VWNu
и! ()
စွာရှိ၏။
Поліга.
Prison books and their authors
John Alfred Langford

1817
VI
SCIENTIA
ARTES
VERITAS
LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
TCEBOR
SI QUERIS PENINSULAM AMENAM
CIRCUMSPICE
200
L278
:
304
27
PRISON BOOKS
AND
THEIR AUTHORS.

were
She
RES
Area
mida Zloxnes noel
UNITE
Piers
vew
CERVANTES.
itors
T
7
7
18
Lahe right of Tranſlation is reſerved.]
..!؟
ولا
PRISON
BOOKS
39161
AND
THEIR AUTHORS.
BY
JOHN ALFRED LANGFORD,
AUTHOR OF “SHELLEY, AND OTHER POEMS, POEMS OF THE
FIELDS AND THE Town,” “THE LAMP OF LIFE,”
ETC.
ETC.,
“ Stone walls do not a priſon make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
A ſpotleſs mind and innocent
Calls that a hermitage ;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my ſoul am free,-
Angels alone that ſoar above
Enjoy ſuch liberty.”—Lovelace.
LONDON: WILLIAM TEGG.
1861.
[The right of Tranſlation is reſerved.]
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MANY ACTS
OF
NOBLE-HEARTED KINDNESS,
This Book
IS
INSCRIBED
TO
THOMAS LLOYD, ESQ.,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
04-20.35" MEB EC podi
1
1
1
I
PREFACE.
This ſelection of Priſon Authors contains but a
few names from the long liſt of the wiſe and good,
whom the world has rewarded and honoured with
perſecution. Monarchs, ſtateſmen, warriors, mar-
tyrs, poets, and philoſophers are to be found on the
bead-roll of priſon hiſtory. Their names are almoſt
legion. How to appreciate and treat its wiſeſt
children is a leſſon the world is long in learning-
has ſcarcely learned even yet. From time imme-
morial the prophet has been ſtoned; and from time
immemorial gaols, ſtakes, and gibbets have been
the crowns of glory awarded to thoſe who have
laboured to improve mankind, to increaſe know-
ledge, and to liberate truth. Such treatment has
always failed in its object. The dark and lonely
а.
viii
Preface.
cell has become a holy place, which the ſong of the
poet, the ſtory of the noveliſt, the truths of the
philoſopher, the prayers of the martyr, the aſpira-
tions of the patriot have glorified. The uncon-
querable mind has made
Impriſonment a pleaſure :
Ay, ſuch a pleaſure as encaged birds
Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts,
At laſt, by notes of houſehold harmony,
They quite forget their loſs of liberty.”
And many a priſon has become to us a ſhrine of
glory, more worthy of a pilgrimage than moſt of
the places to which our pious forefathers directed
their ſteps.
“C'eſt le crime qui fait la honte et non pas l'échafaud.”
From theſe glorifiers of the priſon I have taken
a few, given ſketches of their lives, and analyſes of
their books. There are many more who deſerve
to be included in ſuch a work; and I have already
made conſiderable progreſs with a ſecond ſeries,
the completion of which, I truſt, the ſucceſs of the
preſent volume will accelerate. This, however, the
critics and the public muſt determine ; and I have
1
Preface.
ix
not a word to ſay in deprecation of cenſure, nor in
ſolicitation of praiſe. Criticiſm has become of late
years ſo impartial, and ſhown itſelf ſo deſirous of
doing juſtice to all candidates for literary honours,
that if I fail it will be due to my own want of ability
rather than to the ruthleſſneſs of thoſe whoſe judg-
ments are deſired, and whoſe verdicts bring con-
demnation or acquittal. Should they praiſe, I truſt
to have ſtrength of mind enough not to be too
much elated ; ſhould they condemn, patience and
perſeverance enough to labour on in the hope of
ſome day deſerving a kinder ſentence. In one
reſpect I am already ſucceſſful : writing this book
has been a labour of love, and is its own reward.
J. A. L,
Birmingham, 1861.
6
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION
I
BOËTHIUS, AND HIS DE CONSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIÆ
6
THE EARL OF SURREY .
27
CERVANTES.
58
SIR WALTER RALEIGH, AND HIS History OF THE WORLD 83
ROBERT SOUTHWELL, THE MARTYR
.
124
GEORGE WITHER, THE PURITAN
· 156
LOVELACE, THE CAVALIER
· 189
BUNYAN, AND HIS PILGRIM's Progress
214
DR. DODD, AND THE PRISON THOUGHTS
242
JAMES MONTGOMERY .
• 287
LEIGH HUNT.
316
THOMAS COOPER, AND THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES
.
334
PRISON
BOOKS
AND
THEIR AUTHORS.
INTRODUCTION.
" Whom the Lord loveth He chaſteneth,”
ſaid the wiſe ſon of Iſrael, and the experience
of all ages confirms the deep truthfulneſs of his
words. The bleſſed and abiding influences of
ſorrow and ſuffering are pure and holy, and
ſtrengthen the ſoul for endurance, and prepare and
fit it for final victory. The power of joy is of a
light and tranſient nature compared with the per-
ennial
power of ſorrow. Laughter compared with
tears is as the light ripple on the face of ſome
ſweet lake, kiſſed by the ſlighteſt ſummer breeze,
to the glorious rollings of the tempeſt-toſt billows
of the ſea. Mirth is bright and beautiful, and
lovely to look
upon
is the face radiant with ſmiles ;
D
2
Introduction.
1
awe.
but it has not the ſerene and ineffable divinity
which beams from the countenance of the long and
forely-tried child of ſorrow. Nay, was not the
Saviour the man of ſorrow? And He by his life,
and ſtill more by his death, has ſanctified the
benign elements of grief, and made it celeſtial in
its reſults. The greateſt and wiſeſt of men have
ever borne willing teſtimony to this truth-that
adverſity has killed its thouſands, but proſperity
its tens of thouſands. And this muſt ever be true
while life is a battle, a conteſt, a myſtery, and an
When it becomes a miſerable commedietta,
or a ſtill more miſerable farce, then perhaps, but
not till then, will forrow ceaſe its high and holy
functions, and give place to “ laughter, holding
both his fides.”
The paſſage in the Divine Book has found its
echo in the deepeſt poetry written ſince.
All
tragedy is more laſting than comedy; and only
that comedy which has an element of the tragic
in it (which all true comedy has) laſts beyond its
own day and generation. Dante's ſong ſtands like
a giant above all the other ſongs of Italy, glorious as
is the “ Jeruſalem Delivered;" and Milton's Epic
of “ Paradiſe Loſt,” whoſe very name is a pathos, is
the greateſt epic the world poſſeſſes. A goodly ſized
volume might be filled of quotations from our
moſt inſpired poets, proving how deeply they had
Introduction.
3
(C
experienced the beneficent influence of grief and
ſuffering. “Bleſſed,” ſays England's greateſt child
of poefy-
“ Bleſſed are the uſes of adverſity.”
Shelley tells us that poets “ learn in ſuffering
what they teach in ſong;” and Wordſworth has
uttered thoſe melancholy lines :
“We poets in our youth begin in gladneſs,
Whereof in the end cometh deſpondency and madneſs."
A young living poet has, in two verſes, ſung
exquiſitely on this theme:
“ The flowers live by the tears that fall
From the ſad face of the ſkies;
And life would have no joys at all,
Were there no watery eyes.
"Love thou thy forrow; grief ſhall bring
Its own relief in after years ;
The rainbow—ſee how fair a thing
God hath built up from tears !"**
And in one verſe, itſelf a text for a thouſand dif--
courſes, Tennyſon has given us the univerſal feel-
ing on this matter:
" I hold it true whate'er befall;
I held it when I forrowed moſt-
'Tis better to have loved and loſt,
Than never to have loved at all."
Striking a deeper chord the great Goethe ſings~
>
9)
6. Who never ate his bread with tears,
Who never through night's gloomy hours
* Poems by Henry Sutton.
B ?
4
Introduftion.
Weeping fat upon his bed, -
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.”
Such being the bleſſed influence of ſorrow, we
need not wonder that ſome of the world's greateſt
books have been written in priſon. The cell of
the
poor
ſufferer has thus been converted into the
palace of thought, and rendered more glorious by
the halo which ſuffering but triumphant genius has
thrown around it, than is the throne of the moſt
ſucceſsful conqueror with which the world has
been curſed or bleſſed. Dearer to our memories,
and dearer to the memories of all future genera-
tions, will the priſon-houſe of Boëthius be, than the
palace of Theodoric, great in many reſpects as
the Goth undoubtedly was.
Who of us would
not prefer ſeeing the cell in which Talſo was con-
fined to all the ſplendour of the court of Efte?
And great and notable as were the life and deeds
of Charles the Fifth, who of us would not rather
make a pilgrimage to the priſon of Cervantes, than
to the Emperor's cloiſter at Valladolid ? Silvio
Pellico has made the Houſe of Hapſburgh a
thing of ſhame, and his narrow home of iron and
ſtone a
more glorious ſpot than the crime-
ſtained court of Vienna ; Bedford gaol is dearer
to our memories than Whitehall, and Bunyan has
made a damp, miſerable, and narrow cage more
glorious than the throne upon which fat he of the
Introdution.
5
Bleſſed Reſtoration, So true it is, my brave,
gallant Richard Lovelace, that
“ Stone walls do not a priſon make,
Nor iron bars a cage;”
that a working-man, by trade a ſhoemaker, ſhall
be impriſoned for Chartiſt riots, and ſhall con-
vert his cell into a temple for the Muſes, and ſing
his “ Purgatory of Suicides,” without let or hin-
drance. Truly a noble record of the power of
the mind to make its own kingdom-a perennial
teaching of the benign influence of ſorrow, and a
glorious monument of genius are the world's
Priſon Books. To ſay ſomewhat of the lives and
works of the principal of theſe chained linnets is
the purpoſe of the preſent little work. Of courſe
we begin with the victim of Theodoric, the laſt
claſſic writer, the author of the “ De Confolatione
Philofophiæ.”
BOËTHIUS,
AND HIS DE CONSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIÆ.
The grandeur of the Roman Empire was faſt
paſſing away, and the Eternal City was at the
mercy of the barbarians. Thrice had the Huns
ſwept over the plains of Italy. Twice had Alaric's
fierce hordes devaſtated that beautiful land, ſince,
alas, ſo often devaſtated by other powers that
would bluſh to be called barbaric. Rhadagaſius
had carried terror into every Roman home; and
Alaric had, in 408, beſieged the city itſelf.
« The
heaps of dead bodies, which there wanted ſpace to
bury, produced a peſtilence. In vain the Senate
endeavoured to negotiate an honourable capitula-
tion. Alaric fcorned alike their money, their
deſpair, their pride. When they ſpoke of their
immenſe population, he burſt out into laughter,-
The thicker the hay, the eaſier it is mown;' on
his demand of an exorbitant ranſom, the Senate
humbly inquired, What then do you leave us ? '
'Your lives!' replied the inſulting Goth.”* And
* Milman's “ Latin Chriſtianity," vol. i. p. 98.
C
> *
Boëthius.
7
2
the maſters of the world had to imitate the
example of our own degenerate Britons, and pur-
chaſe with their gold a peace which their arms
were unable to compel. The ſtreets of Rome
rang with the terrible cry,
“ Fix the price for
human fleſh, "* ſo great were the ſufferings of the
people. The influence and indomitable courage of
Pope Leo alone averted a like fate from Rome,
when the fiery Atila “declared his reſolution
of carrying his victorious arms to the gates of
Rome.” † Again was the city the prey of the
barbarians, when, in 455, the Vandals under
Genſeric facked its houſes, its temples, and its
churches of all their poſſeſſions. The treaſures
with which piety, and fear, and ſuperſtition had ſo
liberally endowed the holy places were ſwept
away. “The Chriſtian churches, enriched and
adorned by the prevailing ſuperſtition of the times,
afforded more plentiful materials for ſacrilege, and
the pious liberality of Pope Leo, who melted fix
ſilver vaſes, the gift of Conſtantine, each of a
hundred pounds weight, is an evidence of the
damage which he attempted to repair. In the
forty-five years that had elapſed ſince the Gothic
invaſion, the pomp and luxury of Rome
were
* Pone pretium carni humanæ.
+ Gibbon's " Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. vi.
pp. 125-6.
8
Boëthius.
in ſome meaſure reſtored ; and it was difficult
either to eſcape, or to ſatisfy, the avarice of a
conqueror, who poſſeſſed leiſure to collect, and
ſhips to tranſport the wealth of the capital. The
Imperial ornaments of the palace, the magnificent
furniture and wardrobe, the ſideboards of maſſive
plate, were accumulated with diſorderly rapine ; the
gold and ſilver amounted to ſeveral thouſand
talents; yet even the braſs and copper were
laboriouſly removed.” * Then came the reign
of Odoacer, when Italy ſaw herſelf governed by a
barbarian king. The rightly named Auguftulus
had been reduced to implore the clemency of his
conqueror.
Odoacer had in his turn to give
place to the power of the Oſtrogoths, and Italy
paſſed from the rule of the powerful Odoacer to
that of the ſtill more powerful, able, and truly
excellent Theodoric.
Such was the Italy, and ſuch the ſtate of Rome,
when the learned Boëthius was called to play his
part in the drama of life. He was of noble deſcent,
being one of the once famous Anicii, and was born
about 455.+ He was ſent to Athens in his youth to
complete his education, and there he doubtleſs con-
* Gibbon's “ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. vi.
pp. 145-6.
+ There is ſome diſcrepancy among the beſt authorities respecting
the in which Boëthius was born; we have adopted that which
appears to us beſt borne out by the known events of his life.
year
Boëthius.
9
firmed the philoſophic bent of his mind. He was
maſter of all the learning of the times ; and has won
;
for himſelf the praiſe of the ſcholars of his own and
all ſucceeding ages. Caſſiodorus, ſpeaking for his
maſter Theodoric, thus ſpeaks of the many-ſidedneſs
of his friend's genius : “ Through him Pythagoras,
the muſician, Ptolemy, the aſtronomer, Nichomacus,
the arithmetician, Euclid, the geometer, Plato, the
theologian, Ariſtotle, the logician, Archimedes, the
mechanician, had learned to ſpeak the Roman
language." Inheriting great wealth, he was enabled
to purſue his favourite ſtudies without any of the
difficulties and impediments which too often affail
and retard the ſtudent in his ſearch after knowledge.
He preſents a fine picture of his ſocial poſition
before his baniſhment. Philoſophy, alluding to the
ſad
appearance of the philoſopher in his priſon, and
ſeeking to inſpire him with true fortitude, ſpeaks of
his library decked with ivory and glaſs ;* and we
know from the offices which he filled, and the
largeſſes which, upon the election of his ſons to the
conſularſhip, he ſcattered among the people, that he
was one of the wealthieſt citizens of Rome. Like
all other truly great men, Boëthius did not forget
the citizen in the ſtudent, but gave
his
ſervices of his great learning and his powerful name.
country the
+ Nec bibliothecæ potius comtos ebore ac vitro parietes, quam
tuæ mentis fedem requiro.--L. 1. pros. V.
IO
Boëthius.
X
He was an active member of the Senate, a perſonal
adviſer of his ſovereign, a conſul, a patrician, and
a maſter of the offices. How he fulfilled his duties,
the following ſpeech of his to Philoſophy will ſhow.
The facts are fully confirmed by the hiſtory of the
times. He ſays, “You confirmed this ſaying from
the mouth of Plato, that ſtates would be happy if
either philoſophers ſhould rule them, or if it ſhould
happen that their rulers applied themſelves to the
ſtudy of philoſophy. You taught, by the mouth
of the ſame man, that this was a neceſſary cauſe for
wiſe men to undertake the management of public
affairs, that the government of cities might not be
left to wicked and debauched citizens, and good
men be brought to deſtruction. Following, there-
fore, this authority, I reſolved to reduce into action
in the public adminiſtration, what I had learned from
you in my private retirement. You, and God, who
hath implanted you in the minds of wiſe men, are
my witneſſes, that, when I came into the magiſtracy,
I had no other end in view but the common intereſt
of all good men.
Then I had to encounter mighty
and irreconcileable differences with wicked men ;
and, what liberty and clearneſs of conſcience is apt to
produce, I always ſlighted the diſpleaſure of power-
ful men in the defence of right. How often did I
oppoſe Conigaſtus when he was making an attack
upon the fortunes of every weak and unſupported
Boëthius.
II
perſon! How often did I check Triguilla, the
chief officer of the palace, in the committing of
injurious deeds which he had deſigned and well nigh
executed! How often by my authority, which was
expoſed to dangers, did I protect unhappy men
whom the unpuniſhed avarice of barbarians always
haraſſed by endleſs calumnies! Never did any one
draw me aſide from right to wrong. When the
fortunes of the provincials were ruined both by
private extortions and public exactions, I was no
leſs grieved than the ſufferers. When in the time
of ſevere famine, a diſtreſſing and inevitable procla-
mation was made to bring up corn, which threatened
the province of Campania with want, I engaged in
a conteſt againſt the principal officers of the palace.
I inſiſted before the king, as a judge, that the corn
to be purchaſed ſhould not be exacted, and I
pre-
vailed. I ſaved Paulinus, a conſular gentleman,
whoſe wealth the dogs about the palace (greedy
courtiers) had already, in hope and ambition, de-
voured, from their very jaws, while they were gaping
to ſwallow him up.
I expoſed myſelf to the bitter
hatred of Cyprian the informer, that Albinus, a
conſular gentleman, might not ſuffer puniſhment
upon a prejudged accuſation.” *
Such was the man who wrote the De Confolatione
* I here quote from Duncan's tranſlation ; but ſee the fine
paſſage in the original, beginning, “Tu mihi,”' &c.
I 2
Boëthius.
Philofophiæ." His life was one of active uſeful-
neſs. The duties of a Roman citizen were fully
and honourably diſcharged under painful and pecu-
liar circumſtances. How he muſt have lamented
the decadence of his country! and what anguiſh
his mind muſt often have experienced to ſee the
noble old Republic, the once miſtreſs of the world,
under the dominion of a Goth !
When the mind
of the noble* Theodoric was rapidly decaying with
years, and his Arian fears were avowed againſt the
Catholics, and ſuſpicions of plots, of treaſons, ſtrata-
gems, and crimes were excited, Boëthius was accuſed
by Baſilius and Opilio (whom we will not pauſe to
deſignate here) of a deſire to liberate his country
from her foreign yoke. When charged with his
crime, he replied in the words of Canius, “ If I
had known of it, you would not have known of
а.
* Theodoric was a wife and noble monarch, and though he fome-
what ſullied his early fame by the laſt acts of his life, his name will
ever be remembered with honour and gratitude, by all who value the
high virtues of juſtice and toleration. Though an Arian himſelf,
he never perſecuted the Catholics, bitter as theſe latter were in their
aſſaults upon the Arians, and unſcrupulous in their charges againſt
the heretics. Theodoric ſhould never be mentioned without thinking
of the wiſe words which he wrote to Juſtin. I think of them now,
and that others may do ſo, will tranſcribe them. “To pretend to a
dominion over the conſcience, is to uſurp the prerogative of God;
by the nature of things, the power of the ſovereign is confined to
political government; they have no right of puniſhment but over
thoſe who diſturb the public peace; the moſt dangerous hereſy is that
of a ſovereign who ſeparates himſelf from part of his ſubjects, becauſe
they believe not according to his belief.”
Boëthius.
13
it.”* His friend, the ſenator Albinus, had already
been accuſed and convicted of the crime of hoping
for the freedom of his country. Boëthius had de-
fended him, and had boldly ſaid, “If Albinus be
criminal, the Senate and myſelf are all guilty of the
ſame crime. If we are innocent, Albinus is equally
entitled to the protection of the laws.” The
defender of Albinus was ſoon in the ſame poſition as
his client, and he alſo was denied the protection of
the laws. He was not allowed to face his accuſers,
and was deprived of all means of defence. While
a priſoner in the town of Pavia, the diſtrict Senate
pronounced judgment on the philoſopher, condemn-
ing him to death and confiſcating his
property. It
was during his impriſonment at Pavia that he wrote
the “Conſolatio ;” and thus nobly employed, he
calmly awaited the execution of his ſentence. His
death was cruel in the extreme. The executioners
faſtened a ſtrong cord round his head, and tightened
it until his eyes were almoſt forced from their
ſockets; they then beat him with clubs until he
died.
Thus ſhamefully periſhed the laſt of the great
Roman authors. In death as in life, the philoſopher
was worthy of himſelf; and his renown was nobly
* Reſpondiſſem Canii verbo : qui cum a Cæſare Germanici filio
conſcius contra ſe factæ conjurationis fuiſſe diceretur; Si ego,
inquit, ſciſſem, tu neſciſſes.-L. 1. pros. iv,
14
Boëthius.
won and richly deſerved. Few books have had a
“ fitter audience” than the priſon-book of Boëthius.
The curious in ſuch matters will find in the Delphin
edition of the “ De Conſolatione Philoſophiæ” a
long liſt of eulogies from illuitrious pens; but to
Engliſhmen it will be enough to mention that Alfred
the Great thought it worthy of a tranſlation into
Saxon, and executed it himſelf; and that this book
was the chief companion and ſolace of Elizabeth in
her time of confinement and trouble. Two nobler
readers and lovers no author ever yet obtained.
When we conſider that Boëthius was a Chriſtian,
and that, beſides his book on the Trinity, he had
compoſed other religious works, we may be ſur-
priſed that his priſon hours were not employed in
writing a Conſolatio Religicnis rather than a Conſolatio
Philofophia. The influence of his Chriſtianity is
doubtleſs to be traced in his work, and it poſſeſſes
a deeply religious character ; but it might almoſt
have been written by a pious Greek who had never
heard of the Saviour. There is no alluſion to
Chriſt throughout the book. All the quotations
are from pagan authors.
