double effect to the innuendo by stopping short and looking embarrassed. As for Lady Suffolk, she retired like a covering party, which, having interposed betwixt their retreating friends and the enemy, have suddenly drawn on themselves a fire unexpectedly severe. The deuce take the lass, thought the Duke of Argyle to himself; there goes another shot, and she has hit with both barrels right and left ! Indeed the duke had himself his share of the con- fusion, for, having acted as master of ceremonies to this innocent offender, he felt much in the circumstances of a country squire, who, having introduced his spaniel into a well-appointed drawing-room, is doomed to witness the disorder and damage which arises to china and to dress -gowns, in consequence of its untimely frolics. Jeanie's last chance-hit, however, obliterated the ill impression which had arisen from the first; for her majesty had not so lost the feelings of a wife in those of a queen, but that she could enjoy a jest at the expense of 'her good Suffolk.' She turned towards the Duke of Argyle with a smile, which marked that she enjoyed the triumph, and observed, ' The Scotch are a rigidly moral people.' Then, again applying herself to Jeanie, she asked how she had travelled up from Scotland. ' Upon my foot mostly, madam,' was the reply. ' What, all that immense way upon foot ? How far can you walk in a day ? ' ' Five-and-twenty miles and a bittock.' ' And a what ? ' said the queen, looking towards the Duke of Argyle. 'And about five miles more,' replied the duke. ' I thought I was a good walker,' said the queen, ' but this shames me sadly.' ' May your leddyship never hae sae weary a heart that ye canna be sensible of the weariness of the limbs,' said Jeanie. That came better off, thought the duke ; it 's the first thing she has said to the purpose. 'And I didna just a'thegither walk the haill way neither, for I had whiles the cast of a cart ; and I had the cast of a horse from Ferrybridge — and divers other easements,' said Jeanie, cutting short her story, for she observed the duke made the sign he had fixed upon. ' With all these accommodations,' answered the queen, ' you must have had a very fatiguing journey, and, I fear, to little purpose ; since, if the king were to pardon your sister, in all probability it would do her little good, for I suppose your people of Edinburgh would hang her out of spite.' She will sink herself now outright, thought the duke. But he was wrong. The shoals on which Jeanie had touched in this delicate conversation lay underground. and were unknown to her ; this rock was above water, and she avoided it. ' She was confident,' she said, ' that baith town and country wad rejoice to see his majesty taking com- passion on a poor unfriended creature. ' ' His majesty has not found it so in a late instance,' said the queen ; ' but I suppose my lord duke would advise him to be guided by the votes of the rabble them- selves, who should be hanged and who spared ? ' 'No, madam,' said the duke, ' but I would advise his majesty to be guided by his own feelings, and those of his royal consort ; and then I am sure punishment will only attach itself to guilt, and even then with cautious reluctance. ' ' Well, my lord,' said her majesty, ' all these fine speeches do not convince me of the propriety of so soon showing any mark of favour to your — I suppose I must not say rebeUious? — but, at least, your very disaffected and intractable metropolis. Why, the whole nation is in a league- to screen the savage and abominable murderers of that unhappy man ; otherwise, how is it possible but that, of so many perpetrators, and en- gaged in so public an action for such a length of time, one at least must have been recognised ? Even this wench, for aught I can tell, may be a depository of the secret. — Hark you, young woman, had you any friends engaged in the Porteous mob ? ' ' No, madam,' answered Jeanie, happy that the ques- tion was so framed that she could, with a good con- science, answer it in the negative. ' But I suppose,' continued the queen, ' if you were possessed of such a secret, you would hold it a matter of conscience to keep it to yourself?' ' I would pray to be directed and guided what was the line of duty, madam, ' answered Jeanie. ' Yes, and take that which suited your own inclina- tions,' replied her majesty. ' If it like you, madam,' said Jeanie, ' I would hae gaen to the end of the earth to save the life of John Porteous, or any other unhappy man in his condition ; but I might lawfully doubt how far I am called upon to be the avenger of his blood, though it may become the civil magistrate to do so. He is dead and gaen to his place, and they that have slain him must answer for their ain act. But my sister, my puir sister, EfSe, still lives, though her days and hours are numbered ! She still lives, and a word of the king's mouth might restore her to a broken-hearted auld man, that never in his daily and nightly exercise forgot to pray that his majesty might be blessed with a long and prosperous reign, and that his throne, and the throne of his posterity, might be established in righteousness. O madam, if ever ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a sinning and a suffering creature, whose mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca'd fit to live or die, have some compassion on our misery ! — Save an honest house from dishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early and dreadful death ! Alas ! it is not when we sleep soft and wake merrily ourselves that we think on other people's sufferings. Our hearts are waxed light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrongs and fighting our ain battles. .But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the body — and seldom may it visit your leddyship — and when the hour of death comes, that comes to high and low — lang and late may it be yours ! — Oh, my leddy, then it isna 46 Sir Walter Scott what we hae dune for ourselves, but what we hae dune for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thoughts that ye hae intervened to spare the puir thing's life will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if -■< word of your mouth could hang the haill Porteous mob at the tail of ae tow.' Tear followed tear down Jeanie's cheeks, as, her features glowing and quivering with emotion, she pleaded her sister's cause with a pathos which was at once simple and solemn. ' This is eloquence,' said her majesty to the Duke of Argyle. — 'Young woman,' she continued, addressing herself to Jeanie, ' / cannot grant a pardon to your sister — but you shall not want my warm intercession with his majesty. Take this housewife-case,' she con- tinued, putting a small embroidered needle-case into Jeanie's hands ; ' do not open it now, but at your leisure — you will find something in it which will remind you that you have had an interview with Queen Caroline. ' Jeanie, having her suspicions thus confirmed, dropped on her knees, and would have expanded herself in gratitude ; but the duke, who was upon thorns lest she should say more or less than just enough, touched his chin once more. ' Our business is, I think, ended for the present, my lord duke,' said the queen, ' and, I trust, to your satis- faction. Hereafter I hope to see your grace more frequently, both at Richmond and St James's. — Come, Lady Suffolk, we must wish his grace good-morning.' They exchanged their parting reverences, and the duke, so soon as the ladies had turned their backs, assisted Jeanie to rise from the ground, and conducted her back through the avenue, which she trod with the feeling of one who walks in her sleep. (From The Heart of Midlothian,') Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance ; dittock, small bit ; easements, helps. Meg Dods on her Neighbours. As if he had observed for the first time these new objects, he said to Mistress Dods in an indifferent tone, ' You have got some gay new neighbours yonder, mistress. ' ' Neighbours,' said Meg, her wrath beginning to arise, as it always did upon any allusion to this sore subject — ' Ye may ca' them neighbours, if ye like — but the deil flee awa wi' the neighbourhood for Meg Dods ! ' ' I suppose, ' said Tyrrel, as if he did not observe her displeasure, ' that yonder is the Fox Hotel they told me of ? ' ' The Fox ! ' said Meg ; ' I am sure it is the fox that has carried off a' my geese. — I might shut up house, Maister Francie, if it was the thing I lived by — me that has seen a' our gentlefolks' bairns, and gien them snaps and sugar-biscuit maist of them wi' my ain hand ! They wad hae seen my father's roof-tree fa' down and smoor me before they wad hae gien a boddle a-piece to have propped it up — but they could a' link out their fifty pounds ower head to bigg a hottle at the Well yonder. And muckle they hae made o't — the bankrupt body, Sandie Lawson, hasna paid them a bawbee of four terms' rent.' ' Surely, mistress, I think if the Well became so famous for its cures, the least the gentlemen could have done was to make you the priestess.' ' Me priestess ! I am nae Quaker, I wot, Maister Francie ; and I never heard of alewife that turned preacher, except Luckie Buchan in the west. And if I were to preach, I think I have mair the spirit of a Scottishwoman than to preach in the very room they hae been dancing in ilka night in the week, Saturday itsell not excepted, and that till twal o'clock at night. Na, na, Maister Francie ; I leave the like o' that to Mr Simon Chatterly, as they ca' the bit prelatical sprig of divinity from the town yonder, that plays at cards and dances six days in the week, and on the seventh reads the Common Prayer-book in the ball-room, with Tam Simson, the drunken barber, for his clerk.' ' I think I have heard of Mr Chatterly,' said Tyrrel. ' Ye '11 be thinking o' the sermon he has printed,' said the angry dame, ' where he compares their nasty puddle of a well yonder to the pool of Bethesda, like a foul- mouthed, fleeching, feather-headed fule as he is ! He should hae kend that the place got a' its fame in the times of Black Popery ; and though they pat it in St Ronan's name, I '11 never believe for one that the honest man had ony hand in it ; for I hae been tell'd by ane that suld ken, that he was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or Culdee, or such like. — But will ye not take anither dish of tea, Maister Francie? and a wee bit of the diet-loaf, raised wi' my ain fresh butter, Maister Francie ? and no wi' greasy kitchen-fee, like the seedcake down at the confectioner's yonder, that has as mony dead flees as carvey in it. Set him up for confectioner ! Wi' a penniworth of rye-meal, and anither of tryacle, and twa or three carvey-seeds, I will make better confections than ever cam out of his oven. ' ' I have no doubt of that, Mrs Dods,' said the guest ; ' and I only wish to know how these new-comers were able to establish themselves against a house of such good reputation and old standing as yours ? — It was the virtues of the mineral, I dare say ; but how came the waters to recover a character all at once, mistress ? ' ' I dinna ken, sir — they used to be thought good for naething, but here and there for a puir body's bairn, that had gotten the cruells, and could not afford a penniworth of salts. But my Leddy Penelope Penfeather had fa' en ill, it 's like, as nae other body had ever fell ill, and sae she was to be cured some gate naebody was ever cured, which was naething mair than was reasonable — and my leddy, ye ken, has wit at wull, and has a' the wise folk out from Edinburgh at her house at Windywa's yonder, which it is her leddyship's will and pleasure to call Air- castle — and they have a' their different turns, and some can clink verses, wi' their tale, as weel as Rob Bums or Allan Ramsay — and some rin up hill and down dale, knapping the chucky stanes to pieces wi' hammers, like sae mony road-makers run daft — they say it is to see how the warld was made ! — and some that play on all manner of ten-stringed instruments — and a wheen sketching souls, that ye may see perched like craws on every craig in the country, e'en working at your ain trade, Maister Francie ; forby men that had been in foreign parts, or said they had been there, whilk is a' ane, ye ken, and maybe twa or three draggle-tailed misses, that wear my Leddy Penelope's follies when she has dune wi' them, as her queans of maids wear her second-hand claithes. So, after her leddyship's happy recovery, as they ca'd it, down cam the hail tribe of wild geese, and settled by I the Well, to dine thereout on the bare grund, like a Sir Walter Scott 47 wheeii tinklers ; and they had sangs, and tunes, and healths, nae doubt in praise of the fountain, as they ca'd the Well, and of Leddy Penelope Penfeather ; and, lastly, they behoved a' to take a solemn bumper of the spring, which, as I am tauld, made unco havoc amang them or they wan hame ; and this they ca'd Picknick, and a plague to them! And sae the jig was begun 'after her leddyship's pipe, and mony a mad measure has been danced sin' syne ; for down cam masons and murgeon- makers, and preachers and player-folk, and Episcopalians and Metho- dists, and fools and fiddlers, and Papists and pie-bakers, and doctors and drugsters ; by the shop-folk, that sell trash and trumpery at three prices — and so up got the bonny new Well, and down fell the honest auld town of St Ronan's, where blythe decent folk had been heart- some eneugh for mony a day before ony o' them were born, or ony sic vapouring fancies kittled in their cracked ^^^^"^* (From Si Ronan's Well.) Smoor^ smother ; boddle, a small coin ; Luckie Buchan, a trades- man's wife who founded an apocalyptical sect in Ayrshire in 1784 ; fleecking, whining ; pat, put ; kitchen-fee^ dripping ; the cmells, scrofula ; knapping, knocking ; chjicky sianes, pebbles ; a luheeji, a lot of ; _/9r a year from 1796 till 1807, when a Government 48 Robert Southey pension of ^200 was granted him (he was turning meanwhile a Tory), and on this he devoted himself to a life of strenuous, incessant authorship. Joa?i 0/ Arc ha.d already appeared in 1795, ^nd Thalaba in i8oi ; there followed Madoc (1805), The Curse of Kehama (1810), Roderick (1814), History of Brazil (1810-19), Lives of Nelson (1813), Wesley (1820), and Bunyan (1830), A Vision of fiidgment (1821), Book of the Church {iZ2/i^), History of the Peninsular War (1823-32), Colloquies on Society (1829), Naval History (1833-40), and The Doctor (1834-47). In all, his works number nearly fifty, and fill more than a hundred volumes ; and to them must be added his contributions to the ROBERT SOUTHEY. From the Drawing (1804) by Henry Edridge, A.R.A., in the National Portrait Gallery. periodicals — to the Quarterly alone ninety-three articles (1808-38). These paid him handsomely, so that he died worth ;^i 2,000; but the History of Brazil brought him in eight years only the price of .one article, and Madoc in a twelvemonth only ^3, 17s. id. His life was a busy and happy one : at forty-si.\; he could say, ' I have lived in the sunshine, and am still looking forward with hope.' It flowed quietly on, the chief events in it his visit to Scott and Scotland (1805), his first meeting with Landor (1808), the visits from Shelley and Ticknor (181 1, 1819), his appointment to the laureateship (18 13), the death of his first boy Herbert (1806-16), the surreptitious publication of his revolutionary drama Wat Tyler {iZiJ ; written 1794), little tours in Belgium (181 5), Switzerland (181 7), Holland (1825, 1826), and France (1838), an honorar)' D.C.L. of Oxford (1820), his return as M.P. for Downton (unsolicited and declined, 1826), and Peel's offer of a baronetcy, with the welcome addition of ^300 a year to his pension (1835). It came at a time of sorrow, for his wife, who had ' for forty years been the life of his life,' had six months before been placed in an asylum, and she was brought back to Keswick only to die (1837). Southey never held up after that, though in 1839 he married the poetess Caroline Anne Bowles (1787-1854), for twenty years his friend and correspondent, and returned with her to Greta Hall, intending resolutely to set about two great works which he had long had in contemplation — a History of Portugal and a History of the Monas- tic Orders. It was hot to be ; for Wordsworth in 1840 found him vacuous, listless in the noble library of 14,000 books he had collected, 'patting them with both hands affectionately like a child.' The end came on 21st March 1843 ; he lies buried in Crosthwaite churchyard. There have been better poets than he was ; but no poet was ever a better man. As Sir Leslie Stephen has said, Southey was no prig or saint or Quaker, but a man of war from his youth up. In youth a Wat Tyler revolu- tionist, he became a violent but sincere patriot, jingo, and Tory, but a Tory who hated Pitt as a ' coxcombly, insolent, empty-headed, long-winded braggadocio,' and protested as much against neglect of duties as against encroachment on the constitu- tion. In his denunciation of the manufacturing system and of capitalism he was something of a socialist ; and he sympathised with such a revolu- tionary as Owen in his efforts to check the cancer of pauperism. He stuck vehemently and uncom- promisingly to the odd collection of prejudices he took for principles, and was as far as possible from being ' servile ' in any sense. His sublime self confidence, his taking himself so seriously, proves he had no very strong sense of humour — ' hardly more than Milton or Wordsworth or Shelley or Miss Bronte.' But he was a perfectly straight- forward and sincere enemy, and as 'a gentleman to the core, was incapable of the wayward egotism which Hazlitt cherished and even turned to account in his works.' ' In my youth,' says Southey, ' when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education — when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue's end— I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe ; and following those opinions with ardour wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for their root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote Wat Tyler, as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen, and it was treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty in such Robert Southey 49 times, who regarded only one side of the question.' The poem is indeed a miserable performance, harmless from its very inanity. Full of the same political sentiments and ardour, Southey composed his epic, y^aw of Arc, displaying some boldness of imagination, but diffuse in style and in parts in- coherent. In imitation of Dante, the young poet conducted his heroine in a dream to the abodes of departed spirits, and dealt very freely with the ' mur- derers of mankind,' from Nimrod the mighty hunter down to the victor of Agincourt. In the second edition of the poem, published in 1798, the Maid's vision with everything miraculous was omitted. While in Portugal, Southey finished his second epic, Thalaba, the Destroyer, a pseudo-Arabian fiction not without beauty and magnificence. The verse is irregular and unrhymed, but not lacking in power and rhythmical harmony, though in so long a poem the peculiar charm vanishes and the metre, like the redundant descriptions, becomes wearisome. The metre accords well with the subject, and is, as Southey said, 'the Arabesque ornament of an Arabian tale.' Southey's greatest poem. The Curse of Kehama, has much in common with Thalaba, but is in rhyme. With characteristic egotism, he prefixed to Kehama a declaration that he would not change a syllable or measure for any- body. Kehama is a Hindu rajah, who like Faust obtains and trifles with supernatural power ; and his sufficiently startling adventures give scope for Southey's too generous amplitude of description. ' The story is founded,' as Sir Walter Scott put it, 'upon the Hindu mythology, the most gigantic, cumbrous, and extravagant system of idolatry to which temples were ever erected. The scene is alternately laid in the terrestrial paradise — under the sea — in the heaven of heavens — and in hell itself The principal actors are a man who approaches almost to omnipotence ; another labouring under a strange and fearful maledic- tion, which exempts him from the ordinary laws of nature ; a good genius, a sorceress, and a ghost, with several Hindustan deities of different ranks. The only being that retains the usual attributes of humanity is a female, who is gifted with immor- tality at the close of the piece.' Some of the scenes in this strangely magnificent theatre of horrors are described with unquestionable power ; Scott said that the account of the approach of the mortals to Padalon, the Indian Hades, quoted below, was equal in grandeur to any passage he had ever read. Kehama is almost oppressively Hindu, as Hinduism was understood by a laborious student who sought to omit nothing he had read that was characteristic in land or people. But the Orientalism of Southey, Moore, and most of their contemporaries was essentially artificial and facti- tious. Roderick, the Last of the Goths, is a dignified and pathetic poem, though liable also to the charge of redundancy. Southey's laureate-poems. Carmen Triumphale (18 14) and The Vision of Judgment (1821), pro- 108 voked much ridicule at the time, and would have passed into utter oblivion if Byron had not pub- lished another Vision of Judgment — a profane but powerful satire that gave the laureate a merciless and witty castigation. According to Sir Leslie Stephen, Byron's Vision of Judgment is more reverent as well as more witty than Southey's, in which we have ' the quaintest of all illustrations of the transition of intense respectability into some- thing very like blasphemy.' Some of his youth- ful ballads were extremely popular. His Lord William, Mary the Maid of the Inn, The Well of St Keyne, and The Old Woman of Berkeley were the delight of young readers a century ago, and are yet eminently readable. He loved to sport with subjects of diablerie ; and one satirical piece of this kind. The Devil's Thoughts, the joint production of Southey and Coleridge, was long believed to be the work of Porson or of other more or less likely authors. The original notion of the piece (not without parallels in Dunbar, Ben Jonson, and others) was Southey's, but the greater part of the most piquant verses were Coleridge's ; at least one of them has passed into a proverb : He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility ; And the devil did grin, for his darling sin Is pride that apes humility. Scott read Madoc, and thrice re-read it with increasing admiration ; Charles James Fox read it aloud with joy to an admiring circle ; Dean Stanley was an ardent admirer of Southey's ; and Cardinal Manning contrasts Samson Agonistes with Thalaba, all to the advantage of the later poet. But there was nobody who believed more confidently in Southey's immortality than Southey himself, who quite agreed with a critic in holding that Madoc was the best English poem since Paradise Lost. On the other hand, Macaulay in 1830 expressed a doubt whether 'fifty years hence Mr Southey's poems will be read,' and the doubt has been amply justified ; probably no poet so well known by name is so little known by his poetry. There are, of course, some short excep- tions—the 'Holly Tree,' 'Battle of Blenheim,' ' Stanzas written in my Library,' the ' Old Woman ' named above, and perhaps a dozen more, in- cluding ' those in which Southey appears as poet- laureate to the devil.' His ballads are better, in Sir Leslie Stephen's opinion, than the