He diſcourſes upon the
vanity of all temporal things, diſcuſſes queſtions of
Good and Evil, Fate and Providence, Neceſſity and
Free-will, in the Platonic ſpirit, and the virtue of
that greateſt of the Greeks, and not the faith of
the Chriſtian, is his higheſt ſource of happineſs-
authors. He diſcourſes

Boëthius.
15
nay, is happineſs itſelf. It is the pureſt example
we have of an author adhering rigidly to his theſis.
There are no indications that Boëthius knew of or
felt a deeper or a purer ſource of conſolation than
philoſophy. His placing Providence above Fate
is Chriſtian in its thought, but its treatment is
fimply philoſophic. Socrates and his ſublime death,
and not Chriſt and His ſtill ſublimer life, ſuffering,
and facrifice, is his example. The martyrdom of
the Apoſtles and the early Chriſtians are paſſed over,
and the Chriſtian philoſopher finds his peace in, and
gathers his conſolation and encouragement from,
the heroes of pagan antiquity. This is a curious
-perhaps an unexampled—inſtance of a man who
has known the higheſt, ſeeking in the hour of his
deepeſt ſuffering and ſorrow, and finding joy and
peace and conſolation in, a lower element of thought
and inquiry. A man, who has known the bleſſed-
neſs of Chriſtianity, voluntarily turns from that pure
and holy and never failing ſource, and in the hour
of adverſity and death ſeeks his peace and places
his hopes in the cold region of abſtract and abſtruſe
philoſophy. The caſe is unique in the hiſtory of
letters.
Paſſing over this peculiarity, the “Conſolatio
is a noble book. It is worthy of being the cloſing
work of the claſſic mind. In its pages are enſhrined
the pureſt and the nobleſt thoughts of old philo-
a
16
Boëthius.
ſophy. A finer eulogy of virtue and its benign and
univerſal bleſſings was never penned. To the lone
man in exile and ſuffering appears the divine viſion
of Philoſophy, and holds high diſcourſe with the
favoured priſoner on life, and death, and virtue, and
happineſs; on good and evil, on “fate, free-will,
foreknowledge abſolute,” and all the moot queſtions
of philoſophy and metaphyſics, in a high and noble
tone, which recalls to mind the nobleſt of the
Platonic Dialogues. The work is divided into
five books; and in ſhort chapters of alternate proſe
and verſe, ſomewhat in the manner of ſtrophe and
antiſtrophe, the various ſubjects are diſcuſſed.
The verſe portions are moral deductions from, or
illuſtrations of, the proſe diſcourſe; ſome of them
of much beauty, and poſſeſſing a pure vein of
poetry. The mind thus thrown entirely upon itſelf,
cut off from the outer world and all its ſnares and
attractions, finds that wealth, and ſtation, and fame,
and the things which are uſually the prizes for which
men ſtruggle, are after all but vanity of vanities.
It echoes the cry of Solomon ; and exclaims to all
theſe things, “vanitas vanitatum.” But, unlike
,
the ſceptic of Eccleſiaſtes, the Roman does not reſt
here. He ſeeks for confolation and peace in the
great Author of all things, and finds that, although
the golden apples of the world are but aſhes in the
mouth, God and virtue are realities, and in them
Boëthius.
17
happineſs is to be found. Earth is not to him a vr;
wild weltering chaos, but a divinely-ordered place in
which men are to be tried and teſted ; and thus
proſperity and adverſity are but miniſters in the
hands of the All-wiſe to lead men to Him the one
and only good. Hear how eloquently Boëthius
diſcourſes on adverſity “For I deem that adver- v
ſity is better than proſperity. The one always
deceives, even when under the appearance of felicity
it ſeems flattery ; the other is always true, even
when by changing it proves its mutability. The one
deceives, the other inſtructs. The one, by the lying
pretence of good things, fetters the minds of thoſe
who enjoy it; the other ſets them free by the
knowledge of their fragile happineſs. Thus thou
feeſt the one fluctuating, careleſs, and always igno-
rant of itſelf; the other fober, active, and prudent,
by the exerciſe of adverſity itſelf. Laſtly, proſperity,
by its blandiſhments, draws men away from the true
good; while adverſity, for the moſt part, reclaims
them, bringing them back to the true good. Doſt
thou think that it is to be judged the leaſt of its
benefits, that this ſharp and rigorous fortune
has detected the minds of thy faithful, that the
ſhowed thee the ſteady and the doubtful faces of
your companions, and departing took away her own
and left thee thine ? At how great a price wouldſt
thou have purchaſed this privilege, when thou
0
18
Boëthius.
*
thoughteſt thyſelf fortunate ? Ceaſe, then, to regret
thy loſt wealth ; thou haſt found friends, which is
the moſt precious kind of riches."
I ſaid that Boëthius, though diſcuſſing his ſubject
as a philoſopher and not as a Chriſtian, could not
entirely keep himſelf free from Chriſtian influences.
This is admirably illuſtrated by his diſtinction be-
tween Providence and Fate, and by his general views
of God and His “ways to me.” What a contraſt
the following paſſage offers to anything found in
philoſophy before Chriſtianity:t
« The generation
of all things, and the whole progreſs of mutable
natures, and whatever is altered in any manner,
derives its cauſes, order, and form from the
ſtability of the Divine mind.
This Divine mind,
compoſed in the fortreſs of his own fimplicity,
appoints a diverſified mode for the carrying on of
affairs, which mode, when ſeen in the purity of
the Divine intelligence, is named Providence ; but,
when referred to thoſe things which it moves and
diſpoſes, was called by the ancients Fate. That
theſe are different will eaſily appear, if one conſider
the import of each. For Providence is that Divine
Reaſon itſelf conſtituted in the Great Sovereign of
all, which diſpoſeth all things : but Fate is a diſpoſi-
* Etenim plus hominibus reor adversam quam prosperam pro-
deffe fortunam, &c.-L. II. pros. viii.
+ L. IV. pros. iii. Duncan's tranſlation,
Boëthius.
19
tion inherent in mutable things, by which Providence
connects each of them in their
proper
orders. For
Providence comprehends all things together, how-
ever different, however infinite ; but Fate puts
them ſeverally in motion, diſtributed in places,
forms and times. So that this determination of
temporal order, united in the view of the Divine
mind, is Providence ; but the ſame aſſemblage of
3
things arranged, and diſplayed in time, is called
Fate, which, though they be different, yet depend
the one upon the other. For the order of Fate pro-
ceeds from the ſimplicity of Providence. For, as
an artiſt forming in his mind the idea of a piece of
work, ſets about the performance of it; and what
he had ſeen ſimply, and at one view, he carries on
orderly, and in proceſs of time. So God, by His
Providence, determines things to be done, particu-
larly and unalterably ; but by Fate he carries on
thoſe ſame things which he has determined in various
manners and at different times.
All
things which are under the influence of Fate, are
alſo ſubject to Providence, to which Fate itſelf too
is ſubordinate. But ſome things which are placed
under Providence tranſcend the chain of Fate'; and
theſe are ſuch as, being firmly fixed near the Supreme
Divinity, ſurpaſs the rank of moveable Fate." With
the ancients, Zeus himſelf was ſubordinate to Fate,
was bound and fettered by its greater power; and
02
20
Boëthius.
are
God, their to beov, was the ſlave to an inexorable will
above his own. To the more modern philoſopher,
to the philoſopher who had drunk from the wells
of Chriſtian life, Fate is but the miniſter of Provi-
v dence, or God. By this and ſimilar paſſages,
though not by any direct reference on his part, do
we diſcern the influence of Chriſtianity on the philſo-
ſophy of Boëthius.
God is alſo with him a creator, a father, a friend,
and a judge. His ideas of the “All-ſuſtainer
.
clear and well defined to a degree which the wiſeſt
pagans never attained.
“ But I know,” he ſays,
" that God the Creator doth preſide over his own
He knows alſo that the world is
"
governed by God.”+ That men " are before the
eyes of a judge who ſees all things.” I The follow-
ing verſes anticipate Milton's great prayer:
work.”*
“ Da, pater, auguſtam menti conſcendere ſedem,
Da fontem luſtrare buni, da luce reperta
In te confpicuos animi defigere viſus.
Disjice terrenæ nebulas et pondera molis,
Atque tuo fplendore mica : tu namque ferenum,
Tu requies tranquilla piis: te cernere, finis,
Principium, vector, dux, ſemita, terminus idem.” §
+ Ibid.
* L. 1. pros. vi.
I L. V. pros.
vi.
§ I give Duncan's tranſlation of this paſſage, which, though not
a very poetic one, will convey the meaning of Boëthius to those who
do not read Latin.
“ Raiſe me, O Father! to th' auguſt abode
Of mind; give me to view the Source of Good;
Boëthius.
21
L
<
Our author's diſcuſſion on Good and Evil is a fine
ſpecimen of his dialectic ſkill; but like all diſcuſſions
upon thoſe fruitful topics, it leads to no ſatisfactory
reſults. Of its origin and purpoſes in the world,
we get no new light from Boëthius. In fact, he
dwells but little upon this part of the ſubject, and
treats of good and evil more in the concrete than
in the abſtract, and ends by proving the non-exiſt-
ence of the latter, in the popular ſenſe of the
word. He ſhows that good is the one proper and
natural purpoſe of man.
Goodneſs is ſtrength ;
badneſs, weakneſs. The good “are ;
» the bad
“ are not. ” Goodneſs is poſitive, actual ; badneſs
or evil is negative, unreal; in fact, “is not ” at
all, but ſimply appears to be. Boëthius upon
ſo
knotty a point, as is but fair, ſhall ſpeak for him-
ſelf. He ſays, “And this indeed may ſeem wonder-
ful to ſome, that we ſay of the wicked, who are the
greater number of men, that they are not; but ſo
it is. For they who are wicked I do not diſown, I
do not diſown that they are wicked; but that the
ſame men are' purely and fimply, I deny. For,
1
)
1
?
Give me to find the Light, and ſtedfaſtly
To fix
my
mental
eyes
intent on Thee.
Diſpel the milts and weight of earthy dregs,
And in Thy ſplendour ſhine ; for Thou art light
And all ſerene, affording peaceful reſt
To pious ſouls; to ſee Thee is our end,
Beginning, guide, conductor, path, and bound."
L. 3, metrum ix.
22
Boëthius.
C
C
as you may call a dead man a carcaſe, but cannot
call him fimply a man, fo I will grant that vicious
men are wicked; but that they are abſolutely, I
cannot allow. For that is which retains its rank,
and keeps to nature; but that which deviates from
this, forſakes' being, which conſiſts in the nature
of itſelf. But you will ſay the wicked can do ſome-
thing; nor will I deny it. But this power
of theirs
proceeds not from ſtrength, but from weakneſs.
For they can do evil, which they could not do if
they had been able to continue in the doing of good.
Which kind of power demonſtrates more evidently
that they can do nothing. For if, as we have con-
cluded a little before, evil is nothing ; ſince the
wicked can only do evil, it is clear that they can do
nothing." And ſo the philoſopher runs on prov-
are
ing that wicked men can commit injuries and
wrongs,
and yet can do nothing; that evil is, and
yet is not, through ſome pages of fine dialectic
ratiocination. The affertion that the wicked "
not,' ” calls to mind St. Paul's words on thoſe who
“ are dead in treſpaſſes and fins.” The Apoſtle
and the philoſopher mean the ſame thing. Goodneſs,
holineſs, and purity alone being true life, and the
wicked having forſaken this true life, may in fact
be ſaid not to live at all, but to be “ dead in tres-
paſſes and fins.”
Sentences and paſſages of great beauty are ſcattered
Boëthius.
23
in the pages of the “Conſolatio" with a liberal
hand. Tennyſon's words
" This is truth the poet ſings,
That a ſorrow's crown of ſorrow is remembering happier things,”
find their original in “Nam in omni adverſitate
fortunæ infeliciflimum genus est infortunii, fuiffe
felicem.” The verſes of a living American poet*
afford a fit tranſlation to thoſe admirable lines of
Boëthius:
66 Tu
quoque
fi vis
Lumine claro
Cernere verum,
Tramite recto
Carpere callem ;
Gaudia pelle,
Pelle timorem,
Spemque fugato,
Nec dolor adfit.
Nubila mens eſt,
Vinctaque frænis,
Hæc ubi regnant.”+
" When all error is worked out
From the heart, and from the life ;
When the ſenſuous is laid low
Through the ſpirit's holy ſtrife ;
#
" From this fpirit-land afar,
All diſturbing force ſhall flee,
Strife, nor toil, nor hope ſhall mar
Its immortal unity.”
With ſuch wiſe and lofty ſtrains, and with ſuch
* Emerſon
+ L. I. Metrum vii.
24
Boëthius.
;
pure and noble thoughts did this laſt of the Romans
ſoothe his ſoul and raiſe it to the height of such
high arguments in its laſt fad trial-hour. He
had known the ſweets of proſperity; had enjoyed
the blandiſhments of immenſe wealth ; had taſted
of the flattering draught of fame; had experienced
the attractions of power : but proſperity, wealth,
fame and
power,
he had found to be but vanities,
and that true happineſs came alone from virtue,
and virtue was the ſtrong and healthy fruit of
philoſophy. This it is, and its rich ſtyle and
flowing poeſy, that have made his book such a
favourite with all great and ſtrong minds in the
hour of their adverſity and affliction. This it is
which ſtill makes it a book precious to us all;
and which has endowed it with that immortality,
that “life beyond a life,” which Milton declared
to be the dowry of all good books. This it is
which has made men place the “ De Conſolatione
Philoſophiæ,” among the great bequeſts of anti-
quity; and enſhrined it among thoſe writings which
the world “will not willingly let die.”
The concluding ſentences of the “ Confolatio ”
are worthy of the great theme which the author dis-
cuſſes. Solemn and admonitory they ring upon our
ears as the ſolemn knell of a man bravely dying.
The voice of one removed above the petty cares,
the idle hopes, and the vain temporalities of the
1
Boëthius.
25
9
world. The warning of one about to paſs to that
land - where the wicked ceaſe from troubling, and
the weary are at reſt ;” and we feel that their
writer had indeed laid up for himſelf treaſures in
that kingdom-
“ Where falls not hail, or rain, or any ſnow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns,
And bowery hollows crowned with ſummer ſea ;”
and “where neither moth nor ruſt doth corrupt, and
where thieves do not break through and ſteal.” A
concluſion which no purely heathen writer could
have given to his work. “Nor are,” he exclaims,
“nor are our hopes in God, and prayers to him,
in vain ; which, when they are fincere, cannot be
ineffectual. Therefore, O men ! abhor vices, prac-
tiſe virtues, raiſe your minds to good hopes, addreſs
your humble prayers to heaven. Great neceſſity
of probity, if ye will not diſſemble, is laid upon
you, when ye are before the eyes of a judge who
ſees all things."
The learned and pious author of “ Latin Chriſt-
ianity,” ſays that, “Intellectually, Boëthius was
,
9) *
*
I cannot withhold from the Latin reader the original of this fine
paſſage :—“Nec fruſtra ſunt in Deo pofitæ fpes, preceſque ; quæ cum
rectæ fint, inefficaces effe non poſſunt. Averſamini igitur vitia,
colite virtutes, ad rectas ſpes animum ſublevate, humiles preces in
excelfa porrigite. Magna vobis eſt, ſi diſſimulare non vultis, neces-
ſitas indicta probitatis, cum ante oculos agitis judicis cuncta cer-
nentis.-L. v. pros. vi...
26
Boëthius.
1
the laſt of the Romans, and Roman letters may
be
said to have expired with greater dignity in his
perſon, than the empire in that of Auguſtulus.
His own age might juſtly wonder at the uni-
verſal accompliſhments of Boëthius.” * After-ages
have borne willing teſtimony to the juſtneſs of the
wonder with which his contemporaries looked upon
this laſt great maſter of Roman philoſophy.
1
* “Milman's Latin Chriſtianity,” v. i: p. 32 3..
THE EARL OF SURREY.
What reader of Engliſh Hiſtory, and what
lover of Engliſh poetry has not glowed with
admiration, and burned with indignation, while
peruſing the life and poems of the gallant Earl
of Surrey! One of the moſt chivalrous of the
fons of ſong; he was alſo one of the moſt un-
fortunate. Brave, honourable, hot-headed, ſelf-
willed child of genius, he has left behind him a
name as famous for “daring deeds of high em-
priſe,” as any of the knights-errant of old romance.
He might indeed, have been a Sir Guyon, and
was well worthy a place in the gentle Spenſer's
“ Faërie Queen;" for he was as pure as he was
brave; as virtuous as he was heroic ; as generous
as he was unfortunate; and as faithful as he was
courteous. He was the “mirror of courteſy ;"
and ſo long as men and women admire and love
the higheſt qualities of our poor human nature,
ſo long will the life and fate of the Earl of Surrey
poſſeſs a charm furpaſſing even that which his
28
The Earl of Surrey.
a
poems contain; and his biography will attract
and delight even more than his works.
But, although in his caſe, the life be of
greater
attraction than the poems, the poems are reward
enough for a careful peruſal, and their poſition
and influence in Engliſh literature will always
command the attention of every ſtudent, nor will
the general reader find himſelf a loſer by devoting
a few hours to theſe once famous verſes. Among
the very firſt of our poets to write in eaſy mea-
ſures, and a modern ſtyle, his writings contain
ſcarcely any archaic difficulties; and are much
more than could have been anticipated conſonant
with modern feeling and ſentiment. There is a
lyrical flow, and a ſenſibility to muſical effects,
which are ſurpriſing;, and we read through theſe
ſhort pieces with almoſt as much eaſë as we ſhould
any by Tennyſon. Nor is this all. Although moſt
of the poems are written under the influence of a
real or imaginary paſſion for a real or imaginary
miſtreſs, they are not monotonous. Only those who
have read the poems written in imitation of Pe-
trarch, and in celebration of ideal Lauras, can fym-
pathiſe properly with this praiſe. All Surrey's love-
pieces can be read with a keen appreciation of the
feelings under which they were written ; and ſo true is
he to himself and nature, that he wins your
active
ſympathy, and you echo his “praiſes,” or ſigh at
The Earl of Surrey.
29
his “complaint,” while he is ſinging the triumphs
or the failings, the raptures or the pains of love.
One more debt-and this the greateſt-we owe
to Surrey. And when we conſider the priceleſs
treaſure of poetry enſhrined in blank verſe in our
language—the wonders of the dramatiſts with
Shakſpeare at their head—the epic glories of
Milton—the delightful pictures of Cowper--the
unreſtrained ſweep of Thomſon's ſong—the rich
muſic and variety of Tennyſon—when we conjure
up
theſe, and the thouſand others who have made
.. blank verſe the national metre of our tongue, how
great
is our debt to the man who firſt introduced
the inſtrument on which ſo many have ſo glo-
riouſly played ! To Surrey we owe this. His
tranſlation of the Second and Fourth Books of
Virgil's Æneid,” is the firſt example of blank
verſe in Engliſh. To us, however, he has one
more point of attraction—the one which entitles
him to a place here. He was a Priſon Poet.
Surrey was among the very nobleſt of our noble
houſes. He was of the race of the Howards, and
twice had his race formed royal alliances ere he
beheld the light. Many noble and heroic anceſtors
had he to boaſt; many noble and heroic ſucceſſors
have followed ; and the name of the Howards is
dear to England; but their greateſt honour and
their greateſt claim to our admiration and praiſe is,
30
The Earl of Surrey.
the one bright and glorifying fact, that to this
ſtock belonged Surrey the Poet.
It is curious that about ſuch a man any obſcurity
ſhould reſt. Yet it is ſo. His birth-time and
place are unknown. Little, if anything certain, can
be aſcertained about his youth. Romance and
legend had gathered around his career. Impoſſible
fictions about him and his lady-love Geraldine have
been circulated, and long were fcrupulouſly believed.
The labours of Dr. Nott and others have ſcattered
all thoſe idle ſtories to their proper limbo; and a
brief narrative will now tell all that is truly known
of the Earl of Surrey. About his birth his lateſt
biographer ſays, “Neither the date nor place of the
poet's birth has been aſcertained. The traditions
that have come down to us on the ſubject are ſcanty
and uncertain. It appears probable, however, that
he was born in or about the year 1517; but
whether the event took place at Framlingham, in
Suffolk, as moſt of his biographers aſſert, Kenning-
hall, in Norfolk, which place was generally aſſociated
with his title, or Tending-hall, in Suffolk, where
his father uſually lived, cannot be determined."*
Of his education we know little, but that it was
moſt probably received at Cambridge. He could
not, however, have gone through a regular courſe
of tuition, as his education, ſuch as it was, was
* Annotated Edition of the British Poets. By Robert Bell.
The Earl of Surrey.
31
completed before his fifteenth year; for in 1526 he
was cup-bearer to the king; in 1532 he, together
with his youthful friend the Duke of Richmond,
accompanied Henry the Eighth to Boulogne. When
the “ bluff" monarch married Anne Boleyn, a
relative of Surrey's, he was appointed to carry the
fourth ſword, with the ſcabbard, upright before the
king. He was often at court, and here—but when
no one knows, “ for it is impoſſible to fix the exact
date with even a diſtant approach to accuracy,”—he
fell in love with his Geraldine. It is on this paſſion
that legend has been ſo buſy, and about which ſuch
impoſſible ſtories have been told. How he devoted
himſelf, as did the Rinaldos and the Tancreds of
the Jeruſalem Delivered, to his lady's ſervice.
How, commanded by her, he travelled through
Italy, proclaiming her beauty and virtue, and
challenging all men to combat in her behalf. How,
at Tuſcany, the native place of Geraldine's fore-
fathers, a grand tournament was held under the
auſpices of the Duke; and how the gallant Engliſh-
man bore his lady's ſleeve unſullied of them all.