Ingoldsby Legends, because they are less vulgar and less elaborately funny, and they are read still. But the ' Simorg,' the ' Glendoveers,' ' Mohareb ' — how many can localise these creations of Southey's Muse? His epics repel, not so much by prolixity or by their irregular, sometimes rhymeless metres, as by the unreality of their fact and fancy. They remind us of scene-paintings ; and a scene-painting even by Roberts will fetch next to nothing in the auction-room. With Southey's prose it is otherwise. He wrote out of the fullness of knowledge, for something more than the mere sake of writing ; so Robert Southey and his was that rarest gift of good pure Enghsh. Yet even here he wrote far too much, and was often unhappy in his choice of subjects. One book alone by him, the Life of Nelson^ belongs to universal literature. It rose into instant and universal favour, and is still considered as one of our standard popular biographies. Unhappily its \'alue is rather literary than historical. Pro- fessor Laughton thus comments on it : ' The celebrated life by Southey, interesting as it always will be as a work of art, has no original value, but is a condensation of Clarke and McArthur's ponderous work, dressed to catch the popular taste, and flavoured, with a very careless hand, from the worthless pages of Harrison, from Miss Williams's Manners and Opinions iti the French Republic towards the Close of the Eighteenth Centziry, i. 123-223, and from Captain Foote's Vindication. There is no doubt that Southey's artistic skill gave weight and currency to the falsehoods of Miss Williams, as it did to the trash of Harrison and the wild fancies of Lady Hamilton.' But, spite of its jingoism and its unfair abuse of the French, it remains a classic, because no biographer was ever more in sympathy with his hero or wrote more simply and directly. Thackeray summed up : ' Southey's politics are obsolete and his poetry dead ; but his private letters are worth piles of epics, and are sure to last among us as long as kind hearts like to sympathise with goodness and purity and upright life.' Sir Leslie Stephen enjoys the letters, but not for that reason, and in spite of the fact that in them Southey ' goes to the point at once like a good man of business, and cannot give the effect of leisurely and amused reflection.' Sir Leslie finds Southey and his letters interesting because he is the most complete type of the man fitted by nature for the peculiar function of living by his pen, ' which one must sorrowfully admit not to be the highest,' for 'the man who lives by his pen cannot expect to be on a pedestal beside the great philanthropists and prophets and statesmen.' But again, Southey was of another opinion ; he never doubted that he ' could combine the professional author with the inspired prophet,' and so could divide his time and his literary production ' with the absolute punctuality of a city clerk.' The Life of John Wesley, while leaving ample room for later biographers, was justly described as the first book to bring home to Englishmen in general a real sense of Wesley's importance in English religious and social history. Southey also contributed a series of Lives of British Admirals to Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopcedia. Lander's tribute to Southey is quoted at page 142. The Doctor contains, as Southey said, something of Tristram Shandy, something of Rabelais, more of Mon- taigne, and a little of old Burton, yet its pre- dominant characteristics are still his own. It is a delightful book, a bedside book, though but a commonplace book in disguise, a collection of curiosities of literature ' with charming interludes when Southey is not tempted into too deliberate facetiousness.' The gem of the Doctor is the story of ' The Three Bears ; ' and that immortal nursery-story is more likely to secure for Southey literary immortality than Madoc or Roderick. The Hall of Glory. A huge and massy pile — Massy it seemed, and yet with every blast As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, Remorse for ever his sad vigils kept. Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. Inly he groaned, or, starting, wildly shrieked, Aye as the fabric, tottering from its base. Threatened its fall — and so, expectant still, Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. They entered there a large and lofty dome, O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. Enthroned around, the Murderers of Mankind — Monarchs, the great ! the glorious ! the august ! Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire — Sat stem and silent. Nimrod, he was there, First king, the mighty hunter ; and that chief Who did belie his mother's fame, that so He might be called young Ammon. In this court Caesar was crowned — accursed liberticide ; And he who murdered Tally, that cold villain Octavius — though the courtly minion's lyre Hath hymned his praise, though Maro sung to him. And when death levelled to original clay The royal carcass, Flattery, fawning low. Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new god. Titus was here, the conqueror of the Jews, He, the delight of humankind misnamed ; Caesars and Soldans, emperors and kings. Here were they all, all who for glory fought. Here in the Court of Glory, reaping now The meed they merited. As gazing round, The Virgin marked the miserable train, A deep and hollow voice from one went forth : ' Thou who art come to view our punishment, Maiden of Orleans ! hither turn thine eyes ; For I am he whose bloody victories Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo ! I am here, The hero conqueror of Agincourt, Henry of England ! ' (From the Vision of the Maid of Orleans in yoait of Arc.) Night in the Desert. How beautiful is night ! A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain. Breaks the serene of heaven : In full-orbed glory, yonder inoon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautifiil is night ! Who, at this untimely hour. Wanders o'er the desert sands ? No station is in view, Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. Robert Southey 51 The mother and her child, The widowed mother and the fatherless boy, They, at this untimely hour. Wander o'er the desert sands. Alas ! the setting sun Saw Zeinab in her bliss, Hodeirah's wife beloved. The fruitful mother late, ■Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named. They wished their lot like hers : She wanders o'er the desert sands A wretched widow now, The fruitful mother of so fair a race ; With only one preserved. She wanders o'er the wilderness. No tear relieved the burden of her heart ; Stunned with the heavy woe, she felt like one Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood. But sometimes, when the boy Would wet her hand with tears. And, looking up to her fixed countenance. Sob out the name of Mother, then did she Utter a feeble groan. At length, collecting, Zeinab turned her eyes To heaven, exclaiming : ' Praised be the Lord ! He gave, he takes away ! The Lord our God is good ! ' (From Thalaba.) Nearing Padalon. Far other light than that of day there shone Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. They, too, in darkness entering on their way. But far before the car A glow, as of a fiery furnace light. Filled all before them. 'Twas a light that made Darkness itself appear A thing of comfort ; and the sight, dismayed. Shrank inward from the molten atmosphere. Their way was through the adamantine rock Which girt the world of woe : on either side Its massive walls arose, and overhead Arched the long passage ; onward as they ride, With stronger glare the light around them spread — And, lo ! the regions dread — The world of woe before them opening wide, There rolls the fiery flood. Girding the realms of Padalon around. A sea of flame, it seemed to be Sea without bound ; For neither mortal nor immortal sight Could pierce across through that intensest light. (From The Curse 0/ Kekama.) Apostrophe to Love. They sin who tell us Love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In heaven Ambition cannot dwell. Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth. They perish where they had their birth. But Love is indestructible : Its holy flame for ever burneth. From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest. At tinges deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified. Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care. But the harvest-time of Love is there. Oh ! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears. The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrows, all her tears. An over-payment of delight ? (From The Curse oj Kekama.) The King's Return. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scimitar, And tawny skins awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth ; The unaccustomed face of humankind Confused him now — and through the streets he went With haggard mien, and countenance like one Crazed or bewildered. All who met him turned, And wondered as he passed. One stopped him short. Put alms into his hand, and then desired. In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man To bless him. With a look of vacancy, Roderick received the alms ; his wandering eye Fell on the money, and the fallen king. Seeing his royal impress on the piece, Broke out into a quick convulsive voice. That seemed like laughter first, but ended soon In hollow groan suppressed : the Mussulman Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified The name of Allah as he hastened on. A Christian woman, spinning at her door. Beheld him — and with sudden pity touched, She laid her spindle by, and running in. Took bread, and following after, called him back — And, placing in his passive hands the loaf. She said, ' Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake Have mercy on thee ! ' With a look that seemed Like idiocy, he heard her, and stood still. Staring a while ; then bursting into tears. Wept like a child. (From Roderick, the Last of the Goths.) Moonlight Scene in Spain. How calmly, gliding through the dark-blue sky, The midnight moon ascends ! Her placid beams. Through thinly scattered leaves, and boughs grotesque. Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope ; Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray And massy, motionless they spread ; here shine Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night Their chasms ; and there the glittering argentry Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills ; and oh ! how awfully, Into that deep and tranquil firmament. The summits of Auseva rise serene ! The watchman on the battlements partakes The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels The silence of the hour ; the endless sound Of flowing water soothes him ; and the stars. Which in that brightest moonlight well-nigh quenched. Scare visible, as in the utmost depth 52 Robert Southey Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Draw on with elevating influence Towards eternity the attempered mind. Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he stands. And to the Virgin Mother silently Breathes forth her hymn of praise. (From Roderick^ the Last of the Goths,) The Battle of Blenheim. It was a summer evening. Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage-door Was sitting in the sun : And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found ; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head. And with a natural sigh, ' 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, ' Who fell in the great victory. ' I find them in the garden. For there 's many here about ; And often, when I go to plough. The ploughshare turns them out ! For many thousand men,' said he, ' Were slain in that great victory.' ' Now tell us what 'twas all about, ' Young Peterkin he cries : While little Wilhelmine looks up. With wonder-waiting eyes ; ' Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for.' ' It was the English,' Kaspar cried, ' Who ]iut the French to rout ; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said,' quoth he, ' That 'twas a famous victory. ' My father lived at Blenheim then. Yon little stream hard by ; They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. 'With fire and sword, the country round Was wasted far and wide ; And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby, died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. ' They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. ' Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good prince, Eugene.' ' Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! ' Said little Wilhelmine. ' Nay — nay— my little girl,' quoth he, ' It was a famous victory. ' And everybody praised the duke. Who this great fight did win.' ' And what good came of it at last ? ' Quoth little Peterkin. ' Why, that I cannot tell,' said he ; ' But 'twas a famous victory.' The Holly Tree. reader ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly tree ? The eye that contemplates it, well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 1 love to view these things with curious eyes. And moralise : And in this wisdom of the holly tree Can emblems see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away. Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green. The holly leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they. But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng. So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they. That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly tree. Lines written in his Library, Keswick, 1818. My days among the Dead are past ; Around me I behold. Where'er these casual eyes are cast. The mighty minds of old ; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. Robert Southey S3 With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe ; And while 1 understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years. Their virtues love, their faults condemn. Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity ; Yet leaving here a name, I trust. That will not perish in the dust. The Death of Nelson. It had been part of Nelson's prayer that the British fleet might be distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting an example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing on the Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her guns were silent ; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly ascertaining the fact From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which, in the then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder, about a. quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secretary's blood. Hardy, who was h few steps from him, turning round, saw three men raising him up. 'They have done for me at last, Hardy,' said he. ' I hope not,' cried Hardy. 'Yes,' he replied; 'my back-bone is shot through.' Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed, as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones should be rove immediately ; then, that he might not be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars. Had he but concealed these badges of honour from the enemy, England perhaps would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle of Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back and the gush of blood he felt momently within his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him, and attend to those to whom he might be useful ; 'for,' said he, 'you can do nothing for me.' AH that could be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate his intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew of the Victory hurraed ; and at every hurra a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became impatient to see Hardy ; and as that officer, though often sent for, could not leave the deck. Nelson feared that some fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried : ' Will no one bring Hardy to me ? He must be killed ; he is surely dead ! ' An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his wound before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence. Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful and yet sublimest moment. 'Well, Hardy,' said Nelson, 'how goes the day with us?' 'Very well,' replied Hardy; 'ten ships have struck, but five of the van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.' ' I hope,' said Nelson, ' none of our ships have struck ? ' Hardy answered, 'There was no fear of that.' Then, and not till then. Nelson spoke of himself ' I am a dead man. Hardy,' said he ; 'I am going fast : it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me. Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair, and all other things belonging to me.' Hardy observed that he hoped Mr Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life. 'Oh no,' he replied ; ' it is impossible. My back is shot through. Beatty will tell you so.' Hardy then once more shook hands with him, and with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck. By this time all feeling below the breast was gone ; and Nelson, having made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him : ' You know I am gone. I know it. I feel something rising in my breast,' putting his hand on his left side, 'which tells me so.' And upon Beatty's inquiring whether his pain was very great, he replied, ' So great that he wished he was dead. Yet,' said he in a lower voice, ' one would like to live a little longer too ! ' And after a few minutes, in the same undertone, he added : ' What would become of poor Lady Hamilton if she knew my situation?' Next to his country she occupied his thoughts. Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit, returned, and, again taking the hand of his dying friend and com- mander, congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them dis.- tinctly ; but fourteen or fifteen at least. ' That 's well,' cried Nelson ; ' but I bargained for twenty. ' And then> in a stronger voice, he said ; ' Anchor, Hardy ; anchor. ' Hardy upon this hinted that Admiral CoUingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. ' Not while I live. Hardy,' said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from the bed : ' do you anchor.' His previous orders for preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of thisi Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to him, in a low voice, ' Don't throw me overboard ; ' and he desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then reverting to private feelings : ' Take care of my dear Lady Hamil- ton, Hardy ; take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me. Hardy,' said he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said, ' Now I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty ! ' Hardy stood over him in silence for a moment or two, then knelt again and kissed his forehead. ' Who is that ? ' said Nelson ; 54 Robert Southey and being informed, he replied, ' God bless you. Hardy.' And Hardy then left him — for ever. Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said, ' I wish I had not left the deck ; for I shall soon be gone. ' Death was, indeed, rapidly approaching. He said to the chaplain, ' Doctor, I have not been a g7-eat sinner ; ' and after a short pause, ' Remember that I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country.' His articulation now became difficult ; but he was distinctly heard to say, ' Thank God, I have done my duty ! ' These words he repeatedly pronounced ; and they were the last words which he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes after four — three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound. The death of Nelson was felt in England as some- thing more than a public calamity : men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us ; and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero — the greatest of our own and of all former times — was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but de- stroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him : the general sorrow was of a higher character. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and posthumous rewards were all which they could now bestow upon him whom the king, the legislature, and the nation would have alike delighted to honour ; whom every tongue would have blessed ; whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would have wakened the church-bells, have given schoolboys a holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and ' old men from the chimney-corner ' to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the mari- time schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength ; for, while Nelson was living to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence. There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening his body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done ; nor ought he to be lamented, who died so full of honours, and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr ; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot ; the most splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory ; and if the chariot and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which are at this hour inspiring thousands of the youth of England — a name which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield and our strength. Thus it is that the spirits of the great and the wise continue to live and to act after them. (From the Life of Nelson.) ■Wesley's Old Age and Death. ' Leisure and I,' said Wesley, ' have taken leave of one another. I propose to be busy as long as I live, if my health is so long indulged to me.' This resolution was made in the prime of life, and never was resolution more punctually obsei-ved. ' Lord, let me not live to be useless ! ' was the prayer which he uttered after seeing one whom he had long known as an active and useful magistrate reduced by age to be 'fi picture of human nature in disgrace, feeble in body and mind, slow of speech and understanding.' He was favoured with a constitution vigorous beyond that of ordinary men, and with an activity of spirit which is even rarer than his singular felicity of health and strength. Ten thousand cares of various kinds, he said, were no more weight or burden to his mind than ten thousand hairs were to his head. But in truth his only cares were those of super- intending the work of his ambition, which continually prospered under his hands. Real cares he had none ; no anxieties, no sorrows, no griefs which touched him to the quick. His manner of life was the most favourable that could have been devised for longevity. He rose early, and lay down at night with nothing to keep him waking, or trouble him in sleep. His mind was always in a pleasurable and wholesome state of activity ; he was temperate in his diet, and lived in perpetual loco- motion ; and frequent change of air is' perhaps, of all things, that which most conduces to joyous health and long life. . . . Upon his eighty-sixth birthday, he says, ' I now find I grow old. My sight is decayed, so that I cannot read a small print, unless in a strong light. My strength is decayed ; so that I walk much slower than I did some years since. My memory of names, whether of persons or places, is decayed, till I stop a little to recollect them. What I should be afraid of is, if I took thought for the morrow, that my body should weigh down my mind, and create either stubbornness, by the decrease of my understanding, or peevishness, by the increase of bodily infirmities. But thou .shaft answer for me, O Lord, my God ! ' His strength now diminished so much that he found it difficult to preach more than twice a day ; and for many weeks he, abstained from his five o'clock morning sermons, because a slow and settled fever parched his mouth. Finding himself a little better, he resumed the practice, and hoped to hold on a little longer; but at the beginning of the year 1790 he writes : ' I am now an old man, decayed from head to foot. My eyes are dim ; my right hand shakes much ; my mouth is hot and dry every morning ; I have a lingering fever almost every day ; my motion is weak and slow. However, blessed be God ! I do not slack my labours : I can preach and write still.' In the middle of the same year he closed his cash account- book with the following words, written with a tremulous hand, so as to be scarcely legible : ' For upwards of eighty-six years I have kept my accounts exactly: I Robert Southey 55 will not attempt it any longer, being satisfied with the continual conviction that I save all I can, and give all I can ; that is, all I have. ' . . . On the 1st of February 1791 he wrote his last letter to America. It shows how anxious he was that his fol- lowers should consider themselves as one united body. ' See,' said he, 'that you never give place to one thought of separating from your bretliren in Europe. Lose no opportunity of declaring to all men that the Methodists are one people in all the world, and that it is their full determination so to continue.' He expressed, also, a sense that his hour was almost come. 'Those that desire to write,' said he, ' or say anything to me, have no time to lose ; for Time has shaken me by the hand, and Death is not far behind:'' words which his father had used in one of the last letters that he addressed to his sons at Oxford. On the 17th of that month he took cold after preaching at Lambeth. For some days he struggled against an increasing fever, and continued to preach till the Wednesday following, when lie delivered his last sermon. From that time he became daily weaker and more lethargic, and on the 2nd of March he died in peace ; being in the eighty-eighth year of his age, and the sixty-fifth of his ministry. During his illness he said : ' Let me be buried in nothing tut what is woollen ; and let my corpse be carried in my coffin into the chapel.' Some years before, he had pre- pared a vault for himself, and for those itinerant preachers who might die in London. In his will he directed that six poor men should have twenty shillings each for carry- ing his body to the grave ; ' for I particularly desire,' said he, ' there may be no hearse, no coach, no escutcheon, no pomp except the tears of them that loved me, and are "following me to Abraham's bosom. I solemnly adjure my executors, in the name of God, punctually to observe this.' At the desire of many of his friends, his body was carried into the chapel the day preceding the in- terment, and there lay in a kind of state becoming the person, dressed in his clerical habit, with gown, •cassock, and band ; the old clerical cap on his head, a Bible in one hand, and a white handkerchief in the •other. The face was placid, and the expression which death had fixed upon his venerable features was that of ;a serene and heavenly smile. The crowds who flocked to see him were so great that it was thought prudent, for fear of accidents, to accelerate the funeral, and perform it between five and six in the morning. The intelligence, however, could not be kept entirely secret, and several Jiundred persons attended at that unusual hour. Mr Richardson, who performed the service, had been one •of his preachers almost thirty years. When he came to that part of the service, ' Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother^ his voice changed, and he substituted the word father ; and the feeling with which he did this was such that the congregation, who were shedding silent tears, burst at once into loud weeping. (From the Life of John Wesley.") The second Mrs Southey (Caroline Anne Bowles ; 1786-1854), who was the daughter of a retired •officer, submitted to Southey a pathetic story in verse, Ellen Fitzarihur, and the laureate encour- aged her to publish it. It was followed by The Widow's Tale, with other poems (1822) ; Soli- Jary Hours, in prose and verse (1826) ; and by her most popular work, Cliapters on Churchyards (1829), prose tales and sketches republished from Blackwood's Magazine. So early as 1823 Southey had asked Caroline Bowles to co-operate in writing a poem on Robin Hood, never completed, and her contributions to the scheme were published after Southey's death, with other fragments. In 1823 also she produced Tales of the Factories in verse, on the hardships of factory hands ; her longest poem was The Birthday (1836). The marriage in 1839 amazed the friends of both. Southey was already sinking into mental and physical decay, and in 1843 his death left her a widow for the last nine years of her life. The following is her poem on The Pauper's Death-bed. Tread softly — bow the head — In reverent silence bow — No passing-bell doth toll — Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger ! however great. With lowly reverence bow ; There 's one in that poor shed — One by that paltry bed — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; Enter — no crowds attend — Enter — no guards defend This palace-gate. That pavement damp and cold No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed — again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. O change — O wondrous change ! — Burst are the prison bars — This moment there, so low, So agonised, and now Beyond the stars ! O change — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod : The sun eternal breaks — The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God. I Southey's Life and Correspondence (6 vols. 1849-50), by his younger son, the Rev. Cuthbert Southey (1819-89), contains a delightful fragment of autobiography. A Selection from the letters was edited by his son-in-law, Mr Warter (4 vols. 1856), who also issued Southey's Coinmottplace Book (4 vols. 1849-51); his Corre- spondence with Caroline Bowles was edited by Professor Dowden C1881). See too the latter's So7tthey (' Men of Letters,' 1880) ; jy&nnWs Southey (^05ton, 1887); Southey's Journal of a Tour in the Netherlands, with introduction by Dr Robertson Nicoll (1902) ; and Sir Leslie Stephen's delightful essay on 'Southey's Letters' in Studies of a Biographer (vol. iv. 1902). 56 Samuel Taylor Coleridge Samuel Taylor Coleridge,* poet, critic, and philosopher, was born at Ottery St Mary, Devon, 21st October 1772. He was the youngest son of the Rev. John Coleridge (bom 1718), vicar of the parish, chaplain-priest of the Collegiate Church, and master of the grammar-school, and of his second wife Ann, the daughter of an Exmoor farmer named Bowdon. John Coleridge, of whose family and origin little or nothing is known, was a self-made man. He began life as a village schoolmaster, married, and in his thirtieth year matriculated as a sizar of Sydney Sussex College, Cambridge (1748). He had kept some five or six terms when the offer of the mastership of an endowed school at South Molton, and a prospect of taking orders, induced him to leave the university without a degree (1749). He moved to Ottery in 1760, and died 4th October 1 781. He was a learned man, and published, inter alia, an excursus (^Dissertations) on two chapters of the Book of Judges( 1 768) and a Critical Latin Graminar (1772). The anecdotes recorded by De Quincey and Gillman of his eccentricity and simple-minded- ness are apocryphal. When he died three of his sons were officers in the army ; three were, or had been, at the university ; and his widow, though but poorly left, was not penniless. In the auto- biographical letters addressed to Thomas Poole in 1797-98 {Letters, &c., 1895, vol. i. pp. 3-21) Coleridge describes himself as a 'poetic child,' a devourer of fairy-tales, a weaver of day-dreams, at odds with his playmates, but delighting in 'long conversations' with his father. Before he was nine years old his father died, and in the following spring (24th April) he was nominated to Christ's Hospital, and entered the ' great school ' on 1 2th September 1782. At first he was forlorn and unhappy, ill-fed and homesick, but as time went on there were mitigations. His schoolfellow, Thomas Fanshawe Middleton, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, noticed and protected him from (he first, and after he had taken rank as ' a Grecian ' he made friends with and held his own among seniors and contemporaries. Chief among those who looked up to him as elder and superior was Charles Lamb. He believed — or, perhaps, chose to think — that he owed his faculty as a writer and poet to the severities of his fierce though painstaking master, James Boyer, who forced him to use his brains and control his fancies, and who once, he said, flogged him justly when he had been reading Voltaire and ' sported infidel.' It was doubtless to the austere discipline of the Blue-coat School that Coleridge owed the command over his extraordinary talents, which neither genius nor temperament could 'utterly abolish or destroy.' When he was seventeen, on one of the monthly 'leave-days' he swam the New River in his clothes, and was punished for his folly by a sharp attack of rheumatic fever. He never completely regained his health, and it is probable that the rheumatic gout, or what not, which attacked him at Keswick, encouraging and confirming, if it did not awaken, the indulgence in opium, may be traced to this fateful escapade. He was in the sick ward — ' seas of pain waving through each limb' (see sonnet to Pain) — for several months, and after his recovery his next step was to fall, or rush, into a first love with a schoolfellow's sister named Mary Evans. She was a blue-eyed maiden, quick-tempered and quick-witted, 'nobly planned' to love and be loved ; but, alas ! she was not for Coleridge, and, to his loss and sorrow, married and passed out of his life. But whilst he was at school, and for long afterwards, she was a 'phantom of delight,' an influence and an inspiration. Coleridge was entered as a sizar on the books of Jesus College, Cambridge, 5th February 1 791, but did not go into residence till the fol- lowing October. He received from the Hospital a donation of £i,o, an annual exhibition of ;^4o, a 'Rustat' scholarship for the sons of clergy- men of about ;^25 per annum, and an irregular allowance from his brothers. With prudence this was a bare sufficiency, but from ignorance or in- difference he at once plunged into debt. At first, thanks to the presence and example of Middleton, he worked hard, and in July 1792 was Browne medallist (see The Poetical Works, 1893, PP- 476- 477). In the winter of 1792 he was 'among the select' for the Craven scholarship, but missed suc- cess. The long vacation of 1 793 was spent at Ottery, and towards the close of the Michaelmas term he went up to London, spent his last guinea, and en- listed (2nd December 1793) i" the 15th or King's Regiment of Light Dragoons. Debts to his college tutor and to Cambridge tradesmen prompted this counsel of despair. He had wasted his time, his talents, and his brothers' money, and he shrank from the disclosure which was at hand. The ' gests and exploits ' of Silas Tomkyn Comberbacke (his nom de guerre), which Cottle and Gillman retail, are more or less mvthical. A less agreeable but a more probable version of the story is to be found in Charles Lloyd's novel Edmund Oliver, which was published in 1798. Coleridge was an indifferent dragoon, and soon betrayed his own secret. His brother. Captain James Coleridge, discovered that ' Sam ' was quartered at Reading, wrote to him a letter of forgiveness, and after some time and trouble bought him out. His discharge is dated loth April 1794, and on the following day he went up to Cambridge. The authorities were lenient, and he escaped with a nominal punishment. At the end of the summer term he started for a walking tour in North Wales, taking Oxford on his way. Then it was that he first met Robert Southey, of Balliol College, and, inspired by his sympathy and companionship, talked out a scheme for turning socialist and emigrating with a chosen band to America. Coleridge, who was great at * Copyright 1903 by J. B. Lippincott Company to an extract entitled ■' From * The Ancient Mariner,' " page 63. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 57 coining words, thought communism or sociahsm might be rechristened Pantisocracy. Early in August, when the tour was over, he rejoined Southey at Bristol, where he met and engaged himself to his future wife, Sarah Fricker. She was the eldest of five sisters, of whom the second, Mary, was already married to a young Quaker poet named Robert Lovell, and the third, Edith, was betrothed to Southey. Byron maintained that Sarah and Edith were 'milliners of Bath,' and, when brought to book, gave his authority for the statement {Letters and Journals^ I go I, vol. vi. p. 113). They cer- tainly went out to work in the houses of friends, and it is possible that they had been taught their trade. They were, how- ever, of decent stock and parent- age, and had been born and brought up to better things. In Sep- tember Coleridge returned, some- what reluctantly, to Cambridge, and kept one more term; but he passed the time in writing letters to Southey and in preaching pan- tisocracy. In De- cember he quitted the university without taking a degree. His first work. The Fall of Robespierre, an Historic Drama, of which Southey wrote the second and third acts, was published at Cam- bridge in September 1794. The first act contains the well-known hnes, 'Tell me on what holy ground May domestic peace be found.' For a few weeks he lingered in London, writing sonnets for the Morning Chronicle, and 'sitting late, drinking late' with Charles Lamb at the ' Cat and Salutation ' in Newgate Street ; but early in February, at Southey's instance or insistence, re- moved to Bristol. For some months the friends lodged together and endeavoured to make a living by lecturing on politics, history, and theology (for specimens of Coleridge's political lectures, see Con- dones ad Populum, printed in pamphlet form at Bristol, November 1795, and republished in Essays on His Own Times, 1850, vol. i. pp. 1-55) ; but in SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. From a Drawing (aged 24) by Robert Hancock in the National Portrait Gallery. the autumn they quarrelled and dissolved partner- ship. Southey had been the first to realise that pantisocracy was impracticable, and, to his friend's dismay and indignation, determined to pass the winter with his uncle at Lisbon. The result was that Coleridge, relying on the offer of a new friend and patron, Joseph Cottle, a Bristol bookseller, married (4th October 1793) and settled with his wife in a ' myrtle-bound ' cottage at Clevedon. Here, for a brief while, 'domestic peace' was found, but want of books, friends, and, perhaps, the necessaries of life in less than three months led to a ' domestication' with his mother- in-law at Bristol. The spring of 1 796 was taken up with the publication of the Watchman, a periodical which professed to be the organ of the Whig Club and other patriotic societies. The first number appeared on ist March, and the tenth and last on 13th May 1796 (for Coleridge's articles, see the Essays, &c., 1850, vol. i. pp. 99-178). Meanwhile a vol- ume of Poems on Various Subjects (first edition) was. issued by Cottle, i6th April, 1796. The summer waa consumed in devising abortive plans for making a living at Derby and elsewhere. He was away from home 'prospecting' when his eldest son — named, but not christened, David Hartley — was born, 19th September ; and two days later he returned, bringing with him as inmate and pupil Charles Lloyd, a bank clerk who preferred poetry to keeping his father's ledgers. On 31st December 1796 the Ode to the Departing Year appeared in the Cambridge Intelligencer j and on 1st January 1797 Coleridge, with his wife and baby, took up their quarters in a cottage at Nether Stowey, a market-village at the foot of the Quantock Hills. He moved for two reasons : in the first place, he wished to be within reach of his friend Thomas Poole, a tanner of good means and of good educa- tion, whose 'mansion' and tan-yard were in the village ; and secondly, because he proposed to 58 Samuel Taylor Coleridge himself to earn his living as market-gardener. Here he stayed for twenty months, making his home in the now celebrated ' Coleridge Cottage,' and here he wrote The Ancient Mariner, the first part of Christabel, and almost all his greater poems. Here, too, grew and flom'ished his friendship with William and Dorothy Wordsworth, which led to their settling (July 1797) at the neighbouring manor-house of Alfoxden. For the next twelve months the friends were constantly together, and the interchange of sentiments and ideas, or, rather, the influence of a mutual inspiration, formed the 'atmosphere' in which the Lyrical Ballads (Sep- tember 1798) were conceived and composed. But Coleridge had other interests besides poetry. At Cambridge he had come under the influence of William Frend, a Fellow of Jesus College who had turned Unitarian, and in 1795 ^' Bristol, and afterwards at Taunton and Bridgwater, he volunteered his services as preacher in Unitarian chapels. ' Hire ' or remuneration was against his principles ; but, failing literature and horti- culture, he was ready to accept 'a call' from the Unitarian congregation of Shrewsbury, who had invited him (December 1797) to preach on approval. At Shrewsbury, and after he had ob- tained the appointment, he received and accepted from the brothers Josiah and Thomas Wedgwood the offer of an annuity for life of ;£ 1 50 ; and to meet their views, if not to satisfy their requirements, he resigned the ministry and returned to Stowey. In the long-run the Wedgwood annuity proved a donum exitiale, an injurious benevolence ; but for a while competence came with healing on its wings. On 15th May a second son — named, but not christened, Berkeley (died loth February 1799) — was born to him ; and on i6th September, in company with the Wordsworths, he left England for Germany. After a few days spent at Hamburg, where he visited the ' German Milton,' Klopstock, he parted from his friend and took lodgings (ist October) at Ratzeburg in the house of the pastor. Having learnt to read the language with ease and to murder the accent, he left Ratzeburg on 6th February, and matriculated at Gottingen on I2th February 1799. Among the professors whose lectures he attended, and who paid him ' the most flattering attentions,' were the naturalist Blumen- bach, and J. G. Eichhorn, a pioneer of the 'higher criticism.' For four months of eager studentship he worked with a will at German literature, laying the foundation, the ' low beginnings,' of his after- work as critic, theologian, and metaphysician. A journal which he wrote up as letters to his friends at home was published as ' Satyrane's Letters ' in The Friend {Hoy ember-December 1809) and in the Biographia Literaria (1817, vol.ii. pp. 183-253). 'A Tour through the Hartz Mountains,' &c., which he took in company with young Blumenbach and some English friends, was published in the New Monthly Magazine in 1835 (No. xlv., pp. 211-226). The descriptions of scenery and manners in these and other letters are laboured, but precise and vivid. He looked upon the world with a poet's eye, and proceeded to put down what he saw with the particu- larity of an auctioneer or a house-agent. In verse he had no need, and in prose no inclination, to learn the art ' to blot.' He returned to Stowey in July. In September he accompanied Southey, once more his friend, on a walking tour over Dartmoor ; and in November, under the guidance of Wordsworth, walked through the whole of the Lake District. During this memorable excursion Wordsworth re- vived old memories and Coleridge enjoyed a new experience. Henceforth the English lakes and mountains were married to immortal verse. At the close of the year Coleridge gave up the cottage at Stowey and moved to London. He had already contributed poems to the Morning Post, at that time the property of Daniel Stuart, whose brother- in-law, [Sir] James Mackintosh, was the friend and afterwards a connection of the Wedge woods ; but for two or three months (December 1799-March 1800) he was regularly employed as a writer of leaders, and, occasionally, as a parliamentary re- porter. These and other newspaper articles (of 1802, 1809, 1811, 1814, and 18 17), which not only served the purpose of the moment but have taken rank as literature, were reprinted as Essays, &c. (1850, vols, i.