This is ſo poetic, and ſo in keeping with the nature
of Surrey, that one almoſt wiſhes it were true ; but
it is not. Inexorable fact ſtands up againſt it."
Fiction, romance, legend, tournament, errant-adven-
tures, challenges to “all the world in arms,” muſt
give place to ſober truth; and all “ this baſeleſs
32
The Earl of Surrey.
a
a
fabric of a viſion” is diſperſed by ſo common place
a thing as a date. Geraldine was born in 1528.
When Surrey was about fifteen or fixteen, in 1532,
he was contracted in marriage to Lady Frances Vere,
daughter of the Earl of Oxford; to this lady he was
married in 1535; and the year in which he is ſaid
to have been tilting in Florence in honour of his
Geraldine, that charming young lady was about
ſeven years old. Except to defend the life of ſuch
a child, or to have ſaved her from ſome terrible
calamity, we cannot conceive, raſh and careleſs of
his life as he always was, that Surrey would have
expoſed himſelf to the ridicule of imperilling it in
ſuch a way for ſuch a miſtreſs. We hear of him
at jouſts, but not at Florence, nor to prove the
charms of his own lady-love, but in England in
celebration of Henry's ill-favoured match with Anne
of Cleves. Here, as might have been expected, he
acquitted himſelf as a true champion of the fair ſex,
whoſe bright eyes, doubtleſs, rained ſweet influence
on their champion. There is ſtrong reaſon for
believing that he was never in Italy at all, much
leſs in Italy as a gallant knight-errant and gay
troubadour, ſinging his fair one's graces, and fight-
ing in honour of her name. The lady, however,
is not a myth. His own account of her is clear
enough, and has been found to be literally true.
This is the poet's
The Earl of Surrey.
33
“ DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE
GERALDINE.
“ From Tuſcane came my lady's worthy race ;
Fair Florence was ſometime their ancient feat.
The weſtern iſle whose pleaſant ſhore doth face
Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat,
Foſtered ſhe was with milk of Iriſh breaſt;
Her fire an earl: her dame of prince's blood.
From tender years, in Britain doth ſhe reſt,
With kinges child; where ſhe taſteth coſtly food.
1
Hunſdon did firſt preſent her to mine eyen :
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine ſhe hight.
Hampton me taught to wiſh her firſt for mine ,
And Windſor, alas ! doth chaſe me from her ſight.
Her beauty of kind; her virtues from above ;
Happy is he that can obtain her love ! ”
The commentary on this is: her father was Gerald
Fitzgerald, ninth earl of Kildare ; her mother was
Margaret, daughter of Thomas Gray, Marquis of
Dorſet, and was of royal connection. The Geralds
were ſaid to have deſcended from the Geraldi of
Florence, and came to England in the reign of
Alfred the Great. The other part of the ſonnet is
equally borne out by fact ; and is ſufficiently explicit
in itſelf.
Henry the Eighth's reign was not a particularly
pleaſant one for the nobility. This claſs of the
community was watched with an unceaſing vigilance
of jealouſy, which made their courſe a very preca-
This day at the height of royal favour ;
to-morrow condemned to the block for treaſon. A
word, a look, a geſture, was enough to excite ſus-
rious one.
D
34
The Earl of Surrey.
not to
but a
HOVE
encor
1544
his
appc
duri
whi
laid
dei
fuc
per
to
picion ; and to be ſuſpected was to be deſtroyed.
The Howards were no exception to this capricious
feature in the king's character. From their houſe
he ſelected a wife, the fair Catherine Howard, who
perhaps deſervedly met the doom, which, deſervedly
or not, was the ordinary fate of Henry's wives.
Curiouſly enough, the beheading of Catherine did
not alienate Henry from the Howards, nor the
Howards from Henry. In ſome two months from
that event, Surrey was made a Knight of the Garter,
and that at the early age of twenty-five; and both
he and his father were employed in offices of great
truſt, confidence, and reſponſibility. Surrey had in
1540, the year of the king's marriage with Anne
of Cleves, been commiſſioned with Lord Ruſſell and
the Earl of Southampton, to put the Engliſh Pale at
Guiſnes in a proper ſtate of defence, as a war with
France was anticipated. In 1542 he bore a part,
under his father's command, in the Scottiſh war,
and was preſent at the burning of Kelſal. His
bravery was not the raſhneſs of ſimply blood and
phyſical courage ; for he was as ſkilful as he was
brave, and was moſt proficient in military know-
ledge, the guidance of which he did not neglect.
In 1543 he volunteered in the army ſent out
under Sir John Wollop, to increaſe the forces of
the Emperor Charles V., who was then at war with
France. Landrecy, near Boulogne, was beſieged, but
ca
tri
W:
m
bi
th
It
a
The Earl of Surrey.
35
not taken, for in November the ſiege was raiſed;
but during this ſhort time Surrey had ſufficiently
proved himſelf a true ſoldier, and won the warmeſt
encomiums from his commander. In the next year,
1544, the war was reſumed under the command of
his father, the Duke of Norfolk, and Surrey was
appointed marſhal ; and deſpite his brilliant conduct
during this year's campaign, it was the epoch from
which his ruin is to be dated. The Engliſh forces
laid ſiege to Montreuil in order to conceal their
deſigns on Boulogne; the ſtrategy was completely
ſucceſsful, but Surrey was ruined. The king in
perſon inveſted Boulogne, and all the proviſions,
ſtores, and munitions, found their way to the king's
camp; and through the baſeſt treachery, the Mon-
treuil forces were left without food. Complaint
was unavailing. The Earl of Hertford had deter-
mined their ruin, and there is every reaſon for
believing that this neglect was intentional, and that
the army was ſacrificed with the intention of making
its loſs a cauſe for the future facrifice of its com-
manders. Want was of courſe followed by ſickneſs;
and thoſe who remember the ſtate of our army at
Balaklava, may imagine the condition of Norfolk's
forces at Montreuil. During the fiege, our poet
performed many acts of ſignal bravery; and once
nearly loſt his life, which was only ſaved by the
heroiſm of his attendant Clere, who did not ſcruple
a
D 2
36
The Earl of Surrey.
to ſacrifice himſelf in order to ſave his loving maſter.
Surrey honoured his memory with the following
« EPITAPH.
“ Norfolk ſprung-thee; Lambeth holds thee dead;
Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight
Within the womb of Orinond's race thou bred,
And ſaw'ſt thy couſin crowned in thy ſight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase ;
(Aye me! whilſt life did laſt that league was tender)
Tracing whoſe ſteps thou ſawest Kelſal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and battered Boulogne render.
At Montreuil gates, hopeleſs of all recure,
Thine earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will ;
Which cauſe did thee this pining death procure,
Ere ſummers four times ſeven thou couldſt fulfill.
Ah! Clere ! if love had booted, care, or coſt,
Heaven had not won, nor earth ſo timely loſt.”
We ſcarcely know which to admire moſt, the fidelity
of the attendant which could deſerve, or the love of
the maſter which could inſpire ſuch an eulogy.
Surrey was now rapidly approaching his fate.
He had twice been in priſon for youthful faults, he
was now to enter one which he only quitted for the
block.
In 1542 he was ſent to the Fleet for
challenging a certain John à Leigh to fight. After
a few weeks' durance he was liberated upon entering
into his own recognizance of 10,000 marks not to
moleſt the ſaid John à Leigh in the future. In
1543, like an ancient Marquis of Waterford, he,
with Wyatt and Pickering in a drunken freak,
ruſhed about the town, battering the doors and
The Earl of Surrey.
37
;
ſmaſhing the windows of ſundry citizens. He was alſo
charged with having eaten fleſh in Lent. He pleaded
guilty to both indictments; but for the firſt offence
produced a licence; for the ſecond he was again ſent
to the Fleet. During his incarceration he is ſaid
to have written his firſt Priſon Poem, entitled
“ A SATIRE AGAINST THE CITIZENS OF LONDON.
" London! haſt thou accuſed me
Of breach of laws ? the root of ſtrife !
Within whoſe breaſt did boil to ſee,
So fervent hot, thy diſſolute life;
That even the hate of fins that grow
Within thy wicked walls ſo rife,
For to break forth did convert ſo,
That terror could it not repreſs.
The which, by words, ſince preachers know
What hope is left for to redreſs,
By unknown means it liked me,
My hidden hurthen to expreſs.
Whereby it might appear to thee,
That ſecret fin hath ſecret ſpite;
From) uſtice' rod no fault is free,
But that all ſuch as work unright
In moſt quiet, are next ill reſt.
In ſecret filence of the night
This made me with a reckleſs breaſt,
To wake thy Nuggards with my bow:
A figure of the Lord's beheſt,
Whoſe ſcourge for fin the Scriptures ſhew.
That as the fearful thunder's clap
By ſudden flame at hand we know;
Of pebble ſtones the foundleſs rap,
The dreadful plague might make thee ſee
Of God's wrath that doth thee enwrap.
That pride might know, from conſcience free,
How lofty works may her defend;
And
envy
find as he hath fought,
38
The Earl of Surrey.
:
:
How other ſeek him to offend :
And wrath taſte of each cruel thought,
The juſt ſhape higher in the end :
And idle ſloth, that never wrought,
To heaven his ſpirit lift may begin :
And greedy lucre live in dread,
To ſee what hate ill got goods win.
The letchers, ye that luſts do feed,
Perceive what ſecreſy is in fin :
And gluttons' hearts for ſorrow bleed,
Awaked, when their fault they find :
In loathſome vice each drunken wight,
To ſtir to God, this was my mind.
Thy windows had done me no ſpight;
But proud people that dread no fall,
Clothed with falſehood and unright
Bred in the cloſures of thy wall,
Wreſted to wrath my fervent zeal
Thou hast; to ſtrife my ſecret call.
Indured hearts no warning feel.
O! ſhameleſs whore ! is dread then gone ?
Be ſuch thy foes, as meant thy weal ?
O! member of falſe Babylon !
The ſhop of craft! the den of ire !
Thy dreadful doom draws faſt upon.
Thy martyrs' blood by ſword and fire,
In heaven and earth for juſtice call.
The Lord fhall hear their juft deſire !
The flame of wrath ſhall on thee fall !
With famine, and peſt lamentably
Stricken ſhall be thy lechers all.
Thy proud towers, and turrets high
Enemies to God, beat ſtone from ſtone:
Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity :
When none thy ruin ſhall bemoan ;
But render unto the righteous Lord,
That ſo hath judged Babylon,
Immortal praiſe with one accord.”
This is an extraordinary poem to have been
written in 1543. The irony is well ſuſtained; the
The Earl of Surrey.
39
On
ſatire is ſharp and biting ; and the citizens are
duly dowered with the vices which they puniſhed
in the poet. His next Priſon Poem is of a graver
kind; a deeper vein; and far more worthy (worthy
as the fatire is) of the poet's genius.
The machinations of his enemies were gaining
ſtrength day by day. Still Surrey purſued his courſe
with his wonted bravery and chivalrous daring. Mr.
Robert Bell has given ſo admirable a ſummary of
the events immediately preceding his arreſt, that we
cannot do better than quote it. He ſays,
Chriſtmas day, Surrey attended a chapter of the
garter at Hampton Court, and was preſent, in the
following April, on a ſimilar occaſion at Greenwich.
During this period, he was actively employed in
raiſing and equipping men for a new expedition for
the defence of Boulogne, and having been appointed
to the command of the vanguard of five thouſand
men, he croſſed over to Calais in Auguſt. He was
,
Ahortly afterwards placed in the command of Guiſnes,
from whence he was removed, at his own ſolicita-
tion, to Boulogne. This was the poſt of honour
and danger, and his appointment to it evinces the
confidence repoſed in his capacity. He applied him-
ſelf with energy to the taſk of putting the place into
a proper ſtate of defence, and was inceſſantly occupied
in ſkirmiſhes and forties. By one of theſe ſudden
movements which characteriſed his operations, he
40
The Earl of Surrey.
compelled the French to relinquiſh an important po-
ſition at Outreau, and at another time diſperſed their
fleet, the Engliſh admiral taking ſeven ſail of their
line, laden with wine and proviſions. But a reverſe
awaited him that caſt a ſhadow over theſe brilliant
ſucceſſes. In an attempt to intercept the enemy
with inferior numbers, near St. Etienne, in January,
1545-6, a portion of his force was ſeized with panic,
and fled in diſorder; and, although the loſs on the
ſide of the French was greater than that of the Eng-
liſh, the iſſue could not be otherwiſe regarded than
as a diſaſtrous defeat. It has been ſuppoſed that
this misfortune led to his recal ; yet it is certain that
he remained three months longer in his command,
and that he had ſo little to imagine that he had fallen
under the king's cenſure, that he forwarded a requeſt
to his majeſty that his counteſs might be permitted
to join him at Boulogne, which was not acceded to,
on account of the apprehenſions that were entertained
of an approaching ſiege. The firſt intimation he
received of having incurred the royal diſpleaſure,
was the appointment of Lord Hertford as the king's
lieutenant-general within the Engliſh Pale in France;
and Paget, the king's private ſecretary, who com-
municated the news, ſtrongly adviſed him, as a
means of avoiding worſe conſequences, to ſolicit
ſome command under Hertford, rather than remain
ſuſpended and inactive. Surrey's pride revolted from
The Earl of Surrey.
41
this ſuggeſtion ; and, early in April, 1547, Lord
Gray was placed in the local command at Boulogne,
and Surrey ſummoned to England, oſtenſibly for the
purpoſe of affording information on the ſubject of
the fortifications. Diſguiſed by a little official
courteſy, this ſummons was, in effect, a recal."*
It was not the method of Henry to be laggard in
his perſecutions. He was often long before he ſtruck,
but when he did it was at once and effectively.
There was no hope for any one who had fallen under
his diſpleaſure. His was not the throne at which
to look for mercy. The noble victim of royal, and
of Hertford's jealouſy, was not fawning enough,
nor careful enough, not to afford his enemies a
ſpeedy opportunity of attack. He was loud and
bitter in his aſſaults on his ſupplanter. He uttered
his complaints, where they ſoon reached the king,
and as theſe complaints reflected on the royal doings,
Surrey was ſoon impriſoned in Windſor Caſtle.
Here, according to the beſt authorities, ſupported
by the intrinſic evidence of the poem itſelf, he
wrote
“ PRISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS
PLEASURE THERE PASSED.
“ So cruel priſon how could betide, alas,
As proud Windſor, where I in luſt and joy,
With a Kinges ſon, my
childiſh years
In greater feaſts than Priam's fons of Troy.
did paſs,
* Annotated Edition of the Poets.-Surrey.
42
4
The Earl of Surrey.
Where each ſweet place returns a taſte full ſour;
The large green courts where we were wont to hove,
With
eyes
caſt
up
into the maiden's tower,
And
easy ſighs, ſuch as folk draw in love.
The ſtately ſeats, the ladies bright of hue,
The dances ſhort, long tales of great delight;
With words and looks that tigers could but rue ;
Where each of us did plead the other's right.
The palme-play, where, deſpoiled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love
Have miſſed the ball, and got ſight of our dame.
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.
The gravelled ground, with ſleeves tied on the helm,
On foaming horfe, with ſwords and friendly hearts ;
With chere, as though one ſhould another whelm,
Where we have fought, and chaſed oft with darts,
With ſilver drops the mead yet ſpread for ruth,
In active games of nimbleneſs and ſtrength,
Where we did ſtrain, trained with ſwarms of youth,
Our tender limbs, that yet ſhot
up
in length.
The ſecret groves, which oft we made reſound
Of pleaſant plaint, and of our ladies' praiſe ;
Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of ſpeed, what dread of long delays.
The wild foreſt, the clothed holts with green ;
With reins availed, and ſwiftly-breathed horſe,
With cry of hounds, and merry blaſts between;
Where we did chaſe the fearful hart of force.
The void walls eke, that harboured us each night :
Wherewith, alas ! reviveth in
my
breaſt
The ſweet accord, ſuch ſleeps as yet delight;
The pleaſant dreams, the quiet bed of reſt ;
The ſecret thoughts, imparted with ſuch truſt;
The wanton talk, the divers change of play;
The friendſhip ſworn, each promiſe kept ſo juſt,
Wherewith we paſſed the winter night away.
And with this thought the blood forſakes the face ;
The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue;
The which, as ſoon as fobbing fighs, alas!
Up-fupped have, thus I my plaint renew :
60! place of bliſs ! renewer of iny woes!
Give me account where is my noble fere?
The Earl of Surrey.
43
Whom in thy walls thou doſt each night encloſe ;
To other lief; but unto me most dear!'
Echo, alas ! that doth my ſorrow rue,
Returns thereto a hollow ſound of plaint.
Thus I, alone, where all freedom grew,
In priſon pine, with bondage and reſtraint.
And with remembrance of the greater grief,
To baniſh the leſs, I find my chief relief."*
my
a
He was for ſome reaſon or other releaſed from
Windfor, and in Auguſt of the ſame year was at
Hampton Court on the reception of the French
Ambaſſador. In December he was again arreſted;
and this time ſent to the Tower, whence he eſcaped
only by the uſual method—the block. The trial
was like moſt of the ſtate trials of the period, a mere
mockery. He was charged with having ſpoken ill
of the new nobility, of having diſſuaded perſons from
reading too far in the Scriptures, and of having
quartered the royal arms on his eſcutcheon. This
was his chief crime, although Surrey in doing ſo was
only aſſerting a right which was his, and had been
his anceſtors' ſince the time of Richard the Second.
All right was, however, ſet aſide; all queſtions of
juſtice were of no avail. Before his arreft, his fate
was determined, and he was only one more added
to the long liſt of ſtate victims which make
Henry's reign ſuch a bloody one in our annals.
The noble victim bore himſelf nobly before the
* Where the greater malady is fixed,
The leſſer is ſcarce felt.-LEAR.
44
The Earl of Surrey.
Privy Council. He denied the charges, and de-
manded a public trial, or, in the ſpirit of a true
knight-errant, aſked to be allowed to decide the
cauſe by ſingle combat; had this been permitted,
he was willing to lay aſide the protection of his
armour, and fight his accuſer in his ſhirt. Of
courſe, both appeals were refuſed. On the 13th
of January, 1547, he was condemned to death, and
on the 21ſt, in the thirtieth year of his age,
he
was beheaded on Tower Hill. Mr. Froude en-
deavours to exculpate the king; but after a careful
examination of his facts, we muſt ſtill adhere to
the popular verdict on this ſubject. Mr. Bell thus
defcribes his trial :-"One witneſs detailed a pre-
.
tended converſation, in which he boaſted of an
inſolent anſwer he had made to Surrey. The only
notice Surrey took of this ſtatement was to turn to
the jury, obſerving, 'I leave it to yourſelves, gentle-
men, to judge whether it were probable that this man
ſhould ſpeak thus to the Earl of Surrey, and he
not ſtrike him. His courage in theſe deſperate
circumſtances was as unavailing as his innocence.
The jury, compoſed of Norfolk men, amongſt
whom it is painful to find the names of two near
relations of the devoted Clere, found him guilty.
At that moment Henry the VIII., to uſe Hollin-
fed's expreſſion, which faintly depicts the laſt agonies
of that bloated maſs of corruption, was lying in the
The Earl of Surrey.
45
extremities of death. It is matter of hiſtory that
for ſome time he had been incapable of affixing his
ſignature to the inſtruments of ſtate, and that the
ſtamp which repreſented his autograph had, at leaſt
in one inſtance, been ſurreptitiouſly employed. How
far Hertford may be reſponſible for haſtening the
execution of Surrey's fentence, by the aid of the
facility thus afforded him, or whether the warrant
was expedited to gratify the laſt ſanguinary luſt of
the Engliſh Nero, muſt be left to conjecture. The
execution took place within eight days after the
ſentence. Surrey was condemned to death on the
13th of January, 1547, in the thirtieth year of
his age, and beheaded on the 21ſt, on Tower Hill.
The king expired within a week, and the Duke of
Norfolk, whom the world could better have ſpared,
was ſaved.
“ All the circumſtances connected with the laſt
hours of Surrey were carefully ſuppreſſed, and the
execution was conducted with as much ſecrecy as
poſſible; but there can be no doubt that he met
his death with fortitude. His remains were buried
in the church of All Hallows-Barking, Tower-ſtreet,
and were afterwards removed to Framlingham, in
Suffolk, by his ſecond ſon, the Earl of Northamp-
ton, who erected a monument, with an inſcription
to his memory.
Annotated Edition of the Poets.
> *
*
46
The Earl of Surrey.
We turn with pleaſure from this fad recital, to
the poet's works. As has already been ſaid, they
form an epoch in our literary hiſtory. Warton
ſays that “Surrey, for his juſtneſs of thought,
correctneſs of ſtyle, and purity of expreſſion, may
juſtly be pronounced the firſt Engliſh claſſical poet."
Our extracts will fully prove the truth of this
praiſe. He has many claims to our admiration.
He had a love for Nature, which often peeps out,
rather than is oftentatiouſly obtruded in his poems.
His “ Deſcription of the Reſtleſs ſtate of the Lover
when abſent from the Miſtreſs of his heart," is a
beautiful inſtance of his love for Nature, and the
grace and flow of his verſification. It is too long
to quote entire; but the following paſſage will
amply bear out our remarks :-
a
“ The ſun, when he hath ſpread his rays,
And ſhewed his face ten thouſand ways;
Ten thouſand things do then begin
To ſhew the life that they are in.
The heaven Thews lively art and hue,
On ſundry ſhapes and colours new,
And laughs upon the earth ; anon,
The earth as cold as any ſtone,
Wet in the tears of her own kind,
'Gims then to take a joyful mind.
For well ſhe feels, that out and out,
The ſun doth warm her round about,
And dries her children tenderly;
And ſhews them forth all orderly.
The mountains high, and how they ſtand,
The valleys, and the great main land !