-iii. ; see, for an appreciation, H. D. Traill's Coleridge, 1884, pp. 79-86). After two months of successful journalism he bent himself to another task, the translation of the second and third parts of Schiller's Wallenstein. He seems to have turned a German poem into a great, some say a greater, English poem in about seven weeks (ist March-2ist April 1800). It was now a question where he should live, and for a while he halted, or seemed to halt, between south and north, the vicinity of Poole or the vicinity of Wordsworth ; but the north prevailed. On 24th July 1800 he brought his wife and Hartley to Greta Hall, a newly-built and partly-furnished house which stands on ' a small eminence a furlong from Keswick,' and for fifteen months he remained at home. At first, before and after the birth (14th September 1800) of his third son, Derwent, he passed his time wandering, note-book in hand, over the hills and exploring the remoter valleys, and in some genial moment wrote the second part of Christabel ; but, with the approach of winter, fell into a diseased condition of nerve and limb. He contrived to edit some articles of Poole's for the Morning Post, and he assisted the Words- worths in the transcription of poems for a second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, but attempted nothing original. It was in the winter of 1 800-1 that, in Charles Lamb's expressive phrase, the 'dark column turned,' and his promising and joyous youth passed into an unrejoicing and un- fruitful manhood. Two causes are assigned for this disastrous change — opium and an unhappy marriage ; but a third must be added — persistent ill-health which provoked, though it did not justify, Samuel Taylor Coleridge 59 both stimulants and narcotics. As to the opium, Coleridge knew something of its effects at Cam- bridge, perhaps had been dosed with it at Christ's Hospital ; but it was not till the Lake District climate brought on a complication of gouty and rheumatic ailments that he drugged himself habitually and to excess. Except for a long spell of total abstinence in 1832, he took laudanum to the last; but from April 18 16 and onwards the habit was regulated, and, by his own efforts, to a great extent overcome. Of his marriage a few words must be said. His wife was a good woman, honest, veracious, and dutiful, but passionate, nervous, and querulous. Intellectually she was quick-witted and clear-headed, and above the aver- age in knowledge and acquirements, but out of sympathy with her husband's imaginative tempera- ment and impatient of his theological subtleties ; she could neither share his dreams, nor laugh away his fears, nor ' make the cheerless cottage warm.' ' Home was no home for him,' and Wordsworth's cottage was both paradise and home. They 'stood apart,' and there was no love to lose between them or to find again 'with tears.' It cannot be said that there were faults on both sides — 'the faults' were Coleridge's — but none the less it was an unlucky as well as an unhappy marriage. Greta Hall witnessed many quarrels and many short- lived reconciliations ; but from the end of 1803, though still with occasional meetings and much correspondence, there was a virtual separation. In November 1801 Coleridge went up to London, resumed his connection with Stuart, and visited Poole at Stowey. On, perhaps because of, his return to Keswick he wrote Dejection, an Ode (4th April 1802), which has been called the swan- song of his Muse. In November-December he visited South Wales as the travelling companion of his ' munificent co-patron ' Tom Wedgwood ; and once again in his absence a child, his only daughter, Sara, was born to him (23rd December 1802). In the summer Longman published a third edition of his Poems, from which the poems by Lamb and Lloyd were omitted. On Sunday, 14th August 1803, he started with Wordsworth and Dorothy in a 'jaunting-car' on a tour through the Highlands. He found the car ill travelling, and, longing to get by himself, he left his friends at Arrochar, near Luss, 29th August, and proceeded on foot via Glencoe to Inverness, and back by Tummel Bridge and Perth to Edinburgh. He walked two hundred and sixty-three miles in eight days, hoping to cure himself of the gout, to lull the heartache, and to still the nerves. But the remedy increased the disease, and it was at Edinburgh when the walk was over that he wrote The Pains of Sleep. A letter from Southey announcing the death of his first-born, and offering a visit, recalled him to Keswick. As it fell out, Southey remained at Greta Hall, first as guest, then as co-tenant, and finally as the sole occupier till his death in 1843 ; while Coleridge, from 1804 to 18 10, was but an infrequent visitor, and after 18 12 slept not again under that or other roof-tree of his own. Habent sua fata — poeta / By the end of the year Coleridge had resolved to try the effect of a warmer climate, and with means provided by the painter-baronet Sir George Beaumont and Wordsworth, he sailed for Malta on 25th April 1804. On landing at Valetta on 1 8th May he was received as guest or boarder by Dr (afterwards Sir John) Stoddart and his sister Sarah (afterwards Mrs Hazlitt), but before long (6th July) was offered rooms in the palace of the Civil Commissioner, Sir Alexander Ball. Ball, who had been one of Nelson's captains, took a fancy to Coleridge, and perceiving that though he talked much he talked wisely, employed him as private secretary from the first, and, on the death of the 'Public Secretary of Malta and its Dependencies,' appointed him secretary ad interim (i8th January- 6th September 1805). At first the climate worked wonders, but in spite of a second change to Sicily (August-November 1804), the effect wore off, and sickness, dejection, and their fateful alleviators remained to stay. He proved a thorough man of affairs, and made his mark as secretary ; but out of reach of his friends and cut off from his philo- sophical pursuits he was a lost man, and felt that he had 'no business there.' To make money, to gain credit, to win applause, were as dust in the balance compared with the sympathy of the Words- worths or a possible revelation of the mysteries of being. He left Malta on 21st September, revisited Syra- cuse as the guest of his friend G. F. Leckie, H. M. Consul, and made a tour through Sicily, visiting Taormina (4th October) and other places of interest. He had reached Naples before 20th November, and thence, after a prolonged stay, arrived at Rome on nth January 1806, where he passed the spring in the society of Ludwig, Tieck, Humboldt, Bunsen, and the American painter Washington AUston. He told Gillman and others that Napoleon had given orders for the arrest of the Englishman who had attacked him in the columns of the Morning Post, and that he owed his escape to a warning conveyed to him by an emissary of the Pope. From whatever cause, he left Rome on 18th May, and, after visiting Florence and Pisa, sailed from Leghorn on or about 24th June. He wrote but little whilst he was abroad ; but later works betray an intimate acquaintance with Medi- terranean politics, a knowledge of Italian literature, and a speaking acquaintance with the ' Fine Arts.' (For Sir Alexander Ball, see The Friend, 22nd, 26th, and 27th November 1810 ; in the 1850 ed., vol. iii. pp. 215-286). He reached London on 17th August, but did not rejoin his family at Greta Hall till the middle of October. The winter and early spring (1806-7) were passed at a farmhouse at Coleorton with the Wordsworths, where he listened to the Prelude, which had been completed in his absence, and wrote those pathetic lines with the prosaic title {To a Gentleman), in 6o Samuel Taylor Coleridge which he bewails his 'sense of past youth and manhood come in vain.' The summer was passed at Stowey with his wife and children, and, after their return to Keswick, the late autumn at Bristol, where he formed the close attachment to his friends the Morgans, which in later years served him in such good stead when 'old friends burned dim' and the shadows deepened. In 1808 (January- June) he delivered his first course of ' Lectures on Shakespeare,' &c., at the Royal Institution. A few notes, which were taken down at the time (5th February) by H. C. Robinson {Diary, 1869, vol. i. pp. 267-268), and a resume of two later lectures {Notes and Lectures, &c., 1849, vol. i. pp. 323-334), constitute the sole record of his course. More than once he disappointed his patrons by missing a lecture, and on one noted occasion be incurred the censure of the Council by a personal attack on the educationist Joseph Lancaster, who was a persona grata to the royal family and the public at large (see The Jerningham Letters, 1896, vol. i. p. 316) ; but he attracted notice, and, on the whole, increased his reputation. His next venture revealed another side of his character. He had gi%en proof of capacity as a journalist, a diplomatist, a public lecturer, and, instead of following up either of these callings, nothing would serve him but to compile and publish at his own cost an abstruse periodical from which ' Personal and Party Politics and the Events of the Day' were deliberately excluded. It was 'a vain endeavour!' The Friend, which was written and despatched by post from Gras- mere, was printed first by W. Pennington of Kendal, and afterwards by J. Brown of Penrith. The first number appeared on ist June 1809, and the twenty- seventh and last on 15th March 1810. The public, even the literary Unitarian and Quaker public, would not buy ' Principles ' at a shilling a week. The original issue of The Friend via.s republished in 18 12, and in 1818 Coleridge expanded his weekly essays into three volumes. The Friend wants reading as it has always wanted readers, but it rewards the adventurous ! For a year and six months (18th September 1808 to April 1810) Coleridge hved with Wordsworth at Grasmere, but on the demise of The Friend he seems to have returned to what was still his residence, Greta Hall. Of this period there is no record, and when the curtain lifts once more he is posting to London with Wordsworth's old friend Basil Montagu, who had offered him rooms in his house. It seems that Wordsworth, acting for the best, had warned Montagu that Coleridge was a troublesome inmate, and that Montagu indiscreetly, if not ill-naturedly, repeated a confidential hint in the form of a message or ultimatum to Coleridge. There had been differ- ences in the past, and the return to Greta Hall points to an altered relationship ; but then for the first time Coleridge heard his sentence passed, and it broke his heart. The greater the truth, the greater the libel — most of all when it is spoken by one's ' own familiar friend.' The quarrel or aliena- tion was brought to an end in May 181 2 through the intervention of H. C. Robinson, but in the following December fresh offence was given and taken, and it was long before there was a lasting reconciliation. As Wordsworth had foreseen, Mon- tagu soon tired of his charge, and Coleridge took refuge with the Morgans, who, with brief intervals, shared their home with him for almost five years — at first at Hammersmith, then in Londofi, and finally at Calne in Wiltshire. During the summer months (April-November) of 18 11 he was on the staff of the Courier writing leading articles {Essays, &c., 1850, vol. iii. pp. 733-938), and discharging the duties of sub-editor ; and when this arrangement broke down or came to an end, he delivered his second course of lectures (November 1811-January 1812) on Shakespeare and Milton at the Scots' Corporation Hall in Fleet Street (for a reprint of Collier's shorthand notes, see Lectures, &c., edited by T. Ashe, 1883). The lectures were well attended. Byron, who ' came to scoff,' admits rather reluctantly that the lecturer ' is a sort of rage at present' In February-March 1812 Cole- ridge paid a brief and final visit to Greta Hall, and on his return rejoined the Morgans, who had moved to No. 71 Eerners Street. He delivered a third course of lectures on 'The Drama' at Wilhs's Rooms in May-June, and a fourth course on ' Belles Lettres ' at the Surrey Institute in October. In December he was engaged in attending re- hearsals of Remorse (a rewritten version of the once rejected Osorio), which, at Byron's instance, had been accepted by the committee of Drury Lane Theatre. For once his star seemed to be in the ascendant ; but before the year (1812) closed Josiah Wedgwood, without assigning any reason whatever, withdrew his moiety of the annuity of ^(^150 which had been offered and conferred 'for life.' Wedgwood was an honourable man, but the violation of a solemn pledge was, on the evidence before us, unjustifiable. Thenceforward Mrs Cole- ridge's regular income was less than ^70 a year, a sum which, in 1814 and possibly afterwards, was e.xpended on the education of her sons. At a later period she contributed a small annual payment towards the expenses of Southe/s household. Remorse was produced for the first time at Drury Lane Theatre on 23rd January 1813, and ran for twenty nights. On the whole the play was a success, and Coleridge received at least .^400 for his rights as author. The play was pubhshed in pamphlet form and went into a third edition. Like the fair breeze which drove the Ancient Mariner into a silent sea, this gust of fortune blew no good to Coleridge. He lingered in London through the spring and summer, and it was not till October that he started for Bristol, partly to make money by lecturing and partly to transact business for the Morgans. A course of six lectures on Shakespeare and Milton was delivered in October, a second course on the same subject in November, and, yet Samuel Taylor Coleridge 6i again, a third course, of four lectures, on Milton in April 1814, when he scandalised his old friend and brother-minister, Dr Estlin, by describing- the Satan of Paradise Lost as a ' sceptical Socinian.' But then and always, whether the room was full or half-empty, he ' gave satisfaction ' to the audience. It was not the matter (which was sometimes hard to follow) but the manner which revealed the native and inextinguishable genius of the orator. To speak of Shakespeare and Milton was to unlock his soul and to pour out a flood of eloquence as the 'spirit gave him utterance.' Eleven months (October 1813-September 1814) were spent at Bristol. For the greater part of this 'weary time' he was the guest of his old friend and correspon- dent, Josiah Wade, who placed him under the care of a Bristol physician, Dr Daniel, and provided him with an attendant. But under whatever conditions of restraint or freedom, his life was grievous. Then, if ever, he was 'wrecked in a mist of opium.' Early in the autumn he was back with the Morgans at Ashley, near Box, and in November followed them to Calne. Thenceforward there was a betterment, the result of a strenuous though unsuccessful attempt to break through the opium-habit. Six letters on the Irish question, 'To Mr Justice Fletcher,' were published in the Courier, Sep- tember-December 1814 {Essays, &c., 1830, vol. iii. pp. 677-733) ; and in 1815, though he published no books, delivered no lectures, and was silent in the Courier, he wrote and passed for the press the Biographia Literaria (18 17), revised and rewrote his poems — Sibylline Leaves (iZi"]) — and completed three acts of Zapolya (18 17). Over and above these measurable entities he laid the foundation of, or at least wrote fragmentary notes for, a magnum opus, to be entitled Logosophia — in Six Treatises. Despite these achievements Coleridge was sorely in need of funds, and, as it will, poverty stood between him and his printers and publishers. He must have been in dire straits when, in response to some complaint or revela- tion of his circumstances. Lord Byron sent him a hundred pounds. It was a fine and generous action, for the donor had no spare cash at his dis- posal, and was able and willing to help in other ways without putting his hand in his pocket. On the strength of this loan or gift, and armed with the MS. of Christabel, which Byron had already shown to Murray, and with the MS. of Zapolya for the managing committee of Drury Lane, he went up to town at the end of March 1816. When or where he forgathered with Byron, who was on the eve of his lifelong exile, is uncertain ; but an arrangement was come to with Murray for the publication of Christabel, and, more important still, Coleridge gained a haven and foothold for himself. On the recommendation of Dr Joseph Adams, the relative of an old Bristol friend, Mr Matthew Coates, he was received on 25th April as patient and boarder by Mr James Gillman, a Highgate surgeon, who was willing to undertake his case and could offer him 'retirement and a garden.' Here, 'or not far off,' he remained for the rest of his life. In April 1816 Coleridge was but half- way through his forty-fourth year, but with the first genial reception of Gillman his wanderings and his story come to an end. Highgate was 'a termination ' and a last retreat. To what extent Gillman helped Coleridge to ' give up laudanum ' is disputed and is insusceptible of proof, but he un- doubtedly inspired and encouraged him ' to scotch the snake.' Byron (who had stood his friend in 1816), under the impression that his kindness had been abused, reviled him in Don Juan (1819), but his odious personalities were no longer even ' part a truth,' and the calumny fell to the ground. Coleridge's frailties and shortcomings were ever before him, and at the last his plea was ' to be for- given for fame.' During the eighteen years of life which remained to him he was not only loved but honoured, not only admired but esteemed and revered. The ' dark column ' turned once more, and ' at evening there was light.' Christabel (with Kubla Khan, a Vision, and The Pains of Sleep) was published in June, and the Statesman's Manual (first lay sermon) in November i8l6. The Edin- burgh Review attacked and vilipended both poetry and prose. If the writer of these reviews was not, as Coleridge supposed, William Hazlitt, he was an accomplished plagiarist of the style and quality of Hazlitt's acknowledged compositions. Early in 181 7 a second Lay Sermon, and, later in the year, the long-delayed Biographia Literaria and Sibylline Leaves, made their appearance. In December Zapolya, which to Coleridge's chagrin had been rejected by the committee of Drury Lane Theatre, was published as a ' Christmas Tale.' In January 1818 an Essay on Method, which had been prepared some months before, was printed as an Introduction to the first volume of the Encyclopedia Metropolitana, and late in the spring the reconstituted Friend was published in three volumes. Neither poetry nor prose filled Coleridge's pockets, and both at the beginning and the end of 1818 he was under the 'necessity of appearing as a lecturer.' The first course of fourteen lectures on ' Shakespeare ' and ' Poetical Literature' was delivered at Flower-de-Luce Court in Fetter Lane, 27th January-26th March 1818 ; and two other courses, the first on the 'History of Philosophy,' the other on ' Shake- peare,' were delivered concurrently at the Crown and Archer Tavern in the Strand, 14th December l8i8-29th March 1819. With this double course lecturing came to an end, and for many years, so far as the public was concerned, both voice and pen were silent. Two misfortunes, differing in kind and in degree, befell him in successive years. In 1819 he suffered a considerable loss of money through the bankruptcy of his publisher, Rest Fenner ; and, in 1820, his son Hartley was deprived of his Oriel fellowship on the score of intemperance. ' Work without hope ' was not 62 Samuel Taylor Coleridge beyond Coleridge's power of will, but the busi- ness of authorship, always distasteful, became more and more intolerable. He shrank into himself, devoting his energies to the accumula- tion of materials for his magnum opus, and his leisure to the 'grounding, strengthening, and integration' of a class of young men, pupils or disciples, who attended his discourses and formed a kind of miniature ' school ' of philosophy. His sole publications during this period were a few contributions to Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — for example, ' Letters to Literary Cor- respondents,' in October 1 821, and 'The Historie and Gests of JIaxilian' {see Miscellanies, &c., 1885, pp. 261-285) i" January 1822. In 1824 he was elected a Royal Associate of the Royal Society of Literature, a distinction which conveyed an annual pension of one hundred guineas, and by way of doing service for this honorarium he read (l8th May 1825) at a meeting of the society a paper on ' The Prometheus of ^schylus' {ibid., pp. 55-83). In 1825 he published his Aids to Re/lection, a com- mentary in the form of aphorisms and selected passages from the writings of Archbishop Leighton. The Aids, which may be regarded as an eirenicon between faith and reason, and at one time served as a kind of manual of liberal orthodoxy, brought their compiler applause and recognition, and since his death have been frequently republished. In 1 828 he prepared for the press a collected edition of his poems, which was published in three volumes by William Pickering. A second edition, with emendations, was issued in 1829. In June-July 1828 Coleridge accompanied Wordsworth and his daughter Dora on a tour through Belgium and on the Rhine. His 'merry' rhymes on Koln and its ' two and seventy stenches ' are a proof that the boisterous high spirits of his youth were not gone for ever. His last work was a pamphlet on The Constitution of Church and State, which deals with the question of Catholic Emancipation, and seems to be rather than is a plea for inaction or reaction. For the last three years of his life Coleridge was with 'few and brief intervals confined to a sick-room;' but he was often to be seen, and he could almost always talk 'to the satisfaction' if sometimes to the bewilderment of his hearers. Once and again he went into company. Early in August 1832 he was present at the christening of his grandchild Edith, and drove to the church with his wife, who was living with her daughter and son-in-law at Hampstead. In June 1833 he attended a meeting of the British Association at Cambridge, and though he rose from his bed at Trinity College ' not a man but a bruise,' he seems to have taken all literature 'for his pro- vince ' in a series of monologues to his friends (see Conversations at Cambridge [by C. V. Le Grice], 1836, pp. 1-36). He suffered much towards the close of his life, but retained almost to the last his intellectual subtlety and his discursive eloquence. He died at The Grove, Highgate, 25th July 1834. JMany of Coleridge's best-known works were posthumous. The Table Talk, which was taken down almost verbatim from his lips by his son- in-law and nephew, H. N. Coleridge, was pub- lished (2 vols.) in 1835 ; Letters, Conversations., and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge, by T. AUsop (2 vols.), in 1836 ; Literary Remains (4 vols. 1836-39) ; Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit (1840); The Idea of Life (1848); Notes, Theo- logical a?td Political (1853) ; Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (2 vols. 1895) ; Anima Poetce — from his Unpublished Note-books (1895). The greater part of his Marginalia ; a work on Logic (2 vols. MS.) ; the preliminary chapters of his magnum opus j Notes on the Gospels &c. ; Diaries of Tours ; and a multitude of letters, frag- mentary papers, notes and memoranda remain unpublished. It is commonly held that Coleridge wrote a few- poems, half-a-dozen more or less, of supreme excel- lence, and that he did no more. It is true that Coleridge at his best is immeasurably greater than at his second best ; but, if we except \v\% juvenilia, he wrote little or nothing which may be passed over or rejected as worthless. His peculiar quahty as a poet lay in his power of visuahsing scenes of which neither he nor another had any actual experience. These ' fancies from afar ' did not flash upon him as memories of the past nor as strange and disordered dreams, but they assumed the realities and possibilities of a harmonious though supernatural world. The open vision was rare, and it was seldom that the intuition was clear or adequate. Again, he was a laborious and ac- complished metrist, and it was only by repeated experiments and intense mental effort that he could clothe these shapings of his imagination in a be- coming and appropriate garb. Hence it was that after he had passed his thirtieth year and his mind became preoccupied with mataphysical specula- tions and theological ideas, as Charles Lamb put it, 'he wrote no more Christabels and Ancient Mariners? But whenever he was minded to express his thoughts in verse, he was a poet at last as well as at first. It is enough to mention such poems as Youth and Age ; The Garden of Boccaccio J Love, Hope, and Patience in Education, which were written towards the close of his life. If in some half-dozen pieces Coleridge exceeds himself, in at least thirty or more of lesser excel- lence he displays imaginative and artistic qualities of the highest order. The Christmas Carol {iy<)()). Pains of Sleep (1803), and the undated ballad Alice du Clos may be instanced as great poems not reckoned in the first flight. It is, however, only as a lyrical poet that Coleridge belongs to the immortals. He could and did force his extra- ordinary talent into producing dramatic pieces which have been performed with success and still invite study, but his plots drag and his characters Samuel Taylor Coleridge 63 are neither attractive nor rememberable. Remorse, a Tragedy (1812), and Zapolya, a Christmas Tale, which was written in 1815, contain beauties, 'purple patches' suitable for quotation, but as dramas they are hfeless and uninteresting. On the other hand, his one translation, Schiller's Wallenstein, rivals if it does not surpass the original. As a humourist he attempted little, but that little was first-rate. The wit of The DeviPs Thoughts was Southey's wit, but the humour is Coleridge's ; and as ' good, simple, savage verse,' as Byron labelled his Dedication to Don Juan, Fire, Famine, and Slaughter and The Two Round Spaces neither require nor admit of an apology. Originally mere jeux d'esprit, doggerel verses in a newspaper, they have won their place in literature. Coleridge maintained that he owed his first inspiration as a poet to Bowles's sonnets and the ' Lewesdon Hill of Mr Crowe.' His first turn for versification was, perhaps, more immediately due to an intimate knowledge of the odes of Gray and CoHins, and his first inclination towards sentiment and the poetiy of the affections to Bowles and Cowper, and to Macpherson's Ossian. The Roman- tic School was already a power in Germany, and was touching the younger generation in England through translations or the works of such imitators as Horace Walpole, Mrs Radcliffe, ' Monk' Lewis, and William Taylor previous to the inception or publication of the Lyrical Ballads j and it is certain that before he went to Germany, in September 1798, Coleridge had read Voss's Luise in the original and was familiar with translations of Schiller's Robbers and the Ghostseer. But however responsive he may have been to 'voices in the air,' he owed the awakening and the consummation of his genius to the example and companion- ship of Wordsworth and of Wordsworth's sister Dorothy. We have only to compare his Ode to the Departing Year (December 1796) with the great Stowey poems, beginning with This Lime- tree Bower my Prison (May 1797), to understand in what degree and in what sense Wordsworth was 'the master-light of all his seeing' ! There is, in- deed, little or no resemblance between Coleridge's great poems and Wordsworth's great poems. The magic and the melody of Coleridge's verse are all his own, and the spirit and direction of his poetry are other and different from the spirit and direction of Wordsworth's. As a poet Coleridge 'taught us little,' and as a poet Wordsworth was essentially a teacher, but it was Wordsworth who helped Coleridge to find himself, and, as Dykes Campbell has finely expressed it, ' put a new song in his mouth.' But art for art's sake did not satisfy Coleridge. The desire of his soul was to teach and to preach, and in order to deliver his message he expended — some would say scattered — his intellectual activities in various directions. He was a journalist, a critic, a lecturer, a philosopher, and a divine. He re- garded it as his mission to found a new school. or at any rate to elaborate a new system, of philosophy, and at the same time to propound an eirenicon between faith and reason. It is held by those most competent to judge that as a phil- osopher he interpreted and carried on the specula- tions of others — of Kant and Maass, of Fichte and Schelling — but failed to formulate or work out a system of his own. Of the vast preparations which he made for a work to comprehend all knowledge and all philosophy, a portion sufiicient to form an introductory volume was dictated to his disciple and amanuensis, Joseph Henry Green, and remains unpubhshed. His influence on the religious thought and opinion of his own age and of the last sixty years is of a less question- able nature. The Aids to Reflection (1825) and the posthumous Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit (1840) have been largely instrumental in deepening and widening religious thought within and without the pale of the Churches. Their direct and immediate influence belongs to the past, but the leaven is still at work. Finally, in his critical notes on Shakespeare's plays, originally delivered as lectures, and in his masterly disserta- tion on the 'Tenets peculiar to Mr Wordsworth' which concludes the Biographia Literaria, he speaks not as the inspirer of others, but as a potent if not a final authority. A word which he borrowed from the Greek and applied to Shake- speare describes him best. He was 'myriad- minded.' From 'The Ancient Mariner.' ' The Sun now rose upon the right : Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird clid follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo ! And I had done a hellish thing, Arid it would work 'em woe : For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! 64 Samuel Taylor Coleridge All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, every where. Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so : Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye. When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck. And then it seemed a mist ; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking alL See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel ! The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well-nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered. With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres ! Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate ? And is that Woman all her crew ? Is that a Death ? and are there two ? Is Death that Woman's mate ? Her lips were red, her looks were free. Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice ; " The game is done ! I 've won ! I 've won ! " Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night. The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh. Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly, — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 65 Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been She stole along, she nothing spoke. Alone on a wide wide sea : The sighs she heaved were soft and low, So lonely 'twas, that God himself And naught was green upon the oak. Scarce seemed there to be. But moss and rarest misletoe : sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, She kneels beneath the huge oak tree. And in silence prayeth she. To walk together to the kirk The lady sprang up suddenly. With a goodly company ! — The lovely lady, Christabel ! To walk together to the kirk, It moaned as near, as near can be, And all together pray, But what it is, she cannot tell. — While each to his great Father bends, On the other side it seems to be. Old men, and babes, and loving friends, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. And youths and maidens gay ! The night is chill ; the forest bare ; Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! There is not wind enough in the air He prayeth well, who loveth well To move away the ringlet curl Both man and bird and beast. From the lovely lady's cheek — There is not wind enough to twirl He prayeth best, who loveth best The one red leaf, the last of its clan, All things both great and small ; That dances as often as dance it can. For the dear God who loveth us. He made and loveth all.' Hanging so light, and hanging so high. On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. The Mariner, whose eye is bright. Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! Whose beard with age is hoar, Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! She folded her arms beneath her cloak. Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. And stole to the other side of the oak. He went like one that hath been stunned. What sees she there? And is of sense forlorn : There she sees a damsel bright. A sadder and a wiser man. Drest in a silken robe of white, He rose the morrow morn. (1797-98.) That shadowy in the moonlight shone : The neck that made that white robe wan, From ' Christabel.' Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were ; And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ! And wildly glittered here and there Tu — whit ! Tu — whoo ! The gems entangled in her hair. And hark, again ! the crowing cock. I guess, 'twas frightful there to see How drowsily it crew. A lady so richly clad as she — Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. Beautiful exceedingly ! . . . Hath a toothless mastiff, which They crossed the moat, and Christabel From her kennel beneath the rock Took the key that fitted well ; Maketh answer to the clock. A little door she opened straight, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; All in the middle of the gate ; Ever and aye, by shine and shower. The gate that was ironed within and without, Sixteen short howls, not over loud : Where an army in battle-array had marched out Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. The lady sank, belike through pain. And Christabel with might and main Is the night chilly and dark ? Lifted her up, a weary weight. The night is chilly, but not dark. Over the threshold of the gate : The thin gray cloud is spread on high. Then the lady rose again, It covers but not hides the sky. And moved, as she were not in pain. The moon is behind, and at the full ; And yet she looks both small and dull. So free from danger, free from fear. The night is chill, the cloud is gray : They crossed the court : right glad they were. ■"Tis a month before the month of May, And Christabel devoutly cried And the Spring comes slowly up this way. To the lady by her side. Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well. Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, What makes her in the wood so late. I cannot speak for weariness. A furlong from the castle gate ? So free from danger, free from fear. She had dreams all yesternight They crossed the court : right glad they were. . . . Of her own betrothed knight ; And she in the midnight wood will pray They passed the hall, that echoes still. For the weal of her lover that 's far away. Pass as lightly as you will ! 109 66 Samuel Taylor Coleridge The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying ; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; And Christabel saw the lady's eye. And nothing else saw she thereby. Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall. Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. O softly tread, said Christabel, My father seldom sleepeth well. Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And jealous of the listening air They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron's room. As still as death with stifled breath ! And now have reached her chamber door ; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor. The moon shines dim in the open air. And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain. For a lady's chamber meet : The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet. The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro. While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below. (Part I., 1798.) The Nightingale. No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim. Vet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, ' Most musical, most melancholy ' bird ! A melanclioly bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! In Nature there is nothing melancholy. . . . My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt A different lore : we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music ! And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits, not ; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood. And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales ; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's songs, With skirmish and capricious passagings. And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. And one low piping sound more sweet than all — Stirring the air with such a harmony. That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes. Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the twigs. Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full. Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch. . . . Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes. ('A Conversation Poem,' April 1798.) Frost at Midnight. Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. And think that thou shalt learn far other lore And in far other scenes ! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. (To Hartley Coleridge, 1798.) From 'Dejection: an Ode.' My genial spirits fail ; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. O Lady ! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live : Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge 67 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth— And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be ! What, and wherein it doth exist. This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. This beautiful and beauty-malcing power. Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — We in ourselves rejoice ! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : For hope grew round me, lil first Principal of St Mark's College, Chelsea) in 185 1 (2 vols.). Essays and Marginalia (2 vols.) were also published in 185 1. His poetry is never without a certain tender grace, but it is in the sonnet that he reached eminence. The following is one of two famous sonnets on ' Prayer ' : There is an awful quiet in the air, And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye, Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, Like Patience slow subsiding to Despair. But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless prayer, Sole witness of a secret sacrifice, Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare Capacious ether, — so it fades away. And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue. The undistinguishable waste of day. So have I dream 'd ! — Oh, may the dream be true ! — That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray. Sara Coleridge (1802-52), sister of the pre- ceding, was brought up in Southey's house. In 1822 she translated Dobrizhofifer's Latin Account of the Abipones, and in 1825 the 'Loyal Servant's' Chevalier Bayard. She married her cousin, Henry Nelson Coleridge (1829). Her original works were Pretty Lessons for Good Children (1834) and Phan- tasmion, a fairy-tale (1837) ; but her intellectual powers are best shown in her essay on Rationalism appended to her father's Aids to Reflection in 1843, and her ' Introduction ' to the Biographia Literaria (1847). Her Memoirs and Letters were published by her daughter in 1873. Cbarles Lamb was born on the loth of February 1775, in Crown Office Row, in the Temple, London, where his father was clerk and confidential servant to Samuel Salt, a wealthy bencher of the Inner Temple. To John Lamb and his wife there were born in the Temple seven children, of whom three only survived their early childhood — Charles, his sister Mary, ten years older than himself, and a yet older brother, John. Charles received his first schooling at a humble academy out of Fetter Lane, but at seven years of age he obtained through his father's patron a presentation to Christ's Hospital, where he remained for the next seven years. His school experiences and the friendships he formed, notably that with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, three years his senior, are familiar to all readers of the Essays of Elia. At the age of fourteen he left school with a fair amount of scholarship and an intensified love of reading. He might have stayed and become a ' Grecian,' and so proceeded to the university. But the exhibitions were given on the understand- ing that the holder was to take holy orders, and Lamb's unsurmountable stammer barred him from that profession. Lamb left Christ's Hospital in November 1789. At that time his brother John held a post in the South Sea House, of which Salt was a deputy- governor, and Charles was soon presented through the kind offices of this friend to a humble situation in the same company ; but early in 1792 he obtained promotion in the shape of a clerkship in the ac- countant's office of the India House, where he remained for more than thirty years. In this same year Salt died. The occupation of his old clerk and servant was at an end ; and with his legacies from his employer, Charles's salary, and whatever Mary Lamb could earn by needlework, in which she was proficient, the family of four (for the brother John was living a comfortable bachelor life elsewhere) retired to humble lodgings. In 1796 we find them in Little Queen Street, Hol- born, and it was there that the terrible disaster occurred, destined to mould the career and char- acter of Charles Lamb for the whole of his future life. There was a strain of inherited insanity in the children. The father, who had married late in life, was growing old and childish ; the mother was an invalid, and the stress and anxiety of the many duties devolving on Mary Lamb began to tell upon her reason. In an attack of mania, induced by a slight altercation with a little apprentice girl at work in the room, Mary Lamb snatched up a knife from the dinner-table, and stabbed her mother, who had interposed in the girl's behalf Charles was himself present, and wrested the knife from his sister's hand ; and with him the whole direction of affairs for the sister's future remained. After the inquest Mary would in the natural course have been transferred Charles Lamb 73 for life to a public asylum ; but, by the intervention of friends, the brother's guardianship was accepted by the authorities as an alternative. To carry out this trust Charles Lamb from that moment devoted his life, sacrificing to it all other ties and ambitions, and never flagging in duty and tenderness for thirty-eight years. Charles removed vi'ith his old father to Pentonvill'e, vifhere at successive lodgings they remained until the father's death. Mary Lamb remained subject to attacks of temporary aberration for the rest of her life, the attacks being usually foreseen ; and at such seasons she was removed to some suitable asylum. The length and frequency of these periods of absence increased, until the closing years of her brother's life, when she was exiled from him during the greater part of each year. In the meantime Charles Lamb had fallen in love, but renounced all hope of marriage when the duty of tending his otherwise homeless sister had appeared to him paramount. The history of his brief attachment, to which there is frequent pathetic allusion in his writings, is obscure. Anne Simmons, who appears in his earliest sonnets as Anna, and in his essays as AUce W., lived with her mother in the village of Widford in Hertfordshire — the scene of Lamb's early romance of Rosamund Gray j and Lamb made her acquaintance during his frequent Visits to his grandmother, Mrs Field, housekeeper at Blakesware (immortalised in one of the loveliest of his essays as 'Blakesmoor, in Hertfordshire'). Anne, who afterwards married Mr Bartram, a London silversmith, is referred to under that name in the essay ' Dream-Children.' Lamb's earliest poems, written in 1795, were prompted by this deep attachment. Two sonnets on this theme, with two others on different topics, were included in S. T. Coleridge's earliest volume of poems, issued at Bristol in 1796. Next year a second edition of Coleridge's poems appeared, ' to which are now added poems by Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd ; ' Lloyd being a young man of kindred poetic tastes, whose acquaintance Lamb had made through Coleridge. Here, as before, the poetic influence under which Lamb wrote was the same that had so strangely moved Coleridge while still at Christ's Hospital — the graceful and pensive sonnets of W. L. Bowles. In the following year Lamb and Lloyd made a second venture in a slight volume of their own {Blank Verse, by Charles Lloyd and Charles Lamb, 1 798) ; and here for the first time Lamb's individuality made itself felt in the touching and now famous verses on the 'Old Familiar Faces' — like so many of his memorable utterances in prose and verse, full of autobiographical allusion, and yet gaining rather than losing in permanence of charm through the circumstance. It was, however, in prose, not in verse, that he was to find his true strength. In the same year as Blank Verse he published his little prose romance. The Tale of Rosamwid Gray and Old Blind Margaret; and four years later his John Woodvil — the fruit of that study of the dramatic poetry of the Elizabethan period, in the revived study of which he was to bear so large a part. Lamb had little or no dramatic faculty. The play was crude and valueless as a drama, but with detached passages reflecting much of the music and quaintness of Fletcher and Jonson. Meantime Lamb and his sister were wandering from lodging to lodging, too often forced to leave through the rumour of Mary Lamb's malady which followed them wherever they went. They had lived at more than one house in Pentonville — they were in Southampton Buildings in i8oo and 1801 — and then removed to Lamb's old familiar neighbour- hood, where they continued for sixteen years. The CHARLES LAMB. From the Drawing (1798) by R. Hancock in the National Portrait Gallery. early years of their residence in the Temple were among the hardest and saddest of their lives. They were very poor; Charles's experiments in literature had as yet brought him neither money nor repu- tation ; and the gradual Recession of new friends that might have brightened their path had the drawback of bringing Charles face to face with social temptations which he could not resist. A very moderate indulgence in wine or spirits seems to have speedily affected him, and his shyness and his impediment of speech made him eagerly resort to what for the moment made him forget both. 'We are very poor,' writes Mary Lamb in 1804 ; and again in 1805, ' It has been sad and heavy times with us lately.' In Lamb's anxiety to raise a few pounds, rather than from any confidence in his dramatic faculty, he began to write a farce, which the proprietors of Drury Lane accepted, and produced in December 1806. 74 Charles Lamb It was the now famous farce Mr H. — famous, however, not for its success, but for its failure. His love for things dramatic soon found a more profitable outlet in a commission from William Godwin to contribute to his 'Juvenile Library,' then in course of publication. For this series Charles and Mary wrote in 1807 their well- known Tales from Shakespeare — Mary Lamb making the version of the comedies, Charles that of the tragedies. This was Lamb's first success. It brought him si.xty guineas, and, what was more valuable, hope for the future, and the increased confidence and recognition of his growing circle of friends. As one consequence of the success, the brother and sister composed jointly two other children's books — Mrs Leicester's School (1807) and the Poetry for Children (1809). Charles also told for children the story of the Odyssey, under the title of The Adventures of Ulysses. Another more important consequence was a commission from the Longmans to edit a volume of selections from the Elizabethan dramatists. The volume at once exhibited Lamb, to those who had eyes to see, as one of the most profound, subtle, and original of English poetical critics. Three years later a conviction of the same fact would be deepened in those who knew that the unsigned articles in Leigh Hunt's Reflector, on Hogarth and the tragedies of Shakespeare, were from the same hand, and that a prose writer of new and unique quality was showing above the dull level of the conventional essayist. In 1817 Lamb and his sister left the Temple for rooms in Great Russell Street, Covent Garden. Next year an enterprising young publisher induced him to collect his scattered verse and prose in two neat volumes, as the Works of Charles Lamb, and this publication naturally paved the way for his being invited to join the staff of the London Magazine, then newly started. Lamb was re- quired to contribute light prose essays, and was wisely allowed a free hand. His first essay ap- peared in August 1820, 'Recollections of the old South Sea House,' the public office in which his first small salary was earned, and where his elder brother had remained a high-placed and prosperous clerk. Lamb signed his first paper Elia, borrowing for a joke the name of a foreigner who had been fellow-clerk with him in the office. The signature was continued through Lamb's successive con- tributions to the magazine ; and as he placed it on the title-page (without his own) of the first collected edition of the essays in 1823, it became indissolubly connected with the work. The series came to an end, as far as the London Magazine was concerned, in 1825. The Last Essays of Elia were collected in a second volume in 1833. In .