The Earl of Surrey.
47
The trees, the herbs, the towers ſtrong,
The caſtles, and the rivers long !
And even for joy, thus of this heat,
She ſheweth forth her pleaſures great,
And ſleeps no more; but fendeth forth
Her clergions, her own dear worth,
To mount and fly up to the air ;
Where then they sing in order fair,
And tell in ſong full merrily.
How they have nept full quietly
That night, about their mother's ſides.
And when they have ſung more beſides,
Then fall they to their mother's breaſt,
Whereas they feed, or take their reſt.
The hunter then ſounds out his horn,
And rangeth ſtraight through wood and corn.
On hills, then ſhew the ewe and lamb,
And every young one with his dam.
The lovers walk, and tell their tale,
Both of their bliſs and of their bale ;
And how they ſerve, and how they do,
And how their lady loves them too.
Then tune the birds their harmony;
Then flock the fowl in company;
Then everything doth pleasure ſind
In that, that comforts all their kind.
No dreams do drench them of the night
Of foes that would them Nay or bite,
As hounds, to hunt them at the tail
;
Or men force them through hill and dale.
The ſheep then dreams not of the wolf;
The ſhipman forces not the gulf;
The lamb thinks not the butcher's knife
Should then bereave him of his life.
For when the ſun doth once run in,
Then all their gladneſs doth begin ;
And then their ſkips and then their play,
So falls their ſadneſs then away.”
This, every one will confeſs, is an admirable ſpe-
cimen of Surrey's maſtery of verſification, and one
48
The Earl of Surrey.
that will bear compariſon with the works of greater
poets. Milton has been a little indebted to this
piece, and other fingers have not ſcrupled to borrow
from the earlier bard. His love of Nature is finely
ſhown in the fonnet called
" DESCRIPTION OF SPRING.
"WHEREIN EVERYTHING RENEWS, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.
“ The foote ſeaſon, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale.
The nightingale, with feathers new, ſhe ſings ;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for
every ſpray now ſprings,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ;
The buck in brake his winter coat he ſlings;
The fiſhes flete with new repaired ſcale ;
The adder all her fough away ſhe ſings;
The ſwift ſwallow purſueth the flies ſmale
The buſy bee her honey now ſhe mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale;
And thus I ſee, among theſe pleaſant things,
Each care decays, and yet my ſorrow ſprings !
"
To illuſtrate the muſical flow of Surrey's ſtyle
we ſelect another poem, in which
“ THE LOVER EXCUSETH HIMSELF OF SUSPECTED
CHANGE.
“ Though I regarded not
The promiſe made by me;
Or paſſed not to ſpot
My faith and honeſty :
Yet were my fancy ſtrange,
And wilful will to wite,
The Earl of Surrey.
49
If I ſought now to change
A falcon for a kite.
All men might well deſpraiſe
My wit and enterpriſe,
If I eſteemed a peſe
Above a pearl in price ;
Or judged the owl in ſight
The ſparhawk to excel ;
Which flieth but in the night,
As all men know right well.
Or if I ſought to ſail
Into the brittle port,
When anchor hold doth fail
To ſuch as do reſort ;
And leave the haven ſure,
Where blows no bluftering wind;
Nor fickleneſs in ure
So far north as I find.
No! think me not ſo light,
Nor of fo churliſh kind,
Though it lay in my might
My bondage to unbind;
That I would leave the hind
To hunt the gander's foe ;
No! no ! I have no mind
To make exchanges ſo.
Nor yet to change at all ;
For think, it may not be
That I ſhould ſeek to fall
From my felicity.
Deſirous for to win,
And loth for to forego;
Or new change to begin ;
How may all this be ſo ?
The fire it cannot freeze,
For it is not his kind ;
Nor true love cannot lefe
The conſtance of the mind;
E
50
The Earl of Surrey.
Yet as ſoon ſhall the fire
Want heat to blaze and burn;
As I in ſuch deſire
Have once a thought to turn.
Surrey was the boſom friend of Sir Thomas
Wyatt; and to this friendſhip we are indebted for
three noble poems.
Theſe elegies on the death of
his friend are among our poet's happieſt efforts.
Noble, manly, generous, and poetically beautiful,
they are alike honourable to the man whoſe memory
inſpired, and to him whoſe love produced them.
Of the one which we ſhall quote, Mr. Robert Bell
truly ſays, “The character drawn in this moſt
affecting elegy is one of the nobleſt and pureſt
human nature can either attain or conceive. It
combines the higheſt moral virtues with great intel-
lectual vigour, taſte, and learning; knowledge of
mankind, with conſummate ſkill in the practical
affairs of life; and all the graces and accompliſh-
ments of the time, with a perſon equally diſtin-
guiſhed by ſtrength and beauty. If we cannot
quite agree with Dr. Nott, that Surrey could not
have fixed upon Wyatt's virtues as a theme of
panegyric, unleſs he had reflected them in his own
character, we recogniſe in his ſelection of topics,
and the earneſtneſs with which he dwells upon them,
thoſe fine qualities of the judgment and the heart
which united the poets in a bond of ſympathy and
The Earl of Surrey.
51
affection.” *
We now give the elegy thus admi-
rably deſcribed.
" *
"OF THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS WYATT.
“ Wyatt reſteth here, that quick could never reſt;
Whoſe heavenly gifts increaſed by diſdain ;
And virtue fank the deeper in his breaſt :
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head, whoſe wiſdom myſteries did frame ;
Whoſe hammers beat ſtill in that lively brain,
As on a ſtithe, where that ſure work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain.
A viſage ſtern and mild ; where both doth grow,
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice :
Amid great ſtorms, whom grace aſſured ſo,
To live upright and ſmile at fortune's choice.
A hand that taught what might be ſaid in rhyme ;
There reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;
A mark, the which (un perfected in time),
Some may approach, but never none ſhall hit :
A tongue that ſerved in foreign realms his king,
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our Engliſh youth by travail unto fame.
An
eye, whoſe judgment none affect could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ;
Whoſe piercing look did repreſent a mind
With virtue fraught, repoſed void of guile.
A heart, where dread was never ſo impreſt
To hide the thought that might the truth advance !
In neither fortune loſt, nor yet repreſt,
To ſwell in wealth, or yield unto miſchance.
A valiant corpſe, where force and beauty met:
Happy, alas ! too happy, but for foes,
* Annotated Edition of the Poets.-Surrey, p. 89. Note.
E 2
52
The Earl of Surrey.
Lived and ran the race that nature ſet;
Of manhood's ſhape, where ſhe the mould did loſe.
But to the heavens that ſimple ſoul is fled,
Which left, with ſuch as covet Chriſt to know,
Witneſs of faith that never ſhall be dead;
Sent for our health, but not received fo.
Thus for our guilt this jewel have we loſt;
The earth his bones, the heavens poffeſs his ghoſt.
Beſides his claims as an original poet, Surrey is
among the very firſt who introduced the claſſical
literature of Rome to his unlettered countrymen.
The father of Engliſh blank verſe, in which meaſure
he tranſlated the ſecond and fourth books of the
Æneid, muſt for ever hold a venerable place in the
hearts of all lovers of poetry. Of this firſt work,
in the moſt potent of all our verſifications, we ſhall
give two ſpecimens. Before doing which, how-
ever, we muſt quote his tranſlation from Martial,
according to Mr. Bell, “one of the earlieſt ſpeci-
mens in our language;" and we direct the reader's
attention to the ſelection which Surrey has made.
The poems which a man loves are as good a cri-
terion of his own taſtes, nature, and character, as
are the original productions of his muſe. When
Surrey tranſlates or adapts, it is from the Pſalms,
Eccleſiaſtes, the Æneid, or from Martial.
" THE MEANS TO ATTAIN A HAPPY LIFE.
“ Martial, the things that do attain
The happy life, be theſe, I find :
The Earl of Surrey.
53
The riches left, not got with pain ;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind :
The equal friend, no grudge, no ſtrife ;
No change of rule, nor governance ;
Without diſeaſe, the healthful life;
The houſehold of continuance :
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wiſdom joined with ſimpleneſs ;
The night diſcharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppreſs:
The faithful wife, without debate ;
Such Neeps as may beguile the night.
Contented with thine own eſtate ;
Ne wiſh for Death, ne fear his might.”
The following extract is from the Æneid ; it
;
is the opening of the ſecond book, where the hero
is about to narrate to Dido the fall of Troy :-
They whiſted all, with fixed face attent,
When prince Æneas from the royal ſeat
Thus gan to ſpeak: 'O Queen! it is thy will
I ſhould renew a woe cannot be told :
How that the Greeks did ſpoil, and overthrow
The Phrygian wealth, and wailful realm of Troy :
Thoſe ruthful things that I myſelf beheld;
And whereof no ſmall part fell to my ſhare.
Which to expreſs, who could refrain from tears ?
What Myrmidon ? or yet what Dolopes ?
What ſtern Ulyſſes' waged ſoldier ?
And lo! moiſt night now from the welkin falls ;
And ſtars declining counſel us to reſt.
But ſince ſo great is thy delight to hear
Of our miſhaps, and Troye's laſt decay;
Though to record the fame my mind abhors,
And plaint eſchews, yet thus will I begin.'
The next extract is the account of the death of
54
The Earl of Surrey.
the deſerted and unhappy queen, and is towards the
end of the fourth book :-
“ But trembling Dido eagerly now bent
Upon her ſtern determination ;
Her bloodſhot eyes rolling within her head ;
Her quivering cheeks flecked with deadly ſtain,
Both pale and wan to think on death to come ;
Into the inward wards of her palace
She ruſheth in, and clamb up, as diſtraught,
The burial ſtack, and drew the Trojan ſword,
Her gift ſometime, but meant to no ſuch uſe,
Where when ſhe ſaw his weed, and well knowen bed,
Weeping awhile in ſtudy 'gan the ſtay,
Fell on the bed, and theſe laſt words ſhe ſaid :
‘Sweet ſpoils, whiles God and deſtinies it would,
Receive this ſprite, and rid me of theſe cares :
I lived and ran the courſe fortune did grant ;
And under earth my great ghoſt now ſhall wend :
A goodly town I built, and ſaw my walls;
Happy, alas, too happy if theſe coafts
The Trojan ſhips had never touched aye.'
This ſaid, ſhe laid her mouth cloſe to the bed.
"Why then,' quoth ſhe, unwroken ſhall we die ?
But let us die : for this! and in this fort
It liketh us to ſeek the ſhadows dark !
And from the ſeas the cruel Trojan's eyes
Shall well diſcern this flame ; and take with him
Eke theſe unlucky tokens of my
death!'
As ſhe had ſaid, her damſels might perceive
Her with theſe words fall pierced on a ſword,
The blade embrued, and hands beſprent with gore.
The clamour rang unto the palace top ;
The bruit ran throughout all the aſtonied town:
With wailing great, and women's ſhrill yelling,
The roofs 'gan roar; the air reſound with plaint:
As though Carthage, or the ancient town of Tyre
With preſs of entered enemies ſwarmed full :
Or when the rage of furious fame doth take
The temples' tops, and manſions eke of men,”
The Earl of Surrey.
55
We cannot conclude our notice of this noble
example of Priſon Poets more pleaſantly than by
quoting the beautiful poem of Mary Howitt's,
entitled
" SURREY IN CAPTIVITY.
I.
« 'Twas a May morning, and the joyous ſun
Roſe o'er the city, in its proud array,
As though he knew the month of flowers begun,
And came bright-veſted for a holiday;
On the wide river barge and veſſel lay,
Each with its pennon floating on the gale ;
And garlands hung in honour of the May,
Wreathed round the maſts, or o'er the furled fail,
Or ſcattered on the deck, as fancy might prevail.
II.
" And quick on every ſide were buſy feet,
Eagerly thronging, paſſing to and fro;
Bands of young dancers gathering in the ſtreet ;
And, ever and anon, apart and low,
Was heard of melody the quiet flow,
As ſome muſician tuned his inſtrument,
And practiſed o'er his part for malk, or ſhow;
And dames, and maidens o'er their threſholds bent,
And ſcattered flowers about that a ſweet perfume lent.
III.
“ From every church, the merry
bells
rung out;
The gay parades were thronging every ſquare,
With flaunting banner, revelry and ſhout;
And, like a tide, the gale did muſic bear ;
Now loud, then ſoftened ; and in that low air,
Came on the liſtener's ear the regular tread
Of the gay multitude. The brave, the fair
Paſſed on; the high-born, and the lowly bred;
All, for one little day, a round of pleaſure led.
IV.
“ Who ſaw that city on that joyous morn,
Might deem a people held a truce with care ;
56
The Earl of Surrey.
What looked there then to mind of thoſe forlorn,
Who in its paſtimes might not have a ſhare ?
Of her beſt nobles many were not there;
The heart of valour and the arm of might.
The ſun ſhone on the tower, in priſon where,
Wailing his hard hap, lay the worthieſt knight,
The proudeſt and the beſt, at banquet or in fight.
y.
“ There lay he, the young Surrey—that brave heart,
That knighthood might not peer-he chid the day
That, with its ſunny light, could not impart
To him the freedom of its pleaſant ray.
Oh, doom unmerited !-There as he lay,
Came to his ear the jocund ſounds without;
He thought how once unnoted was the May,
Unleſs the merry people hailed with ſhout
The gallant Surrey there, in revel, and in rout.
VI.
“ He thought how he had been the one of all,
The knight in conteſt never yet unhorſed ;
The courtlieſt gallant in the proudeſt hall;
His ſword and name by no diſhonour croſſed ;
Alone, and captive now, from joy divorced,
He thought of Geraldine ; by true love ſent,
How he in foreign courts made chivalrous boaſt;
Holding her beauty all pre-eminent;
And by his own good arm maintained where'er he went.
VII.
“ He thought of her, and of the magic glaſs,
Wherein, by ſkill of ſecret ſcience raiſed,
He ſaw her pale, and faithful as ſhe was,
His own dear lady worthy to be praiſed.
He thought of times in memory
undefaced
The pleaſures of the woods, the royal ſport;
The
cry of hounds; the hart each morning chaſed;
The tennis-ground; the race; the tilting court;
And all the love-known glades where ladies made reſort.
VIII.
" His looks were ſuch as ladies love to ſee ;
For, as his fpirit, was his bearing bold.
The Earl of Surrey.
57
His ſpeech, 'the mirror of all courteſy ;'-
Of ſuch as he romance hath often told.
And in his hand a tablet he did hold,
Whereon he noted down, from time to time,
The heavy thoughts that through his fpirit rolled;
Grief ſeemed to prey on him, and blight his prime ;
His name without a blot, his heart without a crime.
IX.
-
“ From the dim window of his cell, his eye
Gazed on the revel ſcene that lay below;
Then glanced upon the beautiful blue ſky;
The gale blew freſh—'twas free-he was not ſo :-
He wept awhile the captive's bitter woe;
He ſang the captive's bitter fate. Ere long,
Through ſtreet and ſquare moved a proceſſion flow
A coffined noble, and a mourning throng,
With murmuring lament for gallant Surrey's wrong."
3
CERVANTES.
We will now paſs to the priſon of Seville ; from
the cell in which Boëthius wrote his Conſolation ;
from Windſor and the Tower, where Surrey wooed
and won the Muſe; to that in which Cervantes
planned his immortal Don Quixote.
Spain was at the height of her glory and power.
The magnificent reign of Charles the Fifth, and the
acquiſition of her American poſſeſſions, had made
her the envy and the fear of Europe. There were
ſplendour, pomp, and apparently exhauſtleſs wealth
at her command ; and, reaſoning from the appear-
ance of things, a long leaſe of power
and greatneſs
ſeemed in ſtore for her. Looking at the Spain of
to-day, we have ſome difficulty in picturing to our-
ſelves the Spain to whoſe throne the gloomy Philip
the Second ſucceeded. Only the philoſopher or the
ſtateſman, accuſtomed to penetrate beneath the ſur-
face of things, could have ſeen through the hollow-
neſs of all this pomp, the weakneſs of all this
power. The England of that time, and the Spain
of that time, what a contraſt! And yet the wiſe
Cervantes.
59
>
a
man would ſee in the ſmall, ſea-ſurrounded, and
poor iſland, more hope of a great and glorious
future, than in the wealthy, wide-ſpread, and dazzling
ſplendours of the Spaniſh power. In England there
was ſtrength of character, love of induſtry, daring
adventure, genuine honeſty, a liberated religion,
and a liberty-loving people. In Spain gold, pro-
cured without commenſurate labour, had fapped
the old genuine Spaniſh character ; honeſt, pains-
taking induſtry was fcorned; the gloomy fanaticiſm
of a Philip the Second had found in the ſword of
an Alva, and in the ſecret and ubiquitous horrors
of the Inquiſition, proper inſtruments for the ſup-
preſſion of all freedom of thought, all nobleneſs
of ſoul, and all liberty of faith. To the
eye
thus
looking “ before and after,” all the magnificence of
the court, the gorgeouſneſs of the religious cere-
monial, the oſtentatious pride of the nobility, the
arrogance of the people, united with the fad licen-
tiouſneſs which then marked Spaniſh manners, were
but indications of the ſure and inevitable decay of
the whole. Like Sodom apples, the outſide was
glowing and tempting, but within there was a taſte
of rottenneſs and of death.
To the majority of people, however, then living,
Spain was a wonderful and a wonder-working place.
At this period of her hiſtory it was that her genius
more fully developed itſelf than at any other. Then
a
60
Cervantes.
lived and did their work the men who are now her
greateſt glory, her chiefeſt honour. As it had
been in the hiſtory of ſo many other nations, ſo it
was in Spain ; ſhe culminated in all things at the
ſame time, and the ſame moment which witneſſed
her material, alſo beheld her intellectual glory.
From the defeat of the Armada ſhe began to decline
-viſibly, rapidly to decline. In that undertaking
ſhe had gathered all her forces, and they were ſhat-
tered at a blow. When ſhe went “ forth the little
a
Iſe to ſmite,” ſhe had proved her utmoſt ſtrength;
and that ſtrength had paſſed away into very weak-
neſs before the calm, undaunted courage of the
freemen of England. All that the poet adviſes,
when calling her to prepare for a combat which
ended in her ruin, ſhe had done; his words are-
“ Nor arm in haſte, nor fitful fury breathe;
Thy long wrought, flowly ſharpened ſword unſheathe!
The toil of ſeven long years expend
This marvel of the main to raiſe,
Each beam of thy wide brightneſs blend
Into a world-confounding blaze-
No ſtrain on thy vaſt ſtrength withhold,
Nor ſpare each vaſſal realm, nor ſtint thy Weſtern gold !
Call forth thy men of might
Ablaze with glory from Lepanto's fight
To dim that luſtre in the mightier fame
Of England's fallen throne and quenched name.
Spain never recovered from the exhauſtion which
ſuch a conteſt for dominion cauſed. Ere the Armada
* " The Anniverſaries.”—Thomas H. Gill.
Cervantes.
61
failed ſhe was at her acme of power ; when it was
defeated by Engliſh valour, ſhattered by the rocks
which riſe now as then to preſerve her ſhores invio-
lable from the foreign foe, Spain's doom-hour was
tolled for ever. Tolled, too, at a time when ſhe
was honoured by her greateſt children; for the
age of the Armada was the age of Calderon, Lope
de Vega, and Cervantes ; ſo ſtrangely do the good
and evil of this world blend; and ſo myſteriouſly
does God combine the greateſt bleſſings and the
deepeſt curſes of a nation !
We can give but a brief ſketch of the life of
Cervantes here. Like the lives of moſt of earth's
great ones, it was hard and ſevere. He was none
of fortune's darlings, in the uſual acceptance of that
word. He was a brave and genuine man; and
though often forely tried, never was leſs than a
brave and genuine man.
The nobleſt, boldeſt,
trueſt, and moſt thorough hero of his own heroic
time do we count him. One
a
a
6 That ever with a frolic welcome. took
The thunder and the ſunſhine, and oppoſed
Free heart, free forehead."
"#
As ſoldier, as priſoner, as author, he was the ſame ;
a wiſe, noble, joyous-hearted, truthful man ; an
object worthy of reverence and of love. Nearly
three centuries have paſſed ſince he was gathered
* Tennyſon's "Ulyſſes."
62
Cervantes.
to his fathers; but he ſtill lives, and will ever live,
the type of the higheſt and the pureſt of his race.
The greatneſs of his nation has paſſed away ; her
influence has ceaſed; her name is a bye-word and
a mockery among the peoples; her court is an
abomination ; her rule a diſgrace; her religion a
hollow mummery and an empty ſhow; but the
great Cervantes ſtill lives to tell us what ſhe once
was, and what a great, large-hearted, univerſal genius
ſhe once poſſeſſed. The Spain of the Cid is no
more; the Spain of the old ballads belongs to the
paſt; no more do they ſing
“ Free were we born,-'tis thus they cry—though to our king we owe
The homage and the fealty behind his creſt to go ;
By God's beheſt our aid he ſhares, but God did ne'er command
That we ſhould leave our children heirs of an enſlaved land."
No more do they hold their own in Europe ;
degraded, enſlaved, corrupted, her glory has de-
parted; but the genius of Cervantes can never
die; and Don Quixote will cheer, delight, edify,
and inſtruct as long as people can read, and hearts
are of the ſame material as they are now.
"The
great man of Spain fat obſcure at the time, all
dark and poor, a maimed ſoldier ; writing his
Don Quixote' in priſon ;" + but the great man of
Spain is now enſhrined in every heart, and has had
"#
* Lockhart's Spaniſh Ballads, “ The March of Bernardo del
Carpio."
+ Carlyle's Eſſays, "Sir Walter Scott,"
Cervantes.
63
of twenty-
laurels twined for his brow by every nation in the
world.
Cervantes, or to give his full name, Saavedra
Miguel de Cervantes, was born at Alcalà de Henares,
a ſhort diſtance from Madrid, on Oct. 9, 1547. He
received a good education, and was for two years
of his life a ſtudent at the famous Univerſity of
Salamanca. We know but little of his early life;
but in the year 1570 we find him at Rome, in
the capacity of chamberlain in the houſehold of
Monſignor Aquaviva. This employment could not
have been a genial one to ſuch a man ; and accord-
ingly, in the next year, 1571, at the age
three, he joined the forces under Don John of
Auſtria, which the “ Holy League,” formed by
the Pope, Venice, and Spain, were ſending againſt
the Turks. He was at the terrible battle of Le-
panto, fought on the 7th of October, 1571; and
there he proved the truth of his own words, “ that
none make better ſoldiers than thoſe who are tranf-
planted from the region of letters to the fields of
war, and that never ſcholar became ſoldier that was
not a good and a brave one.”.
For our hero,
though ſuffering from ſevere illneſs, inſiſted upon
bearing his part in the conteſt, which he did like a
true ſoldier. He was wounded in the engagement,
.
and thenceforward loſt the uſe of his left arm. He
continued in the ſervice until the year 1575, when
64
Cervantes.
he was diſcharged. Don John gave him letters,
commending him earneſtly to the favour of the
king; but he was not deſtined to uſe them, or to
reach his beloved Spain. On the 26th of Septem-
ber the veſſel was attacked, and our hero was
captured, and ſent a priſoner to Algiers. Five weary
years were ſpent in this captivity ; but Cervantes
“ bated not one jot of heart or hope.” His mag-
nanimity and heroiſm were never more conſpicuous
than during the years he ſuffered in Algiers. No
terrors could daunt him, no threats of impalement
intimidate him ; the rope was placed round his
neck, and he was ordered for immediate execution,
but in vain. The brave man was too brave to
fear death; he only feared diſhonour. Plan after
plan was arranged by him for his own eſcape, and
for that of his fellow-chriſtian priſoners. Treachery
defeated theſe ; but Cervantes took all the peril of
theſe plots upon himſelf, and nothing could force
from his lips the name of any one of his aſſiſtants.
Well might the Dey exclaim that “ if he could but
keep that lame Spaniard well guarded, he ſhould
conſider his capital, his ſlaves, and his galleys
fafe.” He could not keep him ſo well guarded,
but that the dauntleſs man would find means to
liberate himſelf and his wretched fellow-ſufferers.
Cervantes was not the man to reſt quietly in the
power
of the infidel.
Cervantes.
65
Thus in ſcheming, and in ſuffering, and with
death dogging his heels in every form, did the
author of “Don Quixote” ſpend five years of
life in fad captivity. His hour of deliverance was
however coming. His elder brother, who was
taken priſoner with him, had been ranſomed three
years ſince, and he was doing everything he could
in Spain to get the money required for his gifted
brother. After great exertion, and a ſacrifice of
the little remaining property of the family, and
the contributions of charity, the ſum was raiſed, and
on the 19th of September, 1580, the deſired free-
dom was purchaſed, and Cervantes ſet out for
Spain. Without means, without reſources, the ran-
ſomed captive returned home; and now the queſ-
tion was, how to live. He had a mother and a
ſiſter depending upon him, and he had nothing.
His deſtiny was a ſtern one ; and adverſity was
ſorely trying him.
Was he good ſterling gold,
or mere droſs? That was the problem which was
being ſolved. How it was anſwered we all know.
He again entered the army, and went to Portugal,
under the Marquis of Santa Cruz, in the year
1581. It was on his return from this expedi-
tion that he publiſhed his Paſtoral “Galatea,”
by which, it is ſaid, he won his bride. How-
ever this may be, he married the lady of his love
on the 12th of December, 1584; and he took to
>
F
66
Cervantes.
writing for the ſtage. His early plays were very
popular, and his “El Trato de Argel,” and his
“Numancia,” produced a great effect upon the
ſtage. The works of Lope de Vega, however,
were now becoming the rage in Spain, and there
was little hope and ſmall returns for the labours
of Cervantes. In 1588 he for many years for-
ſook the theatre, and ſought a more certain means of
ſubſiſtence, which, alſo, he ſeems not to have found.
The materials for the next few years of Cer-
vantes' life are very few and obſcure. We know
that in 1588 he was at Seville in the capacity
of an agent of Antonio de Guevara, who was a
royal commiſſary for the American fleets; he alſo
collected money due to the government and to
private perſons. This employment afforded him
many opportunities of getting familiar with the
life of the people, of which he richly availed him--
ſelf. For ten years he was thus working, travel-
ling about Andaluſia and Granada, ſtoring up his
obſervations and experience in his fertile mind,
for after uſe. Even this humble work did not
go ſmoothly; and our poet-collector became in-
debted to the government, and in 1597 was
thrown into priſon at Seville, as a defaulter. A
priſon henceforth glorious in the annals of litera-
ture; for therein was planned the “ Don Quixote,”
one of the great Priſon Books—nay, one of the
Cervantes.
67
few great books of the world. Side by ſide with
the Tower of Pavia, with Bedford Jail, with the
Fortreſs of Spielberg, will ſtand the Priſon of
Seville through immemorial time.
At the end of three months Cervantes was
releaſed from jail, but not from his troubles. We
next hear of him collecting rents in La Mancha
(name for ever famous), for the Grand Prior of
the Order of Saint John. Here he was again
thrown into priſon, and here he began to write
“Don Quixote.” After his releaſe he went with
his family to reſide at Valladolid; and again was
rewarded with a priſon,—this time as a witneſs.
.
A murder having been committed in a night
brawl, cloſe to his houſe, the wiſe Spaniſh law
of the time impriſoned Cervantes and his wife and
ſiſter, becauſe it might want them as witneſſes.
Madrid was to have the honour of being the
place at which “Don Quixote” was publiſhed;
for here in 1605, in his fifty-eighth year, did
Cervantes give to the world the Firſt Part of his
great romance. It proved to be one of thoſe
very few books which are at once and for ever
popular.* It was in every one's hands, and be-
came the talk of all circles. It muſt have been a
.
Writing of Cervantes and “Don Quixote,” Lord Byron ſays :-
6. Of all tales, 'tis the ſaddeſt—and more ſad,
Becauſe it makes us ſmile : his hero's right,
68
Cervantes.
9
cheering fact to the old man, that after all his ſtrug-
gles, ſufferings and diſappointments, the child of
his love and of his deepeſt meditation ſhould thus
be favoured by all. Such ſatiſfaction, however,
appears to have been all he got by his book. He
was ſtill as poor as ever; and his ſiſter had to eke
out his ſmall earnings by ſewing. It was the old,
old ſtory.
The wealthy and titled reliſhed his
book, laughed at his jokes, enjoyed its wiſdom and
humour, but left its author to ſtarve or not as fate
might determine. In 1606 the court moved from
And ſtill purſues the right;-to curb the bad
His only object, and 'gainſt odds to fight
His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him mad !
But his adventures form a ſorry fight.-
A ſorrier ſtill is the great moral taught
By that real epic unto all who have thought.
Redreſſing injury, revenging wrong,
To aid the damſel and deſtroy the caitiff!
Oppoſing ſingly the united ſtrong,
From foreign yoke to free the helpleſs native ;-
Alas! muſt nobleſt views, like an old ſong,
Be for mere fancy's ſport a theme creative ?
A jeſt, a riddle, fame through thick and thin ſought !
And Socrates himſelf but Wiſdom's Quixote ?
“ Cervantes ſmiled Spain's chivalry away ;
A ſingle laugh demoliſhed the right arm
Of his own country ;- ſeldom ſince that day
Has Spain had heroes. While romance could charm,
The world. gave ground before her bright array ;
And therefore have his volumes done ſuch harm,
That all their glory as a compoſition
Was dearly purchaſed by his land's perdition.”
DON JUAN, Canto xiii. st. 9, 10, 15.
Cervantes.
69
1
"
Valladolid to Madrid, and Cervantes followed ; but
the court of Philip was not the court to reward
or honour the genius of Spain's greateſt ſon. It
was too buſy in Inquiſition work to attend to learn-
ing; too much employed in deeds of darkneſs to
mingle with the children of light. The remaining
years of our poet's life were years of toil and
ſtruggling. Seven times in ten years had he to
change his reſidence. He again wrote for the
ſtage, but with little or no ſucceſs; he worked hard
at the Second Part of “ Don Quixote,” which
he publiſhed in 1615. This was not all ; for in
1613 he gave to the world his excellent “Novelas
Exemplares;" and in 1614 his “ Journey to
Parnaſſus,” and wrote his romance of “ Perſiles and
Sigiſmunda,” which was publiſhed after his death.
" But the life of Cervantes, with all its troubles
and ſufferings, was now faſt drawing to a cloſe. In
October of the ſame year, 1615, he publiſhed the
Second Part of his Don Quixote; and in its dedi-
cation to the Count de Lemos, who had for ſome
time favoured him, he alludes to his failing health,
and intimates that he hardly looked for the con-
tinuance of life beyond a few months. His fpirits,
however, which had ſurvived his ſufferings in the
Levant, at Algiers, and in priſons at home, and
which, as he approached his ſeventieth year, had
been ſufficient to produce a work like the Second
70
Cervantes.
Part of Don Quixote, did not forſake him now that
his ſtrength was waſting away under the influence
of diſeaſe and old age. On the contrary, with
unabated vivacity, he urged forward his romance,
* Perfiles and Sigiſmunda,' anxious only that life
enough ſhould be allowed him to finiſh it, as the
laſt offering of his gratitude to his generous patron.
In the ſpring he went to Eſquivias, which was the
little eſtate he had received with his wife; and,
after his return, wrote a Preface to his unpubliſhed
romance, full of delightful and ſimple humour, in
which he tells a pleaſant ſtory of being overtaken, in
his ride back to Madrid, by a medical ſtudent, who
gave him much good advice about the dropfy under
which he was ſuffering, to which he replied, that
his pulſe had already warned him that he was not
to live beyond the next Sunday. And ſo,' ſays
he, at the concluſion of this remarkable Preface,
farewell to jeſting, farewell to merry humours,
farewell my gay friends, for I feel that I am dying,
and have no deſire but ſoon to ſee you happy in
the other life.'
“In this temper he prepared to meet death, as
many Catholics of ſtrong religious impreſſions were
accuſtomed to do at that time; and, on the 2nd of
April, entered the order of Franciſcan friars, whoſe
habit he had aſſumed three years before at Alcalà.
Still, however, his feelings as an author, his vivacity,
Cervantes.
71
C
and his perſonal fortitude did not deſert him. On
the 18th of April he received the extreme unction,
and the next day wrote a Dedication of his 'Perfiles
y Sigiſmunda’ to the Count de Lemos, marked,
to an extraordinary degree, with his natural humour
and with the ſolemn thoughts that became his ſitua-
tion. The laſt known act of his life, therefore,
ſhows that he ſtill poſſeſſed his faculties in perfect
ſerenity; and four days afterwards, on the 23rd of
April, 1616, he died, at the age of ſixty-eight.
He was buried, as he probably had deſired, in the
convent of the Nuns of the Trinity; but a few
years afterwards this convent was removed to
another part of the city, and what became of the
aſhes of the greateſt genius of his country is from
that time wholly unknown.”*
“His funeral,” ſays Mr. Roſcoe, “was poorly
attended; no ſtone or inſcription marks the ſpot
where his bones repoſe; nor indeed, in later times,
in which letters and the arts have ſtooped to flatter
rank and power, has any perſon appeared to honour
the remains of this illuſtrious man with a worthy
mauſoleum, on which the fine arts might be em-
ployed to inſpire a feeling of veneration which might
ſerve as a ſtimulus to ſucceeding generations, and
direct them in the paths of virtue and knowledge." +
* Ticknor’s “ Hiſtory of Spaniſh Literature,” vol. ii. pp. 91-2-3.
+ Roſcoe's “ Life and Writings of Cervantes," p. 270.
72
Cervantes.
It will be ſeen that the greateſt Spaniſh genius
died on the ſame day as the greateſt Engliſh genius.
Cervantes paſſed away from among us on the day
when Shakſpeare's calm ſoul left its earthly habita-
tion. The 23rd of April, 1616, was the day which
ſaw two of the moſt richly-endowed children of
men yield up that fpirit which had been deſtined,
each in its own peculiar ſphere, to give the world
the two moſt precious legacies it has ever poſſeſſed
the dramas of Shakſpeare and the “Don Quixote"
of Cervantes.* Spain erects no monument to the
memory of her greateſt. Nor has England done
much in this way for her darling; but ſhe has done
It is her boaſt that ſhe “ſpeaks the tongue
which Shakſpeare ſpoke;" and of Cervantes it may
be truly ſaid, that no “knight of the pen” has
been more thoroughly honoured. The Romance is
ſtill the beloved of all readers, and Don Quixote is
as famous as he was in Spain ; and the author him-
ſelf tells us that his Firſt Part was ſo popular that
“the very children handle it, boys read it, men
underſtand it, and old people applaud it; in ſhort,
it is ſo thumbed, fo read, ſo well known by every-
more.
a
From a note to Ticknor's “Spaniſh Literature,” we learn that
this is a pleaſant deluſion. He writes: “ Bowles ſays that Cervantes
died on the ſame day with Shakſpeare, but this is a miſtake, the
calendar not having then been altered in England, and there being,
therefore, a difference between that and the Spaniſh calendar of ten
days.”—Ticknor, vol. ii. pr. 92-3, note.
Cervantes.
73
body, that no ſooner a meagre horſe appears than
they ſay, “There goes Rozinante.?”* This fame
it has now for more than two centuries fully pre-
ſerved; and, although the place in which the
author's bones repoſe is not known, his labours and
his name are the poſſeſſions of the whole civiliſed
world. Milton wrote what all the world has echoed
on his Shakſpeare, and his lines might well be
applied to Cervantes :
“ What needs my Shakſpeare, for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled ſtones?
Or that his hallow'd reliques ſhould be hid
Under a ſtar-ypointing pyramid ?
Dear ſon of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'ſt thou ſuch weak witneſs of thy name ?
Thou in our wonder and aſtoniſhment
Haft built thyſelf a live-long monument.
For whilft, to the ſhame of low-endeavouring art,
Thy eaſy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Thoſe Delphic lines with deep impreſſion took ;
Then thou, our fancy of itſelf bereaving,
Doſt make us marble with too much conceiving ;
And, fo fepulchred, in ſuch pomp doft lie,
That kings for ſuch a tomb would wiſh to die."
a
Stern and ſorrowful and full of ſuffering as was
the life of Cervantes, it is to be doubted if any
other would have been ſo profitable to him as an
author. His trials and adventures were material
upon which his genial nature fed and grew ſtrong.
* “ Don Quixote,” Part 11. Book 1. c. iii.
74
Cervantes.
His experience as a ſoldier, as a captive, as a money
collector, was all ſo much capital on which he wiſely
drew, and which yielded him ample returns, out-
weighing all thoſe of money which a more thrifty
man might have gathered therefrom. This face-to-
face communion with the world made him a brave,
wiſe, large-experienced man, and gave him ſuch a
rich ſtore of character and adventure that his genius
is never at a loſs, becauſe it was baſed
upon
the
actual. He knew men and women as they are, not
as they are drawn in books by authors who create
their own men and women; and thus his pages are
vital, his characters have fleſh and blood, and, with
one or two exceptions, we enter as heartily into the
doings of Don Quixote and his renowned ſquire as
do thoſe worthies themſelves. Theſe few exceptions
are the paſtoral love tales which, in accordance with
the cuſtom of the age, he now and then introduces
into his romance.
But even there are not the
inſipid things which for the moſt part ſuch tales are.
Theſe are ſometimes introduced in a perplexing
manner, interrupting the courſe of the adventure;
but, for the moſt part, we always read them with
pleaſure; and where there is too much of the paſ-
toral ſentimentaliſm about them, there are always
touches of Cervantes which redeem them from the
ordinary fate of ſuch intruſions—a malediction and
a rapid paſſing on to the next chapter.
Cervantes.
75
But what ſhall we ſay of “Don Quixote ”itſelf?
Since the day the author propheſied that commenta-
ries would be written upon the hiſtory of the worthy
knight, many have been, and with the uſual feli-
city of ſuch compoſitions. What was clear they have
made, or endeavoured to make, obſcure; what was
fimple they have, as is their wont, made, or
endeavoured to make, difficult. Some have ſeen
one deſign in the romance, fome another; one
finds in it a whole ſcheme of metaphyſics, one a
ſyſtem of criticiſm; one a clear unmiſtakeable
ſatire on all things noble and lofty; one an earneſt
and ſober defence of thoſe all-important parts of
our nature; one thinks it a ſceptical and irreli-
gious work, and one a truly pious production,
directing its ſatire only againſt the abuſes of the
church. And ſo the battle wages.
Critics
prone
to look beneath the ſurface of a book to fiſh up
a theory about it can very readily do it; but ſimple
readers had
much better take the work as it
is, read it without care for theſe profound myſte-
ries, ſhare in the mighty adventures of the knight,
and laugh heartily at the humour of the incompar-
able Sancho, and they will aſſuredly get the moſt
good out of the book. Let all remember that
very
“ We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits ... ſo much help
76
Cervantes.
>
By ſo much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourſelves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,
Impaſſioned for its beauty and ſalt of truth-
'Tis then we get the right good from a book.”
a
"*
a
And thus “plunging” into “Don Quixote,”
what a right royal good we get! Every adventure
is a ſource of joy. From the firſt to the laſt; from
the ſetting out full of hope and reſolve, to his calm
death at home, we follow the knight with pleaſure.
We laugh at him, but reſpect him ; for the author
takes care that, away from knight-errantry, our
Don ſhall never be ridiculous, but ſhall conduct
himſelf like a brave, learned, courteous, ſenſible
gentleman as he is. His criticiſms on poetry, on
the ſtage, on hiſtory, and on romances, are full of
fine thoughts, and ſhow a large and extenſive ac-
quaintance with the literature of his own age.
His advice to Sancho before he ſets out to
govern his iſland might be read and meditated
upon with profit, by not a few governors now
living. Whenever the knight ſpeaks on general
affairs, his remarks are always wiſe, thoughtful,
and broad, ſhowing a large experience, and deep
ſtudy. The author is always careful to preſerve
his hero from any chance of appearing contempt-
ible; and he takes care that we ſhall fully ſee
a
* Mrs. Browning, “ Aurora Leigh," p. 26.
Cervantes.
77
his madneſs upon the ſubject of knight-errantry
before he mounts him on Rozinante, and ſends
him out in ſearch of adventures; and throughout
the work continually recalls to the reader the fact
that upon this ſubject Don Quixote has loſt his
ſenſes. This is, in truth, a great ſtroke of art-
nay, a mark of Cervantes' genius, that while every
adventure in which the knight engages is abſurd
in the extreme, he never loſes our reſpect. The
earneſtneſs, the ſincerity, the total unſelfiſhneſs of
his character are guarantees for this. How gravely
he enters into the whole buſineſs! Sancho's fly
humour falls as harmleſs upon him, as did the
giants' clubs upon the mail of the famous knights
whoſe lives and career Don Quixote emulates.
The inn is to him a haunted and enchanted caſtle;
the wind-mills veritable giants ; Maritornes a
princeſs; Dulcinea del Toboſo an angelic being
worthy of the devotion and ſelf-ſervice of ſuch a
knight; the ſheep are veritable armies; he is haunted
by real demons, and the victim of actual enchanters.
So, throughout the whole of the glorious romance,
everything to him is as he repreſents it. His heroiſm
is as great ; his ſelf-ſacrifice as true ; his patience,
vigilance, night-watchings, purity, and love, are as
genuine as if beſtowed upon the achievements in
which the hero fo thoroughly and unqueſtionably
believed. We laugh at his infatuation, but never
78
Cervantes.
at his ſufferings nor at the genuine earneſtneſs of
the knight. And our author is careful never to
raiſe a laugh at the expenſe of any feeling which
might be injurious to virtue. For this he merits our
beſt thanks; in ſuch a book as “Don Quixote ” the
temptation was very great.
From this cauſe we ſuppoſe has ariſen the charge
that “Don Quixote” is not a healthy book, but one
which places high reſolve and generous deeds in a
ridiculous light. Such a charge is utterly without
foundation, and ſhows the folly of attempting to
find more in a book than the author intended or
ever put there. The primary object of Cervantes
was doubtleſs a ſatire on an abſurd taſte and the
fooliſh literature of his day. The ſubject was one
worthy of his pen; and he worthily accompliſhed
it. All the ſoul of knighthood had departed, and
nothing but the huſk remained. Its nobleneſs had
paſſed away, and men who never knew the ſpirit
which produced it, or felt the heroiſm which gave it
beauty and nobleneſs, aped its language and aſſumed
its garb. The whole thing was a hollow ſham, and
only required the ſharp touch of a genuine irony to
baniſh it for ever. Cervantes
it that touch,
and like the fabulous changes wrought by a magician's
wand, the whole deluſion was dispelled. Knight-
errantry's ghoſt was laid; and the tedious, dreamy,
uſeleſs literature which profeſſed to record its hiſtory,
gave
Cervantes.
79
a
was conſigned to the rarely conſulted ſhelves of our
great libraries as ſpecimens of the megatherian
appetites and the ſtupendous credulity of an earlier
time. The deſign of the author was thoroughly
carried out; and the only book of knight-errantry
which has ſince held its place in the public mind
and favour, is the one which deſtroyed all the reſt,
and is itſelf a ſatire
upon
them.