\ugust 1823 Charles and Mary quitted their rooms over the brazier's in Russell Street, and made their first experiment as householders in a cottage in Colebrooke Row, Islington, with the New River (into which George Dyer walked in broad daylight) flowing within a few feet of their front door. Moreover, they were now on the eve of making a pleasant addition to their household in the form of a young friend, the orphan daughter of an Italian teacher of languages at Cambridge. Charles and Mary Lamb virtually adopted Emma Isola, and she was treated as a member of their family until her marriage with Edward Moxon the publisher, in 1833. Early in 1825 Lamb, who had been for some time failing in health, was allowed to resign his post in the India House, the directors liberally granting him as pension two-thirds of his then salary. Having now no tie to any particular neighbourhood, the brother and sister were free to wander. They took lodgings — and subsequently a house — at Enfield ; but Mary Lamb's health becoming gradually worse and requiring constant supervision, they parted with their furniture and gave up housekeeping. They finally removed to the neighbouring village of Edmonton, where, in a small cottage hard by the church, they spent their last year together. It was a melancholy year. Lamb's own health was suffering. They had lost their young friend Emma Isola. The ab- sence of settled occupation had not brought Lamb all the comfort he had looked for : the separation from his London friends, and now the almost con- tinuous mental alienation of his sister, left him companionless, and with the death of Coleridge in the summer of 1834 the chief attractions of his life were gone. In December of the same year, while taking one day his usual walk on the London Road, he stumbled and fell, shghtly in- juring his face. The wound was in itself trifling, but erysipelas ensued, under which he rapidly sank, and he passed quietly away, without pain, on the 29th of December. He was buried in Edmonton churchyard. His sister survived him nearly thirteen years, and was buried by his side in May 1847. Lamb's place in literature is unique and unchal- lengeable. As a personality he is more intimately known to us than any other figure in literature, unless it be Samuel Johnson. He is familiar to us through his works, which throughout are composed in the form of personal confidences ; through his many friends who have loved to make known his every mood and trait ; and through his letters, the most fascinating body of correspondence in our language. It is a dangerous thing to say, but it may be doubted whether, outside a necessarily limited circle, his works are read so much for their own sakes as for the light they throw upon the character of their author. It is the harmonious concord of dissonances in Lamb that is the secret of his attraction. The profound and imaginative character of his criticism, which at its best is unerring, and with it the reckless humour of the Bohemian and the fari;eur; the presence of one lamentable weakness serving to throw into stronger relief the patient strength of his life-struggle ; his Charles Lamb 75 loyalty and generosity to his friends, even when they abused it most ; and all this flowing from one of the most beautiful acts of devotion in the records of self-sacrifice : the wild fun of Trinculo and Stephano, alternating with the tenderness of Miranda and Ferdinand, or the profound philo- sophic musings of Prospero — and all these, like Ariel, now ' flaming distinctly,' now ' meeting and joining' — it is this wondrous blending of oppo- sites that has made Lamb, save to the ' sour- complexioned ' and matter-of-fact, one of the most dearly loved among English men of letters, and with every sign that this love is one which no changes of taste are likely to diminish. To Hester. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead. Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush 'd her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride. It was a joy to that allied. She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule. Which doth the human feeling cool. But she was train'd in Nature's school. Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore. Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning ? The Old Familiar Paces. I have had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days — AH, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing. Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Ijke an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Sonnet on ' Innocence.' We were two pretty babes, the youngest she. The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween. And Innocence her name. The time has been. We two did love each other's company ; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when by show of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child. And my first love for man's society. Defiling with the world my virgin heart — My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art — In what delicious Eden to be found — That I may seek thee the wide world around ? Lines ' in my own Album.' Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light. Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright. A spotless leaf ; but thought and care. And friend and foe, in foul or fair. Have ' written strange defeatures ' there ; And Time with heaviest hand of all, • Like that fierce writing on the wall. Hath stamp'd sad dates, he can't recall ; And error, gilding worst designs — Like speckled snake that strays and shines — Betrays his path by crooked lines ; And vice hath left his ugly blot ; And good resolves, a moment hot. Fairly began — but finish 'd not ; And fruitless, late remorse doth trace — Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace — Her irrecoverable race. Disjointed numbers, sense unknit. Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit. Compose the mingled mass of it. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look — Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. On an Infant Dying as soon as Born. I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work. A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; Extinct with scarce the sense of dying : So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb ! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 76 Charles Lamb For the long dark : ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below ? Shall we say that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault ? Could she flag, or could she tire. Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken 'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health, and days mature : Woman's self in miniature ! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate desciy. That babe, or mother, one must die ; So in mercy left the stock. And cut the branch ; to save the shock Of young years widow'd ; and the pain. When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? The economy of Heaven is dark ; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why human Buds, like this, should fall. More brief than fly ephemeral. That has his day ; while shrivel'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss. Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells and baby clothes ; Coral, redder than those lips Which pale death did late eclipse ; Music framed for infants' glee. Whistle never tuned for thee ; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing ; nurse. See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave ; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity ? Dream-Cliildren : a Reverie. Children love to listen to stories about their elders when they were children ; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene — so at lea^it it was generally believed in that part of the country — of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the ' Children in the Wood.' Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county ; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them irp in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, 'That would be foolish indeed.' And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman ; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart — ay, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was ; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer — here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary move- ment, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain ; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house ; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said ' those innocents would do her no harm ; ' and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she — and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her grand -children, having us to the great-house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve Cossars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them ; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, flutter- ing tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out— sometimes in the spacious old- fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me — and how the nectarines and peaches hung Charles Lamb 77 upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, , because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then, — and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at — or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me — or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful-warmth — or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings, — I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such- like common baits of children. Here John slyly de- posited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grand- mother Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L , because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us ; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out — and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries — and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially ; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame- footed boy — for he was a good bit older than me — many a mile when I could not walk for pain ; — and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame- footed ; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death ; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me ; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy with- out him as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, some- times in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W — n ; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens — when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was ; and while I stood gazing, both the children gi-adually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech : ' We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing ; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name ' and immediately awak- ing, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm- chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side — but John L. (or James Elia) was gone for ever. (p^„„ ^„^^^ of Elia.) 'Mackery End.' Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper for many a long year. I have obligations to Bridget, extending beyond the period of memory. We house together, old bachelor and maid, in a sort of double singleness ; with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that I, for one, find in myself no sort of disposition to go out upon the mountains, with the rash king's offspring, to bewail my celibacy. We agree pretty well in our tastes and habits — yet so as ' with a difference. ' We are generally in harmony, with occasional bickerings — as it should be among near relations. Our sympathies are rather under- stood than expressed ; and once, upon my dissembling a tone in my voice more kind than ordinary, my cousin burst into tears, and complained that I was altered. We are both great readers in different directions. While I am hanging over (for the thousandth time) some passage in old Burton, or one of his strange contemporaries, she is abstracted in some modern tale, or adventure, whereof our common reading-table is daily fed with assiduously fresh supplies. Narrative teases me. I have little con- cern in the progress of events. She must have a story — well, ill, or indifferently told — so there be life stirring in it, and plenty of good or evil accidents. The fluctuations of fortune in fiction — and almost in real life — have ceased to interest, or operate but dully upon me. Out-of-the- way humours and opinions — heads with some diverting twist in them — the oddities of authorship please me most. My cousin has a native disrelish of anything that sounds odd or bizarre. Nothing goes down with her that is quaint, irregular, or out of the road of common sympathy. She 'holds Nature more clever.' I can pardon her bhndness to the beautiful obliquities of the Religio Medici ; but she must apologise to me for certain disrespectful insinuations, which she has been pleased to throw out latterly, touching the intellectuals of a dear favourite of mine, of the last century but one — the thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, but again somewhat fantas- tical and original-brain'd, generous Margaret Newcastle. It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener perhaps than I could have wished, to have had for her associates and mine free-thinkers — leaders, and disciples, of novel philosophies and systems ; but she neither wrangles with nor accepts their opinions. That which was good and venerable to her when a child, retains its authority over her mind still. She never juggles or plays tricks with her understanding. 78 Charles Lamb We are both of us inclined to be a little too positive ; and I have observed the result of our disputes to be almost uniformly this— that in matters of fact, dates, and circumstances, it turns out that I was in the right, and my cousin in the wrong. But where we have differed upon moral points — upon something proper to be done or let alone — whatever heat of opposition or steadiness of conviction I set out with, I am sure always in the long-run to be brought over to her way of thinking. I must touch upon the foibles of my kinswoman with a gentle hand, for Bridget does not like to be told of her faults. She hath an awkward trick (to say no worse of it) of reading in company : at which times she will answer _)/« or no to a question without fully understand- ing its purport — which is provoking, and derogatory in the highest degree to the dignity of the putter of the said question. Her presence of mind is equal to the most pressing trials of life, but will sometimes desert her upon trifling occasions. When the purpose requires it, and is a thing of moment, she can speak to it greatly ; but in matters which are not stuff of the conscience, she hath been known sometimes to let slip a word less seasonably. Her education in youth was not much attended to ; and she happily missed all that train of female garniture which passeth by the name of accomplishments. She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet of good old English reading, without much selec- tion or prohibition, and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I twenty girls, they should be brought up exactly in this fashion. I know not whether their chance in wedlock might not be diminished by it ; but I can answer for it that it makes (if the worst come to the worst) most incomparable old maids. In a season of distress she is the truest comforter ; but in the teasing accidents and minor perplexities, which do not call out the will to meet them, she sometimes maketh matters worse by an excess of participation. If she does not always divide your trouble, upon the pleasanter occasions of life she is sure always to treble your satisfaction. She is excellent to be at a play with, or upon a visit ; but best when she goes a journey with you. We made an excursion together a few summers since, into Hertfordshire, to beat up the quarters of some of our less-known relations in that fine corn country. The oldest thing I remember is Mackery End ; or Mackarel End, as it is spelt, perhaps more properly, in some old maps of Hertfordshire ; a farm-house, delight- fully situated within a gentle walk from Wheathampstead. I can just remember having been there, on a visit to a great-aunt, when I was a child, under the care of Bridget, who, as I have said, is older than myself by some ten years. I wish that I could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences ; that we might share them in equal division. But that is impossible. The house was at that time in the occupation of a substantial yeoman, who had married my grandmother's sister. His name was Gladman. My grandmother was a Bruton, married to a Field. The Gladmans and the Brutons are still flourishing in that part of the county, but the Fields are almost extinct. More than forty years had elapsed since the visit I speak of; and, for the greater portion of that period, we had lost sight of the other two branches also. Who or what sort of persons inherited Mackery End — kindred or strange folk — we were afraid almost to conjecture, but determined some day to explore. By somewhat a circuitous route, taking the noble park at Luton in our way from Saint Albans, we arrived at the spot of our anxious curiosity about noon. The sight of the old farm-house, though every trace of it was effaced from my recollection, affected me with a pleasure which I had not experienced for many a year. For though 1 had forgotten it, we had never forgotten being there together, and we had been talking about Mackery End all our lives, till memory on my part became mocked with a phantom of itself, and I thought I knew the aspect of a place, which, when present, O how unlike it was to that which I had conjured up so many times instead of it ! Still, the air breathed balmily about it ; the season was in the ' heart of June, ' and I could say with the poet, ' But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination. Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation ! ' Bridget's was more a waking bliss than mine, for she easily remembered her old acquaintance again — some altered features, of course, a little grudged at. At first, indeed, she was ready to disbelieve for joy ; but the scene soon reconfirmed itself in her affections, and she traversed every outpost of the old mansion, to the wood- house, the orchard, the place where the pigeon-house had stood (house and birds were alike flown), with a breathless impatience of recognition, which was more pardonable perhaps than decorous at the age of fifty odd. But Bridget in some things is behind her years. The only thing left was to get into the house — and that was a difficulty w^hich to me singly would have been insurmountable ; for I am terribly shy in making myself known to strangers and out-of-date kinsfolk. Love, stronger than scruple, winged my cousin in without me ; but she soon returned with a creature that might have sat to a sculptor for the image of Welcome. It was the youngest of the Gladmans, who, by marriage with a Bruton, had become mistress of the old mansion. A comely brood are the Brutons. Six of them, females, were noted as the handsomest young women in the county. But this adopted Bruton, in my mind, was better than they all — more comely. She was born too late to have remembered me. She just recollected in early life to have had her cousin Bridget once pointed out to her, climbing a stile. But the name of kindred, and of cousinship, was enough. Those slender ties, that prove slight as gossamer in the rending atmosphere of a metropolis, bind faster, as we found it, in hearty, homely, loving Hertfordshire. In five minutes we were as thoroughly acquainted as if we had been bom and bred up together ; were familiar, even to the calling each other by our Christian names. So Christians should call one another. To have seen Bridget, and her — it was like the meeting of the two scriptural cousins ! There was a grace and dignity, an amplitude of form and stature, answering to her mind, in this farmer's wife, which would have shined in a palace — or so we thought it. We were made welcome by husband and wife equally — we, and our friend that was with us. — I had almost forgotten him — but B. F. will not so soon forget that meeting, if peradventure he shall read this on the far- Charles Lamb 79 distant shores where the kangaroo haunts. The fatted calf was made ready, or rather was already so, as if in anticipation of our coming ; and, after an appropriate glass of native wine, never let me forget with what honest pride this hospitable cousin made us proceed to Wheathampstead, to introduce us (as some new-found rarity) to her mother and sister Gladmans, who did indeed know something more of us, at a time when she almost knew nothing. — With what corresponding kind- ness we were received by them also — how Bridget's memory, exalted by the occasion, warmed into a thou- sand half-obliterated recollections of things and persons, to my utter astonishment and her own ; and to the astoundment of B. F., who sat by, almost the only thing that was not a cousin there, — old effaced images of more than half-forgotten names and circumstances still crowd- ing back upon her, as words written in lemon come out upon exposure to a friendly warmth — when I forget all this, then may my country cousins forget me ; and Bridget no more remember that in the days of weakling infancy I was her tender charge — as I have been her care in foolish manhood since — in those pretty pastoral walks, long ago, about Mackery End, in Hertfordshire. (From Essays of Ella.') Lear. So to see Lear acted, — to see an old man tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a, rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. We want to take him into shelter and relieve him. That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear : they might more easily propose to per- sonate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual : the explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano : they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on ; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage ; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear, — we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters and storms ; in the aberrations of his reason we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when, in his reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them that ' they themselves are old ' ? What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things ? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show : it is too hard and stony ; it must have love-scenes, and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan for Garrick and his followers, the showmen of the scene, to draw the mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending! — as if the living martyrdom that Lear had gone through, the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and preparation, — why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused station, — as if at his years, and with his experience, any- thing was left but to die ! (From the Essay ' On the Tragedies of Shakspeare.') Our chief authorities for Lamb are his own writings, and the Life and Letters and Flnnl Memorials, by Mr Justice 'i'alfourd. Later editions of these worlds have appeared, enlarged by Percy Fitzgerald and W. C. Hazlitt. There is a quite separate Memoir of Lamb, of considerable interest, by B. W. Procter (' Barry Cornwall '). Another Memoir, and a complete edition of Lamb's works and correspondence, by the writer of the present article, were published by Messrs Macmillan (6 vols. 1883-88). A new and enlarged edition of Lamb's letters by the same editor was in pre- paration in 1903. Lamb's Essays are the best commentary on his life; his father is the Lovel of the essay on the 'Old Benchers of the Middle Temple ;' see also E. V. Lucas's Latnb and tlie Lloyds (1898). The present article has been revised and reprinted from that originally written for Chambers's Encyclopcedla (new edition, vol. vi., i8qo). ALFRED AINGER. William Hazlitt, born at Maidstone on loth April 1778, came of a family of Hazlitts who had settled in County- Antrim at the Revolution. Shortly after Hazlitt's birth his father, who was a Unitarian minister^ removed to Bandon near Cork, and in 1783 emi- grated to America ; but he returned with his family a few years later and settled in 1787 at Wem in Shropshire. At his father's desire Hazlitt studied in 1793 at the Unitarian College at Hackney, but even then his tastes lay rather in philosophy and politics. It was not till his meeting with Cole- ridge in 1798, which he lias himself described in the essay ' My First Acquaintance with Poets,'' that his interest in literature was fully awakened ; though in this matter he has also recorded his debt to the friendship of Joseph Fawcett (see his essay ' On Criticism '). Following the example of his brother John, he first chose for himself the profes- sion of artist, and in October 1802 went to Paris,, where for four months he worked at the Louvre (see his essay 'On the Pleasure of Painting'). On his return he set up as a portrait-painter, and numbered Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Lamb among his sitters ; but he could never satisfy him- self, though judges such as Northcote believed in his ability. His first publication, An Essay on the Principles of Human Action, appeared in 1805^ and was followed in 1806 by Free Thoughts on Public Affairs, or Advice to a Patriot; in 1807 by An Abridg7nent of the Light of Nature Pursued by A. Tucker, and a Reply to the Essay on Popula- tion by the Rev. T. R. Malthus; in 1808 by The Eloquence of the British Senate (a selection with biographical and critical notes) ; and in 1810 by A New and Improved Grammar of the English Tongue, for the Use of Schools. He was engaged 8o William Hazlitt also in editing and completing the Meinoirs of the late Thomas Holcrofi, which was not published till 1816. In 1808 he had married Miss Sarah Stoddart and settled at Winterslow in Wiltshire, afterwards to be associated with some of his finest essays ; but in 1812 he had to leave it for London. His literary career dates properly from his engagement at this time as theatrical and parliamentary reporter on the Morning Chronicle, for the miscellaneous nature of his earlier publications shows that up to his thirty-fourth year he was still in search of a definite line of work. In 1814 he became a contributor to the Edinburgh Review, and in 1817 he published his first book of literary sketches, The Round Table, u Collection of Essays on Literature, Men, and Manners (2 vols.), contributed originally to Leigh WILLIAM HAZLITT. After a Miniature on Ivory painted by his brother, John Hazlitt. Hunt's Examiner. In the same year appeared his Characters of Shakspear^s Plays. The ruthless attack on it in the Quarterlyhy Gifford, who, like the Tory critics in Blackwood, was hostile to all Hazlitt's ■work because of his anti-monarchical views, brought from him in 1819 the scathing Letter to William Gifford, Esq. At the same time he continued his contributions to periodicals such as the Examiner, the Champion, the Yellow Dwaif, and the Scots Magazine, and published collections bearing the titles A View of the English Stage, or a Series of Dramatic Criticisms (18 18), and Political Essays, ■with Sketches of Public Characters (1819) ; but his chief pieces of work were the three great courses of lectures, all delivered at the Surrey Institution and published immediately afterwards — the Lectures on the English Poets (181 8), the Lectures oji the Eng- lish Comic Writers (1819), and the Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth (1820). Continuing to contribute to magazines, and now chiefly to the London and New Monthly, he brought out another collection of his essays in 1821, en- titled Table Talk, or Original Essays, a second volume with the same title following in 1822. In 1823 appeared his Characteristics, in the Manner of La Rochefoucauld's Maxims j while to 1824 belong his Sketches of the Principal Picture Galleries in England, his Select British Poets (suppressed, and published in 1825 under the title Select Poets of Great Britain), and his article on the 'Fine Arts' in the Encyclopcedia Britannica. Before this Hazlitt had won for himself an ugly notoriety by his Liber A?noris, or the New Pygmalion (1823), recording his infatuation for a girl named Sarah Walker, the daughter of his landlady, and ' the only woman that ever made me think she loved me.' His marriage had proved unhappy, and in June 1822 he was divorced at Edinburgh ; but he was soon after disillusioned of the heroine of the Liber Amoris. In 1824 he married Mrs Bridg- water, a widow with some money. This marriage was likewise unhappy ; he travelled for some months with his wife in France, Switzerland, and Italy, but in 1825 he returned to London alone, and his wife refused to rejoin him. While on this tour he contributed to the Moi-ning Chronicle a series of letters, collected in 1826 under the title Notes of a Journey in France and Italy. At the same time there appeared in the New Monthly the series of articles which went to form the Spirit of the Age, or Contemporary Por- traits (1825). The last collection of miscellaneous essays which he himself edited. The Plain Speaker, Opinions on Books, Men, and Things (2 vols.), was published in 1826. From this time onwards he devoted himself chiefly to the Life of Napoleon Buonaparte. Recognising the occasional nature of his earlier work, he now hoped to found his fame on a monumental biography of his life's hero, and he accordingly squandered the energies of his closing years on a work which could not but arouse animosity and for which he was hardly suited either by character or training. The first and second volumes appeared in 1828, and the third and fourth in 1830. The literary merits of the book are now, as at its appearance, too often ignored in hostility to its motive. Unfortunately Hazlitt was embarrassed financially by the failure of his publisher. He had to resort again to magazine articles; he brought out the Conversa- tions of James Northcote, Esq., R.A. (1830), a collection of articles contributed in 1826-27, under the title 'Boswell Redivivus,' to the New Monthly; and he collaborated with Northcote on the Lije of Titian (1830). But in this struggle he had no longer health on his side. He died at London on i8th September 1830. Three other collections of his essays were published posthumously by his zon — Literary Remains (2 vols. 1836), Sketches and Essays (1839), and Winterslow : Essays and Characters written there (1850). Hazlitt's political views prejudiced his reputa- William Hazlitt 8i tion as a critic and essayist : to a wider public than that of the Quarterly and Blackwood he was best known as a wild Republican. Even his idiosyncrasies tended to make him unpopular. Unhappy in his married life, he was unhappy also in his friendships, for he quarrelled unaccountably with all his associates — even with Lamb, though he was afterwards reconciled. Tactless, but of down- right honesty, though brilliant in conversation yet devoid of social instinct, he seemed to his friends to live in dread of hearing some remark with which he could not agree. The stimulating acuteness and fine enthusiasm of his lectures did not conceal the fact that there was little sympathy between him and his audience. If his worth is better known now than it was in his own day, it is because his writings have lived down the personal prejudice which he too readily aroused. With Coleridge and Lamb, Hazlitt marks the close of the short interregnum in criticism when the classical code of the eighteenth century had been replaced by the mere whim of the Edin- burgh or Quarterly reviewer. Like Coleridge, he believed that the first requisite of a critic is intelligent sympathy, and that his duty is not so much to report on a work as to interpret it. Yet he can hardly be claimed as a member of the romantic school, for, though true to their principles, he had not their limitations ; he laughed away their tenet that Pope was not a poet, and he would not be blinded to the merits of French literature by the new German cult and the crusade against the classical. In certain re- spects he preserves the eighteenth century attitude, as in his indifference to the Middle Ages and his appreciation of the elegant in literature, while he had not the enthusiasm of the new school for their own work. Personal and political considerations tended to warp his judgment on his contemporaries. Though eloquent in his praise of Scott, he discovers an objectionable political motive in the ' Scotch novels ; ' his dislike of Byron is based on the ' noble author's ' peerage ; Coleridge, to whom he owed so much, he came to despise for changing his political views ; even his whole-hearted appre- ciations of Wordsworth are dashed with unfriendly references to the poet's foibles. But these pre- judices were vented merely on the living : no political bias, for instance, could dull his enthusiasm for Burke. He himself confesses that his criticism of the living is in a different category from his appreciations of the older authors. 'I have more confidence in the dead than the living,' he says ; 'contemporary writers may generally be divided into two classes, one's friends and one's foes.' But it may be claimed for him that his prejudices, unlike those of the romanticists, were not literary. He was one of the first to recognise the impos- sibility of reconciling different tastes. The dis- agreement between French and English taste, he points out, is bound to remain till the French become English or the English French ; and he adds, with special reference to Shakespeare and Racine, that when we see nothing but grossness and barbarism or insipidity and verbiage in a writer that is the god of a nation's idolatry, it is we and not they who want true taste and feeling. Hazlitt's appreciations are more free from the distinguishing marks of a particular school than those of any of the great English critics before him. Hazlitt characterised his own work when he said that ' a genuine criticism should reflect the colours, the light and shade, the soul and body of a work.' Whether he deals with painting or with literature, he pays little attention to matters of form or tech- nique, and he always ignores the circumstances under which the works were produced. ' If,' he says, ' a man leaves behind him any work which is a model of its kind, we have no right to ask whether he could do anything else, or how he did it, or how long he was about it.' Uninterested in the develop- ment and interaction of literatures, he is indifferent even to the growth of the art of an individual author. He may tell us that in the Tempest Shakespeare has shown all the variety of his powers, and that Lov^s Labour's Lost is the play with which he would most readily part ; but he never hints that the one was written at the end of Shakespeare's career and the other at the beginning. His in- difference to such matters explains his inaccuracy in points of fact. Few of his many quotations are given correctly ; his references are vague ; and he knew nothing of the worries of accurate chron- ology. What alone interests him is the complete work in itself He had not, and expressly dis- claimed, a wide knowledge of literature ; and lat- terly he would rather read the same book for the twentieth time than read a new one. His favourite authors, and Shakespeare in particular, he knew so well that he could hardly write without alluding to them, or quoting from them, or employing their phraseology. And this intense knowledge makes him as guiltless of a second-hand as of an off-hand opinion, though he is occasionally under some debt to the conversation of his friends. The writer from whom he borrows most is himself, for he indulges largely in the questionable habit of repeat- ing, often in the same words, what he has said elsewhere. But this only points to that ' pertinacity of opinion' on which he prided himself, in litera- ture as in politics. In no case would he revise his judgments ; he would only repeat them and emphasise them. He has spoken of his early difficulties in writing, but latterly he could say that he had merely to 'unfold the book and volume of the brain' and transcribe the characters he saw there as mechani- cally as any one might copy the letters in a sampler. It was fitting that a critic who was indifferent to technique should himself have no ambitions to be known by his style, and should expressly avoid formal method. What he desired above all was ' life, and spirit, and truth ; ' and whether he writes on Cavanagh the Fives-Player, or the fight of 82 William Hazlitt Neate and the Gas-man, or Gifford, or Mrs Siddons, or Napoleon, or his favourite pictures and authors, his easy vigour and enduring freshness prove the wisdom of his aim. Shakespeare. The striking peculiarity of Shakespeare's mind was its generic quality, its power of communication with all other minds — so that it contained a universe of thought and feeling within itself, and had no one peculiar bias or exclusive excellence more than another. He was just like any other man, but that he was like all other men. He was the least of an egotist that it was possible to be. He was nothing in himself; but he was all that others were, or that they could become. He not only had in him- self the germs of every faculty and feeling, but he could follow them by anticipation, intuitively, into all their con- ceivable ramifications, through every change of fortune, or conflict of passion, or turn of thought. He had ' a mind reflecting ages past,' and present : — all the people that ever lived are there. There was no respect of per- sons with him. His genius shone equally on the evil and on the good, on the wise and the foolish, the monarch and the beggar ; ' All corners of the earth, kings, queens, and states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,' are hardly hid from his searching glance. He was like the genius of humanity, changing places with all of us at pleasure, and playing with our purposes as with his own. He turned the globe round for his amusement, and sur- veyed the generations of men, and the individuals as they passed, with their difi'erent concerns, passions, follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives — as well those that they knew as those which they did not know or acknow- ledge to themselves. The dreams of childhood, the ravings of despair, were the toys of his fancy. Airy beings waited at his call and came at his bidding. Harmless fairies 'nodded to him, and did him curtesies;' and the night-hag bestrode the blast at the command of ' his so potent art. ' The world of spirits lay open to him, like the world of real men and women : and there is the same truth in his delineations of the one as of the other ; for if the preternatural characters he describes could be supposed to exist, they would speak, and feel, and act as he makes them. He had only to think of any thing in order to become that thing, with all the circumstances belonging to it. When he conceived of a character, whether real or imaginary, he not only entered into all its thoughts and feelings, but seemed instantly, and as if by touching a secret spring, to be surrounded with all the same objects, ' subject to the same skyey influences,' the same local, outward, and unforeseen accidents, which would occur in reality. Thus the character of Caliban not only stands before us with a language and manners of his own, but the scenery and situation of the enchanted island he inhabits, the traditions of the place, its strange noises, its hidden recesses, ' his frequent haunts and ancient neighbourhood,' are given with a miraculous truth of nature, and with all the familiarity of an old recollection. The whole ' coheres semblably together ' in time, place, and circumstance. In reading this author, you do not merely learn what his characters say, — you see their persons. By something expressed or under- stood, you are at no loss to decipher their peculiar physiognomy, the meaning of a look, the grouping, the byplay, as we might see it on the stage. A word, an epithet oaints a whole scene, or throws us back whole years in the history of the person represented. . . . That which, perhaps, more than anything else distinguishes the dramatic productions of Shakespeare from all others is this wonderful truth and individuality of conception. Each of his characters is as much itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well as of the author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the mind. The poet may be said, for the time, to identify himself with the character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one to another, like the same soul successively animating different bodies. By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his imagination out of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed from the mouth of the person in whose name it is given. His plays alone are properly expressions of the passions, not descriptions of them. His characters are real beings of flesh and blood ; they speak like men, not like authors. One might suppose that he had stood by at the time, and overheard what passed. As in our dreams we hold conversations with ourselves, make remarks, or communicate intelligence, and have no idea of the answer which we shall receive, and which we ourselves make, till we hear it : so the dialogues in Shakespeare are carried on without any con- sciousness of what is to follow, without any appearance of preparation or premeditation. The gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on the wind. Nothing is made out by formal inference and analogy, by climax and antithesis : all comes, or seems to come, immediately from nature. Each object and circumstance exists in his mind, as it would have existed in reality; each several train of thought and feeling goes on of itself, without confusion or effort. In the world of his imagination, everything has a life, a place, and being of its own ! Chaucer's characters are sufficiently distinct from one another, but they are too little varied in themselves, too much like identical propositions. They are consistent, hut uniform ; we get no new idea of them from first to last ; they are not placed in different lights, nor are their subordinate traits brought out in new situations ; they are like portraits or physiognomical studies, with the distinguishing features marked with inconceivable truth and precision, but that preserve the same unaltered ail and attitude. Shakespeare's are historical figures, equally true and correct, but put into action, where every nerve and muscle is displayed in the struggle with others, with all the efi'ect of collision and contrast, with every variety of light and shade. Chaucer's characters are narrative, Shakespeare's dramatic, Milton's epic. That is, Chaucer told only as much of his story as he pleased, as was re- quired for a particular purpose. He answered for his characters himself. In Shakespeare they are introduced upon the stage, are liable to be asked all sorts of ques- tions, and are forced to answer for themselves. In Chaucer we perceive a fixed essence of character. In Shakespeare there is a continual composition and de- composition of its elements, a fermentation of every particle in the whole mass, by its alternate affinity or antipathy to other principles which are brought in con- tact with it. Till the experiment is tried, we do not know the result, the turn which the character will take in its new circumstances. Milton took only a. few simple principles of character, and raised them to the utmost conceivable grandeur, and refined them from every base alloy. His imagination, ' nigh sphered in Heaven,' claimed kindred only with what he saw from William Hazlitt 83 that height, and could raise to the same elevation with itself. He sat retired and kept his state alone, ' playing with wisdom ; ' while Shakespeare mingled with the crowd, and played the host, 'to make society the sweeter welcome.' ,„ , ^ .1 c- ,■ , „ . ^ (l^rom Lectures on the Engluh Poets.) Pope. The question whether Pope was a poet has hardly yet been settled, and is hardly worth settling ; for if he was not a great poet, he must have been a great prose- writer — that is, he was a great writer of some sort. He was a man of exquisite faculties, and of the most re- fined taste ; and as he chose verse (the most obvious dis- tinction of poetry) as the vehicle to express his ideas, he has generally passed for a poet, and a good one. If, indeed, by a great poet we mean one who gives the utmost grandeur to our conceptions of nature, or the utmost force to the passions of the heart. Pope was not in this sense a great poet ; for the bent, the charac- teristic power of his mind, lay the clean contrary way ; namely, in representing things as they appear to the in- different observer, stripped of prejudice and passion, as in his Critical Essays ; or in representing them in the most contemptible and insignificant point of view, as in his Satires ; or in clothing the little with mock-dignity, as in his poems of Fancy ; or in adorning the trivial incidents and familiar relations of life with the utmost elegance of expression and all the flattering illusions of friendship or self-love, as in his Epistles. He was not, then, distinguished as a poet of lofty enthusiasm, of strong imagination, with a passionate sense of the beauties of nature, or a deep insight into the workings of the heart ; but he was a wit and a critic, a man of sense, of observa- tion, and the world, with a keen relish for the elegances of art, or of nature when embellished by art, a quick tact for propriety of thought and manners as established by the forms and customs of society, a refined sympathy with the sentiments and habitudes of human life, as he felt them within the little circle of his family and friends. He was, in a word, the poet, not of nature, but of art ; and the distinction between the two, as well as I can make it out, is this — The poet of nature is one who, from the elements of beauty, of power, and of passion in his own breast, sympathises with whatever is beautiful and grand and impassioned in nature, in its simple majesty, in its immediate appeal to the senses, to the thoughts and hearts of all men ; so that the poet of nature, by the truth and depth and harmony of his mind, may be said to hold communion with the very soul of nature ; to be identified with and to foreknow and to record the feelings of all men at all times and places, as they are liable to the same impressions ; and to exert the same power over the minds of his readers that nature does. He sees things in their eternal beauty, for he sees them as they are ; he feels them in their universal interest, for he feels them as they affect the first principles of his and our common nature. Such was Homer, such was Shakespeare, whose works will last as long as nature, because they are a copy of the in- destructible forms and everlasting impulses of nature, welling out from the bosom as from a perennial spring, or stamped upon the senses by the hand of their maker. The power of the imagination in them is the representa- tive power of all nature. It has its centre in the human soul, and makes the circuit of the universe. Pope was not assuredly a poet of this class, or in the first rank of it. He saw nature only dressed by art ; he judged of beauty by fashion ; he sought for truth in the opinions of the world ; he judged of the feelings of others by his own. The capacious soul of Shakespeare had an intuitive and mighty sympathy with whatever could enter into the heart of man in all possible circumstances : Pope had an exact knowledge of all that he himself loved or hated, wished or wanted. Milton has winged his daring flight from heaven to earth, through Chaos and old Night. Pope's Muse never wandered with safety but from his library to his grotto, or from his grotto into his library back again. His mind dwelt with greater plea- sure on his own garden than on the garden of Eden ; he could describe the faultless whole-length mirror that re- flected his own person, better than the smooth surface of the lake that reflects the face of heaven — a piece of cut glass or a pair of paste buckles with more brilliance and effect than a thousand dew-drops glittering in the sun. He would be more delighted with a patent lamp than with 'the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow,' that fills the skies with its soft silent lustre, that trembles through the cottage window, and cheers the watchful mariner on the lonely wave. In short, he was the poet of personality and of polished life. That which was nearest to him was the greatest ; the fashion of the day bore sway in his mind over the immutable laws of nature. He pre- ferred the artificial to the natural in external objects, because he had a stronger fellow-feeling with the self- love of the maker or proprietor of a gewgaw than admiration of that which was interesting to all mankind. He preferred the artificial to the natural in passion, because the involuntary and uncalculating impulses of the one hurried him away with a force and vehemence with which he could not grapple ; while he could trifle with the conventional and superficial modifications of mere sentiment at will, laugh at or admire, put them on or off like a masquerade-dress, make much or little of them, indulge them for a longer or a shorter time, as he pleased ; and because, while they amused his fancy and exercised his ingenuity, they never once disturbed his vanity, his levity, or indifference. His mind was the antithesis of strength and grandeur ; its power was the power of indifference. He had none of the enthusiasm of poetry ; he was in poetry what the sceptic is in religion. (From Lectures on the English Poets.) Scott and Shakespeare. No one admires or delights in the Scotch Novels more than I do ; but at the same time when I hear it asserted that his mind is of the same class with Shakespeare's, or that he imitates nature in the same way, I confess I cannot assent to it. No two things appear to me more different. Sir Walter is an imitator of nature and nothing more ; but I think Shakespeare is infinitely more than this. The creative principle is everywhere restless and redundant in Shakespeare, both as it relates to the inven- tion of feeling and imagery ; in the author of Waverley it lies for the most part dormant, sluggish, and unused. Sir Walter's mind is full of information, but the ' S er-inform- ing power ' is not there. Shakespeare's spirit, like fire, shines through him : Sir Walter's, like a stream, reflects surrounding objects. It is true, he has shifted the scene from Scotland into England and France, and the manners and characters are strikingly EngUsh and French ; but this does not prove that they are not local, and that they are not borrowed, as well as the scenery and costume, 84 William Hazlitt from comparatively obvious and mechanical sources. Nobody from reading Shakespeare would know (except from the Dramatis Persona) that Lear vi'as an English king. He is merely a king and a father. The ground is common : but what a well of tears has he dug out of it ! The tradition is nothing,- or a foohsh one. There are no data in history to go upon ; no advantage is taken of costume, no acquaintance with geography or architecture or dialect is necessary : but there is an old tradition, human nature — an old temple, the human mind — and Shakespeare walks into it and looks about him with a lordly eye, and seizes on the sacred spoils as his own. The story is a thousand or two years old, and yet the tragedy has no smack of antiquarianism in it. I should like very well to see Sir Walter giving us a tragedy of this kind, a huge ' globose ' of sorrow, swinging round in mid- air, independent of time, place, and circumstance, sustained by its own weight and motion, and not propped up by the levers of custom, or patched up with quaint, old- fashioned dresses, or set off by grotesque backgrounds or rusty armour, but in which the mere paraphernalia and accessories were left out of the question, and nothing but the soul of passion and the jjith of imagination was to be found. ' A dukedom to a beggarly denier^ he would make nothing of it. Does this prove he has done nothing, or that he has not done the greatest things? No, but that he is not like Shakespeare. For instance, when Lear says, ' The little dogs and all. Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me ! ' there is no old Chronicle of the line of Brute, no black-letter broadside, no tattered ballad, no vague rumour, in which this ex- clamation is registered ; there is nothing romantic, quaint, mysterious in the objects introduced : the illustration is borrowed from the commonest and most casual images in nature, and yet it is this very circumstance that lends its extreme force to the expression of his grief by showing that even the lowest things in creation and the last you would think of had in his imagination turned against him. All nature was, as he supposed, in a conspiracy against him, and the most trivial and insignificant creatures concerned in it were the most striking proofs of its malignity and extent. It is the depth of passion, however, or of the poet's sympathy with it, that dis- tinguishes this character of torturing familiarity in them, invests them with corresponding importance, and suggests them by the force of contrast. It is not that certain images are surcharged with a prescriptive influence over the imagination from known and existing prejudices, so that to approach or even mention them is sure to excite a pleasing awe and horror in the mind (the effect in this case is mostly mechanical)— the whole sublimity of the passage is from the weight of passion thrown into it, and this is the poet's own doing. This is not trick, but genius. Meg Merrilies on her death-bed says, ' Lay my head to the east ! ' Nothing can be finer or more thrill- ing than this in its way ; but the author has little to do with it. It is an Oriental superstition ; it is a proverbial expression ; it is part of the gibberish (sublime though it be) of her gipsy clan! — 'Nothing but his unkind daughters could have brought him to tliis pass.' This is not a cant phrase, nor the fragment of an old legend, nor a mysterious spell, nor the butt-end of a wizard's denuncia- tion. It is the mere natural ebullition of passion, urged nearly to madness, and that will admit no other cause of dire misfortune but its own, which swallows up all other griefs. The force of despair hurries the imagination over the boundary of fact and common-sense, and renders the transition sublime ; but there is no precedent or authority for it, except in the general nature of the human mind. (From Essay on ' Scott, Racine, and Shakespear ' in The Plain Speaker; elsewhere Hazlitt spells generally ' Shakspeare.') Personal Characteristics. What sometimes surprises me in looking back to the past is, with the exception already stated, to find myself so little changed in the time. The same images and trains of thought stick by me : I have the same tastes, likings, sentiments, and wishes that I had then. One great ground of confidence and support has, indeed, been struck from under my feet ; but I have made it up to myself by proportionable pertinacity of opinion. The success of the great cause to which I had vowed myself was to me more than all the world : I had a strength in its strength, a resource which I knew not of, till it failed me for the second time. ' Fall'n was Glenartny's .stately tree ! Oh ! ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! ' It was not till I saw the axe laid to the root that I found the full extent of what I had to lose and suffer. But my conviction of the right was only established by the triumph of the wrong ; and my earliest hopes will be my last regrets. One source of this unbendingness (which some may call obstinacy) is that, though living much alone, I have never worsliipped the Echo. I see plainly enough that black is not white, that the grass is green, that kings are not their subjects ; and, in such self-evident cases, do not think it necessary to collate my opinions with the received prejudices. In subtler questions, and matters that admit of doubt, as I do not impo.se my opinion on others without a reason, so I will not give up mine to them witliout a better reason ; and a person calling me names, or giving himself airs of authority, does not convince me of his having taken more pains to find out the truth than I have, but the contrary. . . Both from disposition and habit, I can assume nothing in word, look, or manner. I cannot steal a march upon public opinion in any way. My standing upright, speaking loud, entering a room gracefully, proves nothing ; there- fore I neglect these ordinary means of recommending myself to the good graces and admiration of strangers (and, as it appears, even of philosophers and friends). Why? Because I have other resources, or, at least, am absorbed in other studies and pursuits. Suppose this absorption to be extreme, and even morbid — that I have brooded over an idea till it has become a kind of sub- stance in my brain, that I have reasons for a thing which I have found out with much labour and pains, and to which I can scarcely do justice without the utmost violence of exertion (and that only to a few persons)— is this a reason for my playing off my out-of-the-way notions in all companies, wearing a prim and self-com- placent air, as if I were ' the admired of all observers ' ? or is it not rather an argument (together with a want of animal spirits) why I should retire into myself, and perhaps acquire a nervous and uneasy look, from a consciousness of the disproportion between the interest and conviction I feel on certain subjects, and my ability to communicate what weighs upon my own mind to others? If my ideas, which I do not avouch, hut suppose, lie below the surface, why am I to be always William Hazlitt 85 attempting to dazzle superficial people with them, or smiling, delighted, at my own want of success ? In matters of taste and feeling, one proof that my conclusions have not been quite shallow or hasty is the circumstance of their having been lasting. I have the same favourite books, pictures, passages, that I ever had ; I may therefore presume that they will last me my life — nay, I may indulge a hope that my thoughts will survive me. This continuity of impression is the only thing on which I pride myself. Even Lamb, whose relish of certain things is as keen and earnest as possible, takes a surfeit of admiration, and I should be afraid to ask about his select authors or particular friends after a lapse of ten years. As to myself, any one knows where to have me. What I have once made up my mind to, I abide by to the end of the chapter. One cause of my independence of opinion is, I believe, the liberty I give to others, or the very diffidence and distrust of making converts. I should be an excellent man on a jury. I might say little, but should starve ' the other eleven obstinate fellows ' out. (From 'A Farewell to Essay- Writing ' in Winierslow.) On Judging of Pictures. I deny in Mo and at once the exclusive right and power of painters to judge of pictures. What is a picture made for? To convey certain ideas to the mind of a painter — that is, of one man in ten thousand ? No, but to make them apparent to the eye and mind of all. If a picture be admired by none but painters, I think it is a strong presumption that the picture is bad. A painter is no more a judge, I suppose, than another man of how people feel and look under certain passions and events. Everybody sees as well as he whether certain figures on the canvas are like such a man, or like a cow, a tree, a bridge, or a windmill. All that the painter can do more than the lay spectator is to tell why and how the merits and defects of a picture are produced. I see that such a figure is ungraceful, and out of nature — he shows me that the drawing is faulty, or the foreshortening in- correct. He then points out to me whence the blemish arises ; but he is not a bit more aware of the existence of the blemish than I am. In Hogarth's ' Frontispiece ' I see that the whole business is absurd, for a man on a hill two miles ofif could not light his pipe at a candle held out of a window close to me ; he tells me that is from a want of perspective — that is, of certain rules by which certain effects are obtained. He shows me why the picture is bad, but I am just as well capable of saying ' the picture is bad ' as he is. To take a coarse illustra- tion, but one most exactly apposite : I can tell whether a made dish be good or bad — whether its taste be pleasant or disagreeable ; it is dressed for the palate of uninitiated people, and not alone for the disciples of Dr Kitchener and Mr Ude. But it needs a cook to tell one why it is bad ; that there is a grain too much of this, or a drop too much of t'other; that it has been boiled rather too much, or stewed rather too little. These things, the wherefores, as Squire Western would say, I require an artist to tell me ; but the point in debate — the worth or the bad quality of the painting or pottage — I am as well able to decide upon as any who ever brandished a pallet or a pan, a brush or a skimming-ladle. To go into the higher branches of the art — the poetry of painting — -I deny still more peremptorily the exclusive- ness of the initiated. It might as well be said that none but those who could write " play have any right to sit on the third row in the pit, on the first night of a new tragedy; nay, there is more plausibility in the one than the other. No man can judge of poetry without possess- ing in some measure a poetical mind ; it need not be of that degree necessary to create, but it must be equal to taste and to analyse. Now, in painting there is a directly mechanical power required to render those imaginations, to the judging of which the mind may be perfectly competent. I may know what is a just or a beautiful representation of love, anger, madness, despair, without being able to draw a straight line ; and I do not see how that faculty adds to the capability of so judging. A very great proportion of painting is mechanical. The higher kinds of painting need first a poet's mind to conceive ; very well, but then they need a draughtsman's hand to execute. Now, he who possesses the mind alone is fully able to judge of what is produced, even though he is by no means endowed with the mechanical power of pro- ducing it himself. I am far from saying that any one is capable of duly judging pictures of the higher class. It requires a mind capable of estimating the noble, or touching, or terrible, or sublime subjects which they present ; but there is no sort of necessity that we should be able to put them upon the canvas ourselves. (From Hunt's Literary Exajniner^ 1823, No. 5, re- printed in Essays oft the Fine Arts, 1873.) Works, edited by A. R. Waller and A. Glover, with Introduction by W. E. Henley (12 vols. 1902, &c.); Literary Remains 0/ the late William Hazlitt, with a. Notice of his Life by his Son, and Thoughts on his Genius and Writings, by E. L. Eulwer and Talfourd (2 vols. 1836); Memoirs of William Hazlitt, by W. Carew Hazlitt (1867) ; Four Generations of a Literary Family, by W. Carew Hazlitt (2 vols. 1897); William Hazlitt, Essayist and Critic, with a Memoir by Alexander Ireland (1889); Hazlitt, Essays 011 Poetry, edited, with Introduction, by D. Nichol Smith (1901) ; William Hazlitt, by Augustine Birrell, ' English Men of Letters ' series (1902). D. NICHOL SMITH. Francis Jeffrey, son of George Jeffrey, a depute-clerk in the Court of Session, was born at Edinburgh on 23rd October 1773. There he lived almost continuously from his earliest school-days 'in the abyss of Bailie Fyfe's Close' to his latter years as a Lord of Session and ' Duke of Craig- crook.' At the age of fourteen he passed fromthe High School of Edinburgh to the University of Glasgow, where he remained till 1789. During the next two years, which he spent in his native city and at an uncle's place in Stirlingshire, he appears to have devoted himself to the composition of letters and essays on various critical and ethical subjects, as well as a Sketch of My Own Character. That he wrote no less than thirty-one papers between November 1789 and March 1790 is a fact of some interest in the biography of the later editor. Yet they are of indifferent promise, and history will prefer to signalise these aimless years by the occasion on which he assisted in carrying to bed the greatest of biographers in a state of the greatest intoxication. He proceeded to Oxford in September 1791, but he found the life there so uncongenial that he returned in July of the next year. The men at Queen's were ' pedants, cox- combs, and strangers : ' so ill at ease was he that he could say, ' This place has no latent charms,' and 86 Francis Jeffrey again, ' Except praying and drinking I see nothing else that it is possible to acquire in this place.' Lord Holland dryly put it to the credit of his short sojourn there that 'he had lost the broad Scotch and had gained only the narrow English.' His correspondence shows that he had been disturbed by the ambition to become a poet. On his final return to Edinburgh he studied law at the uni- versity, and joined, in December 1792, the Specu- lative Society, of which Scott, Francis Horner, Brougham, and other friends of later life were active members. He was called to the Bar in December 1794; but his prospects were poor, and he eked out his miserable income by occasional contributions to the Monthly Reine-w. In November 1801, when his practice was worth but one hundred pounds per FRANCIS JEFFREY. After the Portrait by Colvin Smith. annum, he married Catherine Wilson (who died in 1805), and established himself on the third floor of No. 18 Buccleuch Place. In these lofty rooms — not in ' the eighth or ninth storey,' if Sydney Smith's historic phrase be taken literally — Jeffrey and his friends founded The Edinburgh Review, or Critical Jotirnal. The project was Smith's, and the preliminary work, including the editing of the first number (loth October 1802), was also his ; but Jeffi-ey assumed responsibility with the second number, and continued as editor and regular con- tributor till 1829, when he retired on his appoint- ment as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. From 1803 onwards his time was absorbed by the Review, by his improving practice at the Bar, and by the Friday Club, which Scott had originated for the entertainment of literary Edinburgh. One or two interludes of unexpected variety broke the even tenor of these days. He was very nearly exiled as a Professor of Moral Philosophy at Calcutta ; in 1806 he was interrupted by the London police in a duel with the poet Moore ; and in 1813 he ventured across the Atlantic to marry his second wife, a grandniece of the notorious John Wilkes. The success of the Whig review was unbroken, and the establishment of the rival Quarterly (February 1809) was a compliment to the foresight of the Edinburgh coterie in discovering a fresh means of literary appeal to the public, though it was ostensibly a protest against certain views on the Peninsular war and Domestic Reform, and espe- cially against Jeffrey's article on ' Cevallos on the French Usurpation in Spain' (No. xxv., art. 14). The party zeal of this paper caused Scott to sever his connection and to join the opposing journal. But the popularity of the Review was not seriously affected, though many old subscribers were not less hostile than Lord Buchan, who kicked the offending number from his door in George Square. Down to the date of his retirement from the editorship Jeffi-ey appears to have written nothing outside the pages of his own journal, except an important article on ' Beauty ' in the Encydopadia Britannica (1816). His address as Rector of Glasgow University, which he delivered in 1820, was not published till 1839. In the final stage of his career literature yielded to politics and society, and, towards the close, to the dignified ease of the Bench. In the year following his election as Dean of Faculty he was appointed Lord Advocate by the new Whig Ministry, and he sat as member for Malton after his return for the Forfar Burghs had been annulled. He played an active part in Reform Bill legislation, and in 1832 was elected member for Edinburgh. His parlia- mentary duties took him often to London, but after June 1834, when he was elevated to the Scottish Bench with the legal title of Lord Jeffrey, he rarely left Edinburgh or its neighbourhood, passing his time at his house in Moray Place or at his summer residence at Craigcrook, which he had taken after his second marriage. He died on the 26th of January 1850. Jeffrey's literary work is unusually limited, both in range of interest and in kind. It represents a single type of composition, almost entirely restricted to a single journal. And yet he has written more than many authors of greater enterprise have done, and has maintained in his own genre a higher and more uniform standard of craftsmanship. He has left no less than two hundred articles on literature, philosophy, and politics — a remarkable monument of intellectual breadth and editorial alertness. The historical importance of Jeiifrey's work lies in the fact that he defined a certain method of literary criticism which became popular in the nineteenth century. In the Edinburgh he set the fashion of the 'review,' a medley of extract and reflec- tion, in which author and critic, in more or less amiable dialogue, explain themselves to the intelli- gent reader. It demanded less originality and less completeness in theory ; and it was to a great Francis Jeffrey 87 extent, as in the later Cattseries du Lundi and other analogous examples, the outcome of jour- nalistic necessity. In Jeffrey's case this manner was probably helped by a habit, acquired in youth,