The character of the Don finds its rare antitheſis
in that of his ſquire. Sancho Panza has taken as
firm a hold upon us as his maſter; and he richly
merits his poſition. He is a ficting foil to the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance. His humour is
exhauſtleſs; his fly hits at the eccentricities of the
hero are admirably put, and his credulity, though of
a different kind, is not the leaſt characteriſtic of this
curious compound of buffoonery, peaſant wit, and
arch ſelf-deception. His belief in the promiſed
iſland is marvellous. He ſhares all the troubles of
his leader, and comes in for the larger ſhare of the
buffettings; yet he endures them all with a joke,
and goes on again with the ſame faith, and meets
his next drubbing with the ſame good humour.
And we are not ſurpriſed to read that “ The ducheſs
had well nigh died with laughing at this ſpeech of
Sancho, who, in her ſentiment, was a more diverting
madman than his maſter, and a great many people
at that time were of the ſame way of think-
80
Cervantes.
ing.”* A hundred toſſings in the blanket would not
have ſhaken his faith, nor made him deſert the for-
tunes of one who promiſed him ſuch a great reſult.
The
pompous
and
grave
ſeriouſneſs of the knight is
in fine contraſt with the free-and-eaſy vernacular of
the ſervant. The ſet diſcourſes of the one are well
complemented by the ceaſeleſs flow of common
adages and proverbs which the other pours upon
the long-ſuffering Don. The genius of Cervantes
is more thoroughly exhibited in the character of
Sancho than in that of Quixote. His conduct as a
governor is as well ſuſtained as that of the faithful
ſervitor. His renunciation of power is made uſe of
for a fine ſatire. The poor ſquire ſays, “ Pennyleſs
I took poffeſfion of this government, and pennyleſs
I reſign my office ; quite the reverſe of what is
uſually the caſe with governors of other iſlands.”+
Our author had doubtleſs many a governor of his
own time in his mind's eye when he penned this
ſentence. Poor Sancho is often made to realiſe the
old adage that children and fools ſpeak the truth.
O rare Sancho Panza! How few men learn the
leſſon that he learned, and end by ſaying as he ſaid,
“I have
got ſenſe enough to know that I am fit for
governing nothing but a flock of ſheep, and that the
wealth acquired in ſuch government is got at the
* “Don Quixote,” Part 11. Book 11. C. xv.
+ Ibid. Part II. Book III. c. i.
Cervantes.
81
a
expenſe of eaſe, ſleep, and even ſuſtenance."* A
more thoroughly or better delineated character was
never drawn. The fame of the one is as laſting as
that of the other; and both will endure as long as
men have a reliſh for the humorous, which will be
as long as they have their preſent natures. They
both live to prove the poſſibility of that ſcarcely
credible thing, that a ſecond part of a ſtory may be
better than the firſt: a quality which we believe is
entirely limited to the Hiſtory of Don Quixote.
Of the whole book it may be ſaid that it ſtands
alone. Its humour is its own; its plan is peculiar,
and is only poſſible once. But having taken this
plan, let us ſee that only its own deviſer could have
carried it out. The continuation
engendered at Tordeſillas, and brought forth at
Tarragona,” ſhows that while it required the genius
of Cervantes to originate, ſo it likewiſe required the
genius of Cervantes to complete it.
There was no
other man in Spain but him to give birth to, to
record the exploits, to immortaliſe the life, and to
place upon his dying bed the renowned Knight of
La Mancha. It was, and ſtill remains, unique in the
literature of the world : one of thoſe few books
that are at once and for ever famous; one of thoſe
few books concerning which the judgment of pof-
terity confirms the verdict of its contemporaries ; one
or which was
* “Don Quixote.” Part II. Book III., c. i.
G
82
Cervantes.
>
which will for ever take its place ſide by ſide with
the “Gil Blas” of Le Sage, the “Robinſon
Cruſoe ” of De Foe, and the greateſt priſon-book
ever written, the “Pilgrim's Progreſs” of Bunyan,
and the “ Vicar of Wakefield” of Oliver Gold-
ſmith. Among the nobleſt ſpecimens of genius, and
in the chiefeſt place of univerſal literature, will ever
be ranked the great priſon-book of Spain, “The
Hiſtory and Adventures of the renowned Don
Quixote de La Mancha, the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, alias the Knight of the Lions, as
recorded by the immortal Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra.” And ſure we are that every reader will
echo the words of Don Antonio to Sampſon Carraſco,
and exclaim, “God forgive you, ſignor, for the
injury you have done the world in ſeeking to reſtore
to his ſenſes the moſt agreeable madman that ever
lived ! Do you not perceive, ſignor, that the benefit
reſulting from the cure of Don Quixote will never
counterbalance the pleaſure produced by his extra-
vagances?”* And in bidding farewell to him and
his author, we have fimply to quote the words of
Cervantes, where he ſays, “For me alone was Don
“
Quixote born, and I produced for him ; he to act
and I to record : in a word, we were deſtined for
each other.”+
* "Don Quixote.” Part II. Book iv., c. xiv.
+ Ibid., c. xxii.
th
on
k
1,
r
2
1
5
1

accusa
222)
Kem
M
NEL
பாயா
RALEIGH.
n9000000
research
Sonido
cccccsecev
SIR WALTER RALEIGH,
AND HIS HISTORY OF THE WORLD.
At nearly the ſame period of time, but under very
different influences, were born, lived, wrote and
died, the authors of “Don Quixote” and of “ The
Hiſtory of the World.” There were only five
years difference between their
ages,
the
great Spaniard
having been born in 1547, the great Engliſhman in
1552 ; and the latter ſurvived the former by only
a little more than two years, for Cervantes died in
comparative poverty and neglect on the 23rd of
April, 1616, and Raleigh was executed on the 29th
of October, 1618. Thus theſe two great geniuſes
were altogether contemporaries. One the greateſt
child of a nation about to decay; the other a great
- but far from being the greateſt-child of a nation
juſt about to aſſert her ſupremacy and prove herſelf a
match “againſt the world in arms." What a glorious
period that great Elizabethan age was for a man
to live in! Great in deed and great in thought.
Equal to anything that it is poſſible for ſtrong men,
having a living faith in a living God, to do. The
a
G2
84
Sir Walter Raleigh.
deeds and works, and men of that epoch are
ſtill our boaſts and our examples. To them we
turn when we want to ſee how great it is poſſible
for men to be. At home, abroad, in the council
chamber, on the battle-field, founding new colonies
for Engliſh enterpriſe, making wiſe laws for Engliſh
protection and defence; writing immortal books,
fighting immortal battles— in everything was our
land then great. Equal to any taſk, and doing all
things with energy and might. She could hew a
coloſſus out of a rock, or carve heads upon cherry
ſtones. Equal to all things, and great in all. Her
men were warriors, ſtateſmen, adventurers, philoſo-
phers, poets; and her women equalled the mothers
of the Gracchi. Then had we the world's greateſt
poet, our own darling Shakſpeare; then had we the
world's greateſt philoſopher, our own wiſe Bacon;
then had we the world's pureſt knight of chivalry,
our own fpotleſs Sir Philip Sydney ; then had we
the world's greateſt ſtateſman, our own cautious
Burleigh ; then had we the world's moſt terrible
admiral, our own “ ſea-dog” Drake; then had we,
at the head of a thouſand worthy of the immortal
fame which they have won, and at the head of a
people worthy of ſuch leaders, the greateſt queen
that ever ruled a nation, our own “good Queen
Beſs.” What an age in which to have lived! And
amongſt them all, and the friend of them all, doing
>
Sir Walter Raleigh.
85
3
deeds equal to the braveſt, the favoured jewel of the
queen, the darling of Spenſer, lived that “imp of
fame” the founder of Virginia, importer of tobacco,
ſoldier, ſailor, ſtateſman, poet, and author of that
notable priſon-book the “Hiſtory of the World.”
Walter Raleigh was born at Hayes, in the pariſh
of Budley, Devonſhire, in the year 1552. In his
ſixteenth year he entered the Univerſity of Oxford,
where he received his education. Anthony Wood
ſays, “ He became commoner of Oriel College in
or about the year 1568, when his kinſman C. Cham-
pernon ſtudied there, and that his natural parts
being ſtrangely advanced by academical learning,
under the care of an excellent tutor, he became the
ornament of the juniors, and was worthily eſteemed
a proficient in oratory and philoſophy."* His own
works are full of confirmation of this proficiency.
He did not remain at college more than three years,
but his was a nature to make more of three than
ordinary ſtudents could of any number. He left
the Univerſity “worthily eſteemed a proficient in
oratory and philoſophy.” Lord Bacon, in his
Apophthegms,” relates an anecdote of Sir Walter
while a ſtudent, which we will repeat here. “While
Raleigh was a ſcholar at Oxford, there was a
cowardly fellow who happened to be a very good
Quoted by Oldys. See Wood's Athenæ Oxonienſes. Blirl's
Edition, ii. 235.
a
86
Sir Walter Raleigh.
>
archer ; but having been großfly abuſed by another,
he bemoaned himſelf to Raleigh, and aſked his
advice, what he ſhould do to repair the wrong that
had been offered him ? Raleigh anſwered, “Why,
challenge him—at a match of ſhooting.' After
leaving the Univerſity, he entered himſelf as a
ſtudent of law in the Middle Temple. From his
publiſhed writings it is eaſy to gather what good uſe
he made of his time. It is not certain how long he
remained in the Temple; “yet,” ſays Prince,
“ ſure it is, he was there abiding in April, 1576, at
what time his vein for ditty and amorous ode was
eſteem'd moſt lofty, infolent, and paſſionate. By
which, it appears, he was a gown-man, by the ſpace
of about ſix years, but longer he muſt not be ; for
fate, it ſeems, would have him of the ſword firſt;
altho', through the frequent viciſſitudes of his whole
life, he challenged a reputation among the moſt
eminent gown-men; being upon all emergencies
of affairs conſulted, as one of the beſt oracles of
government and policy in his time." *
He, however, threw the gown aſide and took to
the ſword; and henceforth his life, except the
fourteen years ſpent as a priſoner in the Tower,
was one of ceaſeleſs activity. Fighting here, ſailing
there ; now in France, now in the Netherlands;
now in Virginia ; now battling againſt the terrible
* Prince's “Worthies of Devonſhire,” p. 667.
>
Sir Walter Raleigh.
87
an active, reſtleſs, “much-enduring”
“
)
Armada;
man ; one
* That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunſhine.”
“For,” as Oldys hath it," for as yet the Engliſh
nobles and gentry had not learnt to live lazily and
looſely at home, while their countrymen were fight-
ing abroad for the ſafety and glory of the nation.”*
And ſo Raleigh, although he was “ abiding”in the
Temple in “ April, 1576,"muſt have forſaken his
legal ſtudies before this time, for a period at leaſt.
He was in France during the civil war which was
then raging, and which was ſignaliſed for ever by
that horror of horrors, St. Bartholomew's Day.
The Proteftants there were in a ſad and almoſt def-
perate ſtate, and Henry Champernon obtained the
Queen's permiſſion to raiſe a company of gentle-
men volunteers to aid thoſe ſtrugglers for religious
freedom. Raleigh joined this company, and ſerved
in Languedoc. In 1572 he was at Paris, and was
only ſaved from the aſſaſſin's ſword on the terrible
Sunday, the 24th of Auguſt, St. Bartholomew's
Day, of that year, by taking refuge in the houſe of
Walſingham, who was the Engliſh ambaſſador at
Paris at that time. He alſo ſerved in the Nether-
lands, and was at the battle of Rimevant; and in
*
Oldys' “ Life of Ralegh," p. 236.
88
Sir Walter Raleigh.
a
1580 he was in Ireland, where he ſaw ſome ſevere
ſervice, and won general approval both for his
wiſdom in council and courage in action. Thus he
prepared himſelf for his future arduous undertak-
ings; and by being faithful in little things ſhowed
his fitneſs to command in
greater.
It was juſt after his return from Ireland that he
was the hero of that little epiſode which won for
him the notice of the queen, and which proves how
well he could act the courtier. The queen was
walking, and, in the words of Fuller, “Her majeſty
meeting with a plaſhy place, made ſome ſcruple to
go on; when Raleigh (dreſſed in the
gay
and
genteel habit of thoſe times) preſently caſt off, and
ſpread his new pluſh cloak on the ground, whereon
the queen trod gently over, rewarding him after-
wards with many viſits for his ſo free and ſeaſonable
tender of fo fair a footcloth. Thus an advan-
tageous admiſſion into the notice of a prince is
more than half a degree to preferment.” But
neither his progreſs at court, nor the favour of
the
queen allowed his great mind to be contented
without action. It was the period of great actions;
and the ſoul of Raleigh thirſted to add his name
to the liſt of thoſe who had diſtinguiſhed themſelves
by daring deeds. To oppoſe the Spaniard, and to
diſcover new lands were the inſpiring motives;
and fewer men entered more thoroughly into the
Sir Walter Raleigh.
89
double work than he. On the 11th of June,
1583, he failed from Plymouth with his kinſman,
Sir H. Gilbert, to Newfoundland. It was in this
voyage that Virginia was diſcovered, and as a
reward for his labours and ſucceſs, the queen, in
1584, conferred upon him the then worthy honour
of knighthood. A title which it was an honour
to receive, for it was given to merit only, and had
not been tainted with the mercenary touch of a
James. How Elizabeth looked upon the honour
we learn from Francis Oſborne. She rarely con-
ferred a higher title upon her nobleſt ſervants.
“For,” ſays Oſborne, “ in the caſe of Sir Francis
Vere, a man nobly deſcended, and like Sir Walter
Raleigh, exactly qualified, with many others, ſet
apart, in her judgment, for military ſervices, whoſe
titles ſhe never raiſed above knighthood, ſaying,
when importuned to make Vere a baron, that in
his proper ſphere and her eſtimation he was above
it already.'” She would, doubtleſs, have given the
ſame reaſon for refuſal had any one importuned her
to make a baron of Raleigh. In the next year,
1585, his ſecond expedition to Virginia was fitted
out, and failed on the oth of April. It was after
this expedition that the well-known anecdote of Sir
Walter's ſmoking occurs. Oldys thus tells it,
without vouching for its truth, and the old goſſip
puts
it by with a ſecond not leſs ſurpriſing. He
90
Sir Walter Raleigh.
ſays, “But the tradition of Raleigh's ſmoking
tobacco at firſt privately in his ſtudy, and of the
ſervant, who uſed to wait on him there, ſurpriſing
him one time with his tankard of ale, and entering
as he was intent upon his book, before he had done
his pipe ; and ſeeing the ſmoke reeking out of his
mouth, threw all the ale in his face; then, running
down ſtairs, alarmed the family with repeated ex-
clamations that maſter was on fire, and before they
could get up would be burnt to aſhes. This, I
ſay, if true, has nothing in it more ſurpriſing or un-
paralleled for ſimplicity, than there was in that
poor
Norwegian, who upon the firſt ſight of roſes could
not be induced to touch, though he ſaw them grow, ,
being ſo amazed to behold trees budding with fire;
or, to come cloſer, by way of retaliation, than there
was in thoſe Virginians themſelves, who, the firſt
time they ſeized upon a quantity of gunpowder
which belonged to the Engliſh colony, lowed it for
grain, as the ſeed of ſome ſtrange vegetable, in the
earth, with full expectation of reaping a plentiful
crop of combuſtion by the next harveſt, to ſcatter
their enemies.' Thus the old chronicler leaves
it, and modern inquiry, ſo jealous of everybody's
honour, has doubted whether Sir Walter really
introduced tobacco to England, or potatoes to
Ireland. Well, if it be neceſſary, he can let theſe
.
two pearls paſs from his crown of fame, and their
6
1
Sir Walter Raleigh.
91
a
loſs will not much diminiſh the ſplendour thereof.
Other voyages were undertaken, and other expedi-
tions fitted out, by Sir Walter before his laſt ill-fated
one of 1617, of which we ſhall ſpeak by-and-by.
No man rendered greater ſervice. during the ter-
rible ſtruggle with Spain, which ended in the de-
ſtruction of the Armada in 1587, than did Raleigh.
His voice in the council, and his arm in fight, were
ever active and bold. The honour of England, and
her ſuperiority to the Spaniard and the world were
dear to him. Nor did he ever ſhrink from helping
to carry out his own propoſals, how bold and daring
soever they might appear. It may be truly ſaid
that a braver man than he never drew a ſword in
his country's defence.
Looking at the activity of his life, his wars, his
,
voyages, his parliamentary duties, one is aſtoniſhed
at the amount of work which he did. But this
work was not all. Some of the ableſt ſtate
papers
of the time were drawn up by him. In hiſtory,
politics, philoſophy, ſcience, and poetry, his mind
was alſo employed ; and his pen productive of
memorable works. His writings are voluminous.
He wrote, beſides his great hiſtory, on the Preroga-
tives of Parliament; on Trade ; on Shipping ; on
the State of Spain ; on the Life and Death of Ma-
homet; on the Life and Death of William the
Conqueror ; on Mines and Trials of Minerals;
92
Sir Walter Raleigh.
a
on almoſt every ſubject intereſting to man. His
“Cabinet Council, ” containing the Chief Arts of
Empire and Myſteries of State, had the honour of
being publiſhed by John Milton. On all theſe
ſubjects he wrote well; and all his works are full of
wiſe thought and juſt reflection, illuſtrated by his own
large experience which he never ſuffers to ſleep, but
was always ready to enforce by example the precept
which he is urging. His writings are enough for
an ordinary man's liſe ; but his was no ordinary man's
life ; for though perhaps not to be ranked with the
:
very greateſt, he takes his place very little below
them, and is a ſon of whom England may well be
proud. His poetry is ſtill read and prized, and is
amongſt the beſt produced by the minor poets of
the great Elizabethan era. We cannot give extracts
from theſe works, our ſpace being required for his
Priſon-Book; but we muſt find room for a ſhort
paſſage from his “ Advice to his Son.”
It is a
commentary on that text of Solomon, that he who is
ſurety for a ſtranger ſhall ſmart for it. He tells
him, “ If thou art bound for a ſtranger, thou art a
if for a merchant, thou putteſt thy eſtate to
learn to ſwim ; if for a churchman, he has no
inheritance ; if for a lawyer, he will find an evaſion
by a ſyllable or a word to abuſe thee; if for a poor
man, thou muſt pay it thyſelf; if for a rich one, ,
he
needs it not ; therefore, from ſuretyſhip, as from a
.
a
a
fool;
a
Sir Walter Raleigh.
93
The mighty
manſlayer or enchanter, bleſs thyſelf; for the
beſt profit and return will be this, that if thou force
him for whom thou art bound to pay it himſelf, he
will become thy enemy; if thou ſhalt uſe to pay it
thyſelf, thou wilt be a beggar; and believe thy
father in this, and print it in thy thoughts, that
whatever virtue thou haſt, be it never ſo manifold,
if thou be poor withal, thou and thy qualities ſhall
be deſpiſed.”
But evil days came upon England and upon
Raleigh. The glorious queen Elizabeth died in
1603, and in the ſame year the inglorious James
began to reign. The ſword of the woman was
exchanged for the diſtaff of the man.
ſtrength of the laſt of the Tudors gave place to the
cowardly pedantry of the firſt of the Stuarts. The
God-appointed aſſerter of the right divine of the
ruler was ſucceeded by the drivelling controverſialiſt
who wrote about that right. The female Hercules
is no more; and a male Omphale reigns in her ſtead.
Now let ability, genius, talent, ſkill, courage, and
devotion go hide themſelves; for weakneſs, imbe-
cility, mediocrity, pedantry, and grovelling ſervility
are going to have a turn, and prove what they can
do for England. They will begin early ; and the
firſt-fruits of their dominion will be the loſs to Eng-
land of one of her beſt and braveſt.
James began to reign in March, 1603, and upon
94
Sir Walter Raleigh.
November the 7th of the ſame year Sir Walter
Raleigh was tried for high treaſon. He was charged
“ That he did go about to deprive the king of his
government, to raiſe up fedition within the realm, to
alter religion, to bring in the Roman ſuperſtition, and
to procure foreign enemies to invade the kingdom.”
The meaning of all which is, that he had been en-
gaged in the recent attempt to raiſe Arabella Stuart
to the throne. His judges were Henry Howard,
Earl of Suffolk, Lord Chamberlain ; Charles Blount,
Earl of Devon; Lord Henry Howard ; Robert
Cecil, Earl of Saliſbury ; Edward Lord Wotton,
of Morley ; Sir John Stanhope, Vice-Chamberlain ;
Lord Chief Juſtice of England, Popham; Lord
Chief Juſtice of the Common Pleas, Anderſon ;
Mr. Juſtice Gawdie; Mr. Juſtice Warburton, and
Sir William Ward. The Attorney-General was
Coke. The trial is amongſt the moſt famous and
infamous of our State Trials. The virulence of
Coke almoſt ſurpaſſes anything which even he ever
indulged in. Raleigh is called “ viper,” “traitor,"
,
”
wretch,” and a variety of ſimilar epithets which
the abundant vocabulary of the abuſive proſecutor
could readily ſupply. He is “ſpit upon” by the
civileſt of lawyers. Yet all is in vain. No indignity
can diſturb the calm foul of the Elizabethan hero.
He had faced the cannon of his country's arch-
foes too often to care much for the ſmall ſquib of
c ܙ
CC
)
Sir Walter Raleigh.
95
death."*
a Jacobæan lawyer. Calmly, gravely, and with
dignity he put aſide all theſe eſcapades of the play-
ful Coke, and met the lawyers on their own ground;
ſhowing that he who in the field had been among
the braveſt, and in the council anong the wiſeſt,
was alſo a match for theſe gentlemen in their own
peculiar province. “ It was obſerv'd,” ſays Prince,
that, before the Lords at his tryal, he was humble,
but not proſtrate; dutiful, but not deject; to the
jury he was affable, but not fawning; hoping, but
not truſting in them; carefully perſuading them with
reaſon, not diſtemperately importuning them with
conjuration, rather ſhowing love of life than fear of
As is too well known, after a protracted
trial he was found guilty, and left to the king's
mercy, He was ſent to the Tower.
For fourteen years did the merciful Scotch Solo-
mon keep this bird in a cage. Here he wrote his
famous Hiſtory of the World, which we lay aſide
at preſent, in order to follow the writer to the laſt
ſcene of his eventful ſtory. Although a priſoner,
he ſtill took intenſe intereſt in all that concerned his
country. He wrote ſeveral letters to Prince Henry,
with whom he was a great favourite, and whoſe
early death he and the nation both ſincerely mourned.
His great hopes, however, were in ſtill being of
ſervice to his native land. His eyes ever turned to
* Prince's “ Worthies of Devonſhire,” p. 673.
96
Sir Walter Raleigh.
and rem
loſs of F
the Lad
name.
Tour he
and I 1
to forrc
Mr. Se
rou a
hall k
that le
tormer
have C
a
а сор
fickr
the Weſt, the ſcene of his early glories. If he had
but freedom, he could yet do ſomewhat to make the
world wonder, and his own land to venerate his
After conſtant ſolicitation, he obtained, on
Auguſt of 1616, the king's commiſſion to ſettle in
Guiana ; and on the 26th of March, 1617, this,
his laſt and fataleſt expedition, ſet fail. It was a
ſhameful affair. The king was a traitor to his own
ſervant. The Spaniſh ambaſſador, Gondomar, was
.
informed of everything, and all the Spaniſh places
in America were warned of the great Engliſhman's
coming. Thoſe who would follow this voyage
through all its varied misfortunes have only to
read Raleigh's own Apology for the Voyage to
Guiana. In it he had ventured the whole of his
fortune, his friend, his ſon, and his hopes of ſafety.
He loſt his fortune, his ſon was nain, his brave
friend, Captain Kemis, ſhot himſelf; wretched,
ruined, and almoſt broken-hearted, he returned to
his home only to be the victim of a treacherous
relative, and to lay his noble head on the block.
Three months before his return to England he thus
writes to his wife-a more pathetic letter was never
written: “I was loth to write,” ſays the brave
man,
“ becauſe I know not how to comfort you,
and God knows I never knew what ſorrow meant
All that I can ſay to you is this, that
you muſt obey the will and providence of God;
me to
clear
enou
com
of v
Y
fcriç
pro
Fra
bro
wil
till now.
for
for
Sir Walter Raleigh.
97
a
and remember that the queen’s majeſty bore the
loſs of Prince Henry with a magnanimous fpirit, as
the Lady Harrington of her only ſon. Comfort
your heart, deareſt Beſs, I ſhall ſorrow for us both,
and I ſhall ſorrow the leſs becauſe I have not long
to ſorrow, becauſe not long to live. I refer you to
Mr. Secretary Winwood's letter, who will give
you a copy of it, if you ſend for it; therein you
ſhall know what hath paſſed. I have written but
that letter, for my brains are broken, and it is a
torment to me to write, eſpecially of miſery. I
have deſired Mr. Secretary to give my
give my Lord Carew
a copy of his letter. I have cleanſed my ſhip of
fick men, and ſent them home; and hope that God
,
will ſend us ſomewhat before we return. Commend
me to all at Lothbury. You ſhall hear from me,
if I live, from Newfoundland, where I mean to
clean my ſhip and revictual, for I have tobacco
enough will pay for it. The Lord bleſs and
comfort
you,
that
you may bear patiently the death
of your moſt valiant ſon.” Then follows a poſt-
ſcript, ſadder even than the letter. He ſays, “I
proteſt before the majeſty of God, that as Sir
Francis Drake and Sir John Hawkins died heart-
broken when they failed of their enterpriſe, I could
willingly do the like, did I not contend againſt
ſorrow for your fake, in hope to provide ſomewhat
for you, to comfort and relieve you.
If I live to
н
98
Sir Walter Raleigh.
return, reſolve yourſelf that it is the care for you
that hath ſtrengthened my heart. * * * * * It
were too long to tell you how we were preſerved ;
if I live, I ſhall make it known; my brains are
broken, and I cannot write much. I live yet, and
I told you why. Witney, for whom I ſold all my
,
plate at Plymouth, and to whom I gave more credit
and countenance than to all the captains of my fleet,
ran from me at the Granadoes, and Woolenſton
with him ; fo as I have now but five ſhips, and
one of thoſe I have ſent home, and in my fly-boat
a rabble of idle raſcals, which I know will not ſpare
to wound me; but I care not. I am ſure there is
never a baſe ſlave in all the fleet had taken the
pains and care that I have done, that hath ſlept ſo
little, and travelled ſo much ; my friends will not
believe them; and for the reſt I care not. God in
heaven bleſs you and ſtrengthen your heart." No,
thou brave heart, thy friends will not believe them,
neither then nor now; and ſo we can ſay with thee,
for the reſt we care not.
In June, 1618, he returned to England, and was
arreſted by Sir Lewis Stuckley. The time in which
Sir Walter was under the cuſtody of this man ſeems
to us the leaſt worthy of him. He was, as he ſays,
“ broken in his brains,” and he had an intenſe deſire
to live. Thus circumſtanced, we need not wonder
that he was weak, and was eaſily wrought to
Sir Walter Raleigh.
99
attempt an eſcape which appears ſuggeſted only to
be betrayed. He took phyſic alſo to make himſelf
appear
white and ſick, ſo as to move compaſſion
and pity. All this was unworthy of the great
Raleigh. It is that part in our hero's ever-chang-
ing career which we would willingly paſs over.
Happily it did not laſt long; and the time thus
afforded was made uſe of by Raleigh to write his
famous « Apology.” This done, he was himſelf
again, and able to look death in the face without
fear. He was brought up to London, and on
October 3rd, 1618, the Judges held a conference
Concerning the manner how priſoners who have
been attainted of treaſon and ſet at liberty ſhould be
brought to execution.” The Spaniard had ſucceeded.
A ruthleſs deſire for vengeance, and a pufillanimous
king only too willing to gratify this deſire, had
hunted to the death this one remaining ſoldier who
had fought againſt the Armada, and purſued the
foe even to their weſtern ſeas. It was in vain that
every attempt was made to ſave his life-that had
been promiſed to Gondomar. It was in vain that
he wrote to the king ; it was in vain that his words
were words of earneſtneſs and truth; they went to
one to whom words of earneſtneſs and truth were
unwelcome. In vain he pleaded, “If I have ſpent
my poor eſtate, loft my ſon, ſuffered by fickneſs
and otherwiſe a world of miſeries; if I have reſiſted
2 2:
100
Sir Walter Raleigh.
1
ܪ1
with the manifeſt hazard of my life the robberies
and ſpoils with which my companions would have
made me rich ; if when I was poor I could have
made myſelf rich; if when I had gotten my liberty,
which all men, and nature herſelf, do much prize, I
voluntarily loſt it; if when I was maſter of my
life
I rendered it again ; if I might elſewhere have ſold
my ſhips and goods, and put five or fix thouſand
pounds in my purſe, and yet brought them into
England; I beſeech your majeſty to believe that all
this I have done, becauſe it ſhould not be ſaid to your
majeſty that your majeſty had given liberty and truſt
to a man whoſe end was but the recovery of his
liberty, and who had betrayed your majeſty's truſt.
My mutineers told me that if I returned to
England I ſhould be undone, but I believed in
your
majeſty's goodneſs more than in all their arguments.
Sure I am that I am the firſt who, being free and
able to enrich myſelf, have yet embraced poverty
and peril. And as ſure I am that my example ſhall
make me the laſt.” The weak king, like all weak
people are when bent upon a thing, was inexorable ;
and this great man was executed on the 29th of
October, 1618, fifteen years after his condemnation.
O man, put not thy truſt in princes, but only in the
power of the living God!
His laſt moments were worthy of the life which
he was about to lay down. A nobler or gallanter
Sir Walter Raleigh.
ΙΟΙ
CC
a
a
>
>
death no hero ever yet died. Then he indeed
“had none to fear, none to reverence, but the King
of kings; " and fully proved that his words were
not mere idle vaunting, when he ſaid that he was
one who in his own reſpect deſpiſeth death, and
all his misſhapen and ugly forms." He walked to
the ſcaffold with a firm foot and a cheerful aſpect.
His whole demeanour excited the admiration and
sympathy of the ſpectators, and they all liſtened to
his laſt words with the moſt intenſe filence. « And
now," ſaid the dying man, “I entreat you all to
join with me in prayer, that the great God of heaven
whom I have grievouſly offended, being a man full
of all vanity, and have lived a ſinful life in all ſinful
callings, having been a ſoldier, a captain,
captain, and a courtier, which are all places of
wickedneſs and vice ; that God, I ſay, would forgive
me, and caſt away my ſins from me, and that he
would receive me into everlaſting life. So I take
my leave of you all, making my peace with God.”
“ Then proclamation being made that all men ſhould
depart the ſcaffold, he prepared himſelf for death,
giving away his hat and cap and money to ſome
attendants who ſtood near him. When he took
leave of the lords and other gentlemen, he deſired
the lord Arundel to deſire the king that no ſcanda-
lous writings to defame him might be publiſhed
after his death ; concluding, “I have a long journey
a fea-
C
a
IO2
Sir Walter Raleigh.
1
1
.
to go, and therefore will take my leave.' Then
having put off his gown and doublet, he called to
the executioner to ſhew him the axe ; which not
being preſently done, he ſaid, “I prithee let me fee
it. Doſt thou think that I am afraid of it?' and
having it in his hands, he felt along the edge of it,
and ſmiling, ſaid to the ſheriff, “This is a ſharp
medicine, but it is a phyſician for all diſeaſes.' Then
going to and fro on every ſide of the ſcaffold, he
deſired the company to pray to God to affiſt him
and ſtrengthen him. The executioner kneeling
down and aſking him forgiveneſs, Sir Walter, lay-
ing his hand upon his ſhoulder, granted it; and
being aſked which way he would lay himſelf on the
block, he anſwered, “So the heart be right, it is no
matter which way the head lies.' As he ſtooped
to lay himſelf along, and reclined his head, his face
being towards the eaſt, the executioner ſpread his
own cloak under him.
After a little pauſe he gave
the ſign that he was ready for the ſtroke by lifting
up his hand, and his head was ſtruck off at two
blows, his body never ſhrinking nor moving. His
head was ſhewn on each ſide of the ſcaffold, and then
put into a red leather bag, and, with his velvet
nightgown thrown over, was afterwards conveyed
away in a mourning coach of his lady's. His body
was interred in the chancel of St. Margaret's Church
in Weſtminſter ; but his head was long preſerved in
a
Sir Walter Raleigh.
103
a caſe by his widow, who ſurvived him twenty-nine
years; and after her death, by his ſon Carew, with
whom it is ſaid to have been buried at Weſt Horſley
in Surrey, which had been a ſeat of Sir Walter, who
was fixty years of age at his death."'*
”
“ Thus dy'd that knight who was Spain's revenge
and terror, and Gondomar's triumph. Whom the
whole nation pitied, and ſeveral princes interceded
for; Queen Elizabeth's favourite, and her ſucceſſor's
ſacrifice. One of ſuch incomparable policy, that he
was too hard for Eſſex ; was the envy of Leiceſter,
and Cecil's rival, who grew jealous of his excellent
parts, and was afraid of being ſupplanted by
him. His head was wiſhed on the ſecretary of
ſtate (that then was) his ſhoulders, and his life
valued at an higher rate than the choiceſt daughter
of Spain.”+
In his Bible the following well-known lines were
written in his hand-writing; and they have generally
been attributed to him. This is now more than
doubtful. If they are the “ fruit of his pen,” they
,
were written ſome years before the execution, as
they are found in a manuſcript of an earlier date.
As however they were the laſt lines written by
Raleigh, whether as his own or as a quotation,
they are now ſo inſeparably aſſociated with his name
* Birch's “ Life of Ralegh.”
† Prince's “ Worthies of Devonſhire,” p. 679.
104
Sir Walter Raleigh.
as to render it neceſſary that we ſhould reproduce
them here
“ Even ſuch is time, that takes on truſt
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and duſt;
Who in the dark and ſilent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the ſtory of our days !
But from this earth, this grave, this duſt,
The Lord ſhall raiſe me up, I truſt!”
>
1*
We now turn to the “Hiſtory of the World,”
a book," ſays one, “which for the exactneſs of
its chronology, curiouſneſs of its contexture, and
learning of all ſorts, ſeems to be the work of an age.
An hiſtory which never met yet with a detractor,
and the envy (as ſome fay) of King James himſelf,
who thought none could out-do him at the
pen.
We ſhall perhaps be ſafe in the concluſion, that but
few readers have gone through this great Priſon-
Book of Raleigh. The five long books are, as
Prince ſays, of a “curiouſneſs of contexture ;"
and they moſt certainly abound in “learning of all
forts;” but the "curiouſneſs” and the learning
are of a kind now ſomewhat obſolete.
And in ſpite
of the large experience of the writer, the abundance
of profitable matter, and the varied excellences of
the writing, we confeſs that it is ſomewhat of a talk
to read it. He begins with the creation, and every
queſtion which has puzzled the ſchoolmen, and per-
a
a
* Prince's “Worthies of Devonſhire,” p. 673.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
105
a
a
plexed the metaphyſician, is there diſcuſſed. All the
Greek and Latin claſſics, the Fathers, and the
Rabbis, are quoted with all the fullneſs of a complete
ſcholar; but for the moſt part quoted in ſupport of, or
in oppoſition to, ſome ſubtle queſtions which never
can be ſettled ; and which, may be, would not be
worth much if they could. It is a marvel of erudition;
and is a fine ſpecimen of the laborious ſcholarſhip of
the times. Almoſt every page abounds with Latin
quotations, marſhalled up like a phalanx in defence
of the author's poſition. All the books of that age
are more or leſs characteriſed by this claſſical diſplay ;
and Sir Walter, active as his life had been, proved
himſelf equal in this reſpect to the moſt ſtudious
writers of his time. His work really briſtles with
italics, and might, like Burton's “ Anatomy of
Melancholy,” ſerve as a text-book of quotations.
The book would be an extraordinary work to have
been produced by either of the great pundits of the
age ; but produced by one who had been “a ſoldier,
a captain, a ſea-captain, and a courtier,” it is indeed
a marvel.
As an indication of ſome of the ſubjects diſcuſſed
by Raleigh, and in proof of the diſtance to which
moſt of the book is removed from our « buſineſſes
and boſoms,” take the following heads of Chapters,
ſelected from many more on kindred topics. He
diſcuſſes ſuch ſubjects as “ That nature is no prin-
106
Sir Walter Raleigh.
cipium per ſe; nor from the giver of being ; ” dif-
courſes pleaſantly on the topic “ That man is, as it
were, a little world ; with a digreſſion touching our
mortality;” decides - That the ſeat of paradiſe
is greatly miſtaken ;” but adds that “it is no
marvel that men ſhould err;" in which, on ſuch a
queſtion, moſt perſons will agree with him. He
gives “ a recital of ſtrange opinions touching para-
diſe;" and inveſtigates the opinion of thoſe who
“ make paradiſe as high as the moon;" “of others
which make it higher than the middle region of the
air;" and of thoſe who “ feat paradiſe under the
equinoctial.” He ſhows “ That the tree of life
was a material tree; ” and aſks, “ touching the ſtory
of Adam's fin,” « But what means did the Devil
find out, or what inſtruments did his own ſubtilty
preſent him, as fitteſt and apteſt to work this miſ-
chief by ?” And anſwers, “ Even the unquiet
vanity of the woman ;” which is rather hard on
the poor woman. Diſcourſing “ of the laſt refuges of
the Devil to maintain his kingdom,” he thus writes,
“Now the Devil, becauſe he cannot play upon
the
open ſtage of the world (as in thoſe days), and being
ſtill as induſtrious as ever, finds it more for his
advantage to creep into the minds of men ; and
inhabiting in the temples of their hearts, works them
to a more effectual adoration of himſelf than ever.
For whereas he firſt taught them to ſacrifice to
"
Sir Walter Raleigh.
107
monſters, to dead ſtones cut into faces of beaſts,
birds, and other mixed natures; he now ſets before
them the high and ſhining idol of glory, the all-
commanding image of bright gold. He tells them
that truth is the goddeſs of dangers and oppreſſions ;
that charity is the enemy of nature; and laſtly,
that as all virtue in general is without taſte, ſo
pleaſure ſatiſfieth and delighteth every ſenſe : for
true wiſdom, faith he, is exerciſed in nothing elſe
than in the obtaining of power to oppreſs, and of
riches to maintain plentifully our worldly delights.
And if this arch-politician finds in his pupils any
remorſe, any fear or feeling of God's future judg-
ment, he perſuades them that God hath no great
need of men's ſouls, that he will accept them at any
time and upon any conditions ; interrupting by his
vigilant endeavours all offer of timeful return to-
wards God, by laying thoſe great blocks of rugged
poverty and deſpiſed contempt in the narrow paſſage
leading to his divine preſence. But as the mind of
man hath two ports, the one always frequented by
the entrance of manifold vanities, the other defolate
and overgrown with graſs, by which enter our
charitable thoughts and divine contemplations; ſo
hath that of death a double and twofold opening,
worldly miſery paſſing by the one, worldly proſperity
by the other : at the entrance of the one we find
our ſufferings and patience to attend us (all which
108
Sir Walter Raleigh.
«
have gone before us to prepare our joys), at the
other our cruelties, covetouſneſs, licentiouſneſs, in-
juſtice, and oppreſſions (the harbingers of moſt
fearful and terrible ſorrow), ſtaying for us.
And
as the Devil, our moſt induſtrious enemy, was ever
moſt diligent, ſo is he now more laborious than
ever; the long day of mankind drawing faſt towards
an evening, and the world's tragedy and time near
at an end.”
We have alſo chapters on “The divers kinds of
unlawful magic;" “ Of divers ways by which the
Devil ſeemeth to work his wonders ;” “That none
was ever raiſed from the dead by the power of the
Devil, and that it was not the true Samuel which
appeared to Saul.” There is “A propoſal of
reaſons or arguments that are brought to prove
Abraham was born in the year 292 after the Flood,
and not in the year 352;" and the “ Anſwer to
another of the objections propoſed, ſhowing that it
was not unlikely that Terah ſhould beget Abraham
in his 130th year;" with divers others of a like
kind, to which the curious may refer.
But it would be very far from the truth if any
were to ſuppoſe that the diſcuſſion of ſuch erudite
and unproductive matters formed the ſtaple of the
Hiſtory of the World. On all queſtions of govern-
ment, on all queſtions touching the practical every-
day intereſts of men, Raleigh has plenty of wiſe
Sir Walter Raleigh.
109
thoughts and fruitful ſuggeſtions to give. While
diſcuſſing the polity, the laws, the cuſtoms, and the
doings of antiquity, he brings in illuſtration the
condition of his own time; parallels the old with
examples from the modern, and adds to both the
living inſtances furniſhed by his own wide experience
of men and nations. On liberty, on tyranny, on
law, on government, on armies, and eſpecially on
navies, his words may be read now with profit and
inſtruction. Hear how admirably he ſpeaks of a
people that live under a pleaſant yoke :—“The
people that live under a pleaſant yoke are not only
loving to their ſovereign lord, but free of
courage,
and no greater in muſter of men than of ſtout
fighters, if need require ; whereas, on the contrary,
he that ruleth as over ſlaves ſhall be attended, in
time of neceſſity, by llaviſh minds, neither loving
his perſon, nor regarding his or their own honour.
Cowards
may
be furious, and Naves outrageous for a
time, but among ſpirits that have once yielded unto
ſlavery, univerſally it is found true that Homer faith,
‘God bereaveth a man of half his virtue that day
when he caſteth him into bondage.'”
a paſſage has not yet loſt its ſignificancy; nor would
ſome living ſovereigns be the worſe for conſidering
and ſeeking to give efficacy to this great truth.
On the old Greek tales, too, he can diſcourſe
Hiſtory of the World.” Vol. vi. B. v. c. ii.
2" *
Surely ſuch
IIO
Sir Walter Raleigh.
eloquently, for
many
of them had a kindred ſpirit
to his own. He was an adventurer and an explorer
in new countries, preparing them for a future
civiliſation; and all the noble records of old Greece,
which told the ſtory of former navigators and
dauntleſs ſeamen, who had left their ſhores, their
homes, their wives, and babes,
“To ſail beyond the ſunſet, and the baths
Of all the weſtern ſtars,”
had a charm for his bold ſailor mind. Ulyſſes
would be his favourite poem. Jafon was a ſweet
tale to him. This is what he ſays of that glorious
and poet-honoured adventure:-“Some there are,
that by this journey of Jaſon underſtand the myſtery
of the philoſopher's ſtone, called the golden fleece,
to which alſo other ſuperfine chymiſts draw the
twelve labours of Hercules. Suidas thinks, that by
the golden fleece was meant a book of parchment,
which is of ſheep's ſkin, and therefore called golden,
becauſe it was taught therein how other metals
might be tranſmuted. Others would fignify by
Jaſon, wiſdom and moderation, which overcometh
all perils. But that which is moſt probable is the
opinion of Ducilus, that the ſtory of ſuch a paſſage
was true, and that Jaſon with the reſt went to rob
Colchos, to which they might arrive by boat. For
not far from Caucaſus there are certain ſteep-falling
torrents which walh down many grains of gold, as
Sir Walter Raleigh.
III
in
many
other
parts of the world ; and the people
there inhabiting uſe to ſet many fleeces of wool in
thoſe deſcents of waters, in which the grains of gold
remain, and the water paſſeth through; which
Strabo witneſſeth to be true. The many rocks,
ſtraits, ſands, and currents, in the paſſage between
Greece and the bottom of Pontus, are poetically
converted into thoſe fiery bulls, the armed men
riſing out of the ground, the dragon caſt aſleep,
and the like. The man of braſs, the Syrens, Scylla
and Charybdis, were other hazards and adventures
which they fell into in the Mediterranean ſea, dif-
guiſed as the reſt, by Orpheus, under poetical
morals, all which Homer afterwards uſed (the man
of braſs excepted) in the deſcription of Ulyſſes'
travels on the ſame inland feas.” *
The accounts
of the wonderful weſtern voyages, as given by
Raleigh and the daring men of that noble and
adventurous age, ſurpaſs all that had ever before
been written of wonders witneſſed, and dangers
overcome, by the diſcoverers of new lands. How
often muſt Raleigh have pondered over this ſtory of
Jaſon, as he leant over the bulwarks of his veffel,
and watched the ever-changing ſcenes which were
preſented to his wondering eyes! How the glories
ſung by the Greek poet muſt have appeared dim to
the actual wonders of the weſtern world ! In
* “ Hiſtory of the World.” Vol. iv. B. 2.
I 12
Sir Walter Raleigh.
Raleigh's age England had many Jaſons, who won
for her ſomething better, more laſting, more truly
poetical, than ever was any golden fleece in this
world yet. But it was the ſame dauntleſs ſpirit
which ſent out the Argonauts of old as inſpired the
ſeamen adventurers of Elizabeth's England.
Raleigh was a ſoldier as well as a ſailor, and was
as well qualified to ſpeak upon matters pertaining
to the field as on thoſe concerning the navy. He
.
could command an army or a fleet; his advice was
fought by his queen and her miniſters in all times
of trouble, and none gave wiſer and more practical
advice; and none were liſtened to with greater
deference and reſpect. His eſtimate, therefore, of
the two great fighters of antiquity, Alexander and
Cæſar, is worth hearing. He has no very great
reſpect for the Greek, and ſays, “ If we compare
this great conqueror with other troublers of the
world, who have bought their glory with ſo great
deſtruction and effuſion of blood, I think him very
inferior to Cæſar, and many other that lived after
him, ſeeing he never undertook any warlike nation,
the naked Scythians excepted; nor was ever en-
countered with army of which he had not a moſt
maſtering advantage, both of weapons and com-
manders, every one of his father's old captains by
far exceeding the beſt of his enemies. But it
ſeemeth fortune and deſtinies (if we may uſe thoſe
Sir Walter Raleigh.
113
terms) had found out and prepared for him, with-
out any care of his own, both heaps of men that
willingly offered their necks to the yoke, and
kingdoms that invited and called in their own
conquerors. In concluſion, we will agree with
Seneca, who, ſpeaking of Philip, the father, and
Alexander, the ſon, gives this judgment of them-
Quod non minores fuere peſtes mortalium quam
inundatio quâ planum omne perfuſum eſt, quam
conflagratio quâ magna pars animantium exaruit.'
That they were no leſs plagues to mankind than an
overflow of waters, drowning all the level; or ſome
burning drought, whereby a great part of living
creatures is ſcorched up!"
His anſwer to the queſtion of Livy, “whether
the Romans could have reſiſted the great Alexander,”
is finely patriotic. He fails to ſay which was braveſt,
Macedonian or Roman; but he finds a third braver
than either. His concluſion will be endorſed by
every Engliſhman, unleſs we have ſuffered a deca-
dence of ſpirit, and a loſs of heroiſm ſince thoſe
days—à ſuppoſition which the Crimea and India
would utterly deſtroy. Yes, thou brave heart, we
can ſay with thee, “ If, therefore, it be demanded
whether the Macedonian or the Roman were the
beſt warrior, I will anſwer the Engliſhman. For it
will ſoon appear, to any that ſhall examine the noble
acts of our nation in war, that they were performed
1
114
Sir Walter Raleigh.
by no advantage of weapons, againſt no ſavage or
unmanly people, the enemy being far ſuperior unto
us in numbers and all needful proviſions-yea, as
well trained as we, or commonly better, in the
exerciſe of war.
* * * It is uſual with men
that have pleaſed themſelves, in admiring the mat-
ters which they find in ancient hiſtories, to hold it a
great injury done to their judgment, if any take
upon him, by way of compariſon, to extol the
things of later ages. But I am well perſuaded that
as the divided virtue of this our iſland hath given
more noble proofs of itſelf than under ſo worthy a
leader that Roman army could do, which afterwards
could win Rome and all her empire, making Cæſar
a monarch; ſo hereafter, by God's bleſſing, who
hath converted our greateſt hindrance into our
greateſt help, the enemy that ſhall dare to try our
forces will find cauſe to wiſh that, avoiding us, he
had rather encountered as great a puiſſance as was
that of the Roman empire.” *
Thus does our practical philoſopher go through
the hiſtory of the world from the Creation to the
middle of the Roman Empire diſcuſſing many things;
and all as a thoughtful, ſpeculative, much-experi-
enced man.
For thoſe who do not fear hard work
ſo that they get ſome jewels in return, this book
"
*
“ Hiſtory of the World.” Vol. v. B. iv. c. ii.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
115
will even now repay ſtudy. Much that is treated
of therein, the ſcience or rather the no-ſcience of
the time, lies far behind us now; and except as
ſhowing how the beſt and wiſeſt of our forefathers
thought upon ſuch ſubjects, has not, nor can have
the ſlighteſt intereſt to any ſon of Adam. Witch-
craft, philoſopher's ſtone, raiſing of the devil (as if
this were a thing needing to be done), the poſition
of Paradiſe, how old Terah was when he begat Abra-
ham, and whether the latter was born in the
year
292, or in the year 352, after the flood; theſe, and
a hundred other kindred ſubjects, though then con-
ſidered of
great and preſſing importance, can never,
we ſhould think, trouble human creature more. But
there are matters treated of in this Priſon-Book of
Raleigh which are of perennial intereſt to all.
Heroiſm, liberty, law, honour, life, death, God,
religion, the ſoul, immortality; man and his doings
and miſdoings; theſe are ſome of the things on
which Raleigh as a man intereſted in their true fet-
tlement writes—writes eloquently, earneſtly, and
attractively as a man ſo wiſe, and ſo intereſted, will
ever write on ſuch matters. To idle readers, to readers
who read to kill time, this book does not belong.
To readers who ſeek for wiſdom, who love it enough
to dig deeply in heavy foil, and are rewarded for
their labours by coming at laſt to its ſweet root, we
can commend this “Hiſtory of the World” as
I 2
116
Sir Walter Raleigh.
2
among the great works of the great Literature of
England. And what a book it is to be a Priſon-
Book !
One thing ſtruck us in reading through the work.
We are all more or leſs diſſatisfied with our own
times. We are ſo near them ; ſo cloſe to their
meanneſſes and ſins; look ſo microſcopically into
their little fores; are ſo affected by their troubles,
their vexations; are ſo annoyed by the “ftir and
fret unprofitable” which affail us at every point,
that we look upon the calm and diſtant paſt, with all
its fins and littleneſſes lying ſo far behind it, and only
its grand and heroic deeds preſerved, with a longing
which makes us unjuſt to our own days. From the
earlieſt times of which we have any record men did
this. The golden age, the Eden age, was always
behind them. The preſent was always mean and
wicked in compariſon.
“ This degenerate age,”
ſaid Homer; “ this degenerate age,” ſays every
moral teacher and parſon of the preſent noble era.
So faid Raleigh. He living in England's moſt heroic
day ; living with the braveſt men, and doing the
braveſt things; ſerving Elizabeth; fighting the Spa-
niard and the devil with the ſame dauntleſs heroiſm;
l;
braving all kinds of dangers, and daring all kinds
of perils to ſerve and honour their land- he too
talked of “this degenerate time." Alas, when he
wrote this he had fallen on degenerate days. The
Sir Walter Raleigh.
117
great Elizabeth was dead, and the little James reigned
in her ſtead ; heroiſm was no more, but wretched
pedantry uſurped its place. He looked back upon
the grand paſt in which he had lived, and in the
making of which he had borne a not inſignificant
part. And what could he do but ſpeak of the
degeneracy of the times? In no meaſured terms
does he ſpeak of this; from particulars that were
everywhere around him gathering inſtances enough
to make a general contraſt between the ancient and the
modern. His words on this point are worth quoting,
and worth reading now. He ſays, “But beſides
the old age of the world, how far doth our education
and ſimplicity of living differ from that old time?
The tender bringing up of children, firſt fed and
nouriſhed with the milk of a ſtrange dug; an un-
natural curioſity having taught all women (but the
beggars) to find out nurſes, which neceſſity only
ought to commend unto them : the haſty marriages
in tender years, wherein nature being but yet green
and growing, we rent from her, and replant her
branches while herſelf hath not yet any root ſufficient
to maintain her own top; and ſuch half-ripe ſeed,
for the moſt part, in their growing up wither in the
bud, and wax old even in their infancy. But above
all things the exceeding luxuriouſneſs of this glut-
tonous age, wherein we preſs nature with overweighty
burdens ; and finding her ſtrength defective, we
IS
Sir Walter Raleigh.
6
take the work out of her hands, and commit it to
the artificial help of ſtrong waters, hot ſpices, and
provoking ſauces.”
How better can we conclude this ſhort analyſis of
the noble victim's Priſon-Book than in his own
ſolemn, eloquent, and ſublime words? The work
was never completed, and there is a ſtory told that
“ ſome few days before he ſuffered, Sir Walter ſent
for Mr. Walter Bur, who formerly printed his firſt
volume of the Hiſtory of the World,' whom
taking by the hand, after ſome other diſcourſe, he
aſked him how it had fold ? Mr. Bur return'd this
anſwer, It ſold ſo ſlowly, it had undone him.' At
which words of his Sir Walter, ſtepping to his deſk,
reaches his other unprinted part of his hiſtory which
he had brought down to the times he lived in, and,
clapping his hand upon his breaſt, ſaid with a figh,
'Ah! my friend, hath my firſt part undone thee?
The ſecond
part
ſhall undo no more; this ungrateful
country is unworthy of it:' and immediately going
to the fire-ſide, threw it in, and fet his foot on it
until it was conſumed.
As great a loſs to learning
as Chriſtendom could have ſuſtained; the greater,
becauſe it could be repaired by no other hand but
his."* Of this piece of raſhneſs and folly we entirely
acquit Sir Walter ; the work, as we now have it,
C
* Prince's “ Worthies of Devon,” p. 673.
>
Sir Walter Raleigh.
119
being publiſhed in the year 1614, and in 1617, only
three years* afterwards, Raleigh ſet out on his fatal
expedition to Guinea. What we have of it thus
concludes : “ By this which we have already ſet
down, is ſeen the beginning and the end of the three
firſt monarchies of the world, whereof the founders
and erectors thought that they could never have
ended. That of Rome, which made the fourth,
was alſo at this time almoſt at the higheſt. We
have left it flouriſhing in the middle of the field,
having rooted up or cut down all that kept it from
the eyes and admiration of the world ; but after
ſome continuance, it ſhall begin to loſe the beauty
it had ; the ſtorms of ambition ſhall beat her great
boughs and branches one againſt another, her leaves
ſhall fall off, her limbs wither, and a rabble of
barbarous nations enter the field and cut her down.
* O eloquent, juſt, and mighty death! whom
none could adviſe, thou haſt perſuaded ; what none
* “ Beſides the firſt edition in 1614, printed by W. Stanſbey for
W. Burre, I have ſeen copies by the ſame printer bearing date 1617.
This edition, I think, has the picture of our author, graved by S.
Paſs, and the frontiſpiece by Ren. Elſtrack. Another is dated 1628,
and perhaps there is one between them. Another in 1634 ; another in
1652;
another in 1656, printed by Robert White, &c.; another in
1651, printed for Robert White, &c. Anthony Wood mentions
one in 1666, in which edition, or perhaps in one or two before it, it
was firſt printed in double columns. Another (now before me)
printed for George Dawes, 1671; another in 1678 and another in.
1687. After which there was none, I think, till this laſt, 1735."
-Oldys' Life, note to p. 449.
I 20
Sir Walter Raleigh.
had dared, thou haſt done; and whom all the world
hath flattered, thou only haſt caſt out of the world
and deſpiſed; thou haſt drawn together all the far-
ſtretched greatneſs, all the pride, cruelty, and ambi-
tion of man, and covered it over with theſe two
narrow words, Hic jacet !"'*
We quote as a note Fuller's ſhort but character-
iſtic account of Raleigh:—“The ſons of Heth ſaid
unto Abraham, thou art a great prince amongſt us;
in the choice of ſepulchres bury thy dead, none
ſhall withold them from thee.' So may we ſay to
the memory of this worthy knight, “Repoſe yourſelf
in this our catalogue under what topick you pleaſe, -
of Stateſman, Seaman, Souldier, Learned Writer, and
what not?' His worth unlocks our cloſeſt cabinets,
and provides both room and wellcome to entertain
him.
“He was born at Budely, in this county (Devon],
of an ancient family, but decaied in eſtate, and he
the youngeſt brother thereof. He was bred in
Oriel Colledg in Oxford; and thence comming to
Court found ſome hopes of the Queen's favours
reflecting upon him. This made him write in a a
glaſſe window, obvious to the Queen's eye,
• Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall.'
*
Hiſtory of the World.”
Sir Walter Raleigh.
I21
Her Majeſty, either eſpying or being ſhown it, did
under-write,
• If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.'
However, he at laſt climbed up by the ſtairs of his
own deſert. But his introduction into the Court
bore an elder date; from this occafion. This Cap-
tain Raleigh coming out of Ireland to the Engliſh
Court in good habit (his cloaths being then a
conſiderable part of his eſtate) found the Queen
walking, till, meeting with a plaſhy place, ſhe ſeemed
to ſcruple going thereon. Preſently Raleigh caſt
and ſpred his new pluſh cloak on the ground;
whereon the Queen trod gently, rewarding him
afterwards with many ſuits, for his ſo free and
ſeaſonable tender of fo fair a foot-cloath. Thus an
advantagious admiſſion into the firſt notice of a
prince is more than half a degree to preferment.
“ It is reported of the women in the Balear Iſlands
that, to make their ſons expert Archers, they will
not, when children, give them their breakfaſt before
they had hit the mark. Such the dealing of the
Queen with this knight, making him to earn his
honour, and, by pain and peril, to purchaſe what
places of credit or profit were beſtowed upon him.
Indeed it was true of him what was ſaid of Cato
Uticenſis, that he ſeemed to be born to that onely
which he went about;' ſo dexterous was he in all his
undertakings, in Court, in Camp, by Sea, by Land,
a
6
I 22
Sir Walter Raleigh.
with Sword, with Pen; witneſſe in the laſt his
'Hiſtory of the World, wherein the onely default
(or defe&t rather) that it wanteth one half thereof.
Yet had he many enemies (which worth never
wanteth) at Court, his cowardly detractors, of whom
Sir Walter was wont to ſay, 'If any man accuſeth
me to my face, I will anſwer him with my mouth;
but my tail is good enough to return an anſwer to
ſuch as traduceth me behind my back.'”
Sir John Eliot, the victim of the tyranny of
Charles the Firſt, as Sir Walter Raleigh had been
of his father James the Firſt, found conſolation in
ſimilar ſtudies, and employed his priſon hours in
like labours. In his immortal Priſon-Book, “The
Monarchie of Man,” he thus eloquently and nobly
writes of his great predeceſſor :-“Shall I not add,
as parallel to this, a wonder and example of our
own? Such as if that old philoſopher [Ramus]
were yet living, without diſhonour he might ac-
knowledge, as the equal of his virtue. Take it in
that-elfe unmatched--fortitude of our Raleigh !
the magnanimity of his ſufferings, that large chro-
nicle of fortitude! All the preparations that are
terrible preſented to his eye-guards and officers
about him—fetters and chains upon him—and then
the axe, and more cruel expectation of his enemies !
And what did all this work on the reſolution of this
worthy ? Made it an impreſſion of weak fear? or
Sir Walter Raleigh.
123
a diſtraction of his reaſon? Nothing ſo little did
that great ſoul ſuffer! but gathered more ſtrength
and advantage upon either. His mind became the
clearer, as if already it had been freed from the
cloud and oppreſſion of the body; and the trial
gave an illuſtration to his courage, ſo that it changed
the affection of his enemies, and turned their joy to
forrow, and all men elſe it filled with admiration,
leaving no doubt but this, whether death were more
acceptable to him, or he more inclined to death!”
>
ROBERT SOUTHWELL,
THE MARTYR.
-**
a
Of all the unfortunate ſons of the Muſes, perhaps
the moſt unfortunate was Robert Southwell. His
lot was caſt in one of thoſe troubleſome periods of
hiſtory when principles are held at the riſk of life;
and he who cannot yield obeiſance, and accept thoſe
in favour with “ the powers that be," muft either
conſent to hide “his light under a buſhel,” or to
bear the penalty of his proſcribed and prohibited
opinions. He was a Catholic when England, re-
cently perſecuted and ſtill ſmarting from the wounds
inflicted by Catholics, was becoming Proteſtant and
held in abhorrence the creed under whoſe domina-
tion ſhe had ſuffered ſo ſeverely. He was a Jeſuit
when the very name of Jeſuit ſtunk in his country's
noſtrils, and they were in her fight more to be
dreaded than the wolves of her primeval foreſts.
Perſecution had begotten perſecution, and the
Catholic horrors of Mary's reign almoſt found their
parallel in the terrible doings of Elizabeth's rule.
Both were periods of ſtorm and change; and the

SOUTHWELL.
Robert Southwell.
125
party was ever ready to quench in blood
the hopes of the aſpiring but down-trodden remnant
of the conquered party. The ſpirit and the will to
perſecute were pretty equally divided; and perhaps,
in juſtice, neither Catholic nor Proteſtant is entitled
to throw ſtones; for in their various ſtruggles both
have diſplayed the ſame indifference to the lives
and ſufferings of their opponents, and both have in
turns been perſecutors and victims. The martyro-
logy of both faiths is a terrible record of religious
bigotry, hatred, and blood-thirſty perſecutions.
The rack, the gibbet, and the ſtake have been the
inſtruments of perſuaſion uſed by both, and neither
has been peculiarly fcrupulous in their application.
And although, in looking over the paſt hiſtory of
our country, we cannot but rejoice that the prin-
ciples of Proteſtantiſm triumphed in their death
ſtruggle with the principles of Roman Catholiciſm,
we think the time is come when men ſhould treat
of thoſe fearful times without bitterneſs, and with a
freedom from that ſpirit which, indulged in too
much, would inevitably lead to the perſecution which
we deprecate. In Elizabeth's age, to ſucceed was
entirely to deſtroy the Catholic hopes and the
Catholic reſources in this kingdom; to fail, was to
have entailed upon England a perſecution which the
imagination can only realiſe in reading the pages
which record the reign of a Diocletian, or the
dominant
126
Robert Southwell.
horrors of the Bartholomew maſſacre-a horror
contemporary with the Priſon Poet, whoſe fad
hiſtory we are about to narrate. We, and we truſt
every Engliſhman, cannot but rejoice that the great
Queen ſucceeded, and by her ſharp and indomitable
will made the England of the nineteenth century
poſſible. We who live in the enjoyment of that
glorious freedom, the baſis of which was eſtabliſhed
in her reign, will not be mean enough to complain
of the tools ſhe was compelled to uſe; nor charge
her with ſavageneſs and a love of blood, on account
of the harſhneſs of the laws, which the neceſſity
of the times, if they do not altogether excuſe, yet
afford a not unreaſonable juſtification. As Shak-
ſpeare truly ſays in his ex poft fa&to prophecy : -
" She ſhall be loved and feared ; her own ſhall bleſs her :
l
Her foes ſhake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with ſorrow : good grows with her;
In her days every man ſhall eat in ſafety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and ſing
The merry ſongs of peace to all his neighbours :
God ſhall be truly known; and thoſe about her
From her ſhall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by theſe claim their greatneſs, not by blood.”
To have reached ſuch a ſtate of things was worth
paſſing through the valley and ſhadow of death,
which England had paſſed to reach it.
Robert Southwell was of a reſpectable Catholic
family of Norfolk. He was the third ſon of
Robert Southwell.
127
>
Richard Southwell, Eſq., and was born at his father's
ſeat, Horſham, St. Faith's, about the year 1562.
One of thoſe events ſo often uſed in romances
actually occurred to young Robert, and while he
was quite an infant a gipſy ſtole him from the
cradle, and left her own offſpring in his ſtead.
The theft, however, was known foon enough to
apprehend the woman and obtain the ſtolen boy;
and the woman confeſſed that ſhe had committed
the crime with the hope of gain. This event after-
wards made a ſtrong impreſſion on his mind, and
he ever ſpoke of his reſcue from the vagrant life
with warm thanks to God for the deliverance. He
was educated for a Catholic prieſt, and the piety of
his own nature led him on to dare anything for the
fake of his faith. At Douay, at Paris, and finally
at Rome, he was inſtructed in all the principles of
the Romiſh faith ; and before he had attained his
ſeventeenth year he was received into the Order of
the Society of Jeſus. This occurred in the year
1584. On the 25th of February, 1585, he applied
to the General for permiſſion to viſit his native
country as a Catholic miſſionary. His wiſh was
acceded to, and Father Southwell came to England
at a perilous time, and afterwards added his name
to the liſt of martyrs who glorify his church.
When Southwell came to England, the rage
againſt the Catholics was at its height. The
128
Robert Southwell.
Queen of Scots’ conſpiracy had drawn the attentic
of all Engliſhmen to the machinations againſt thei.
Queen, and all the paſſions of the Proteſtants were
rouſed to the utmoſt. Noble and lowly victims
ſuffered for that vain attempt, and the laws againſt
the Catholics, already ſevere enough, were increaſed
in ſeverity, and even more rigidly enforced than
before. Againſt prieſts, and eſpecially againſt
Jeſuits, both the laws and the popular feeling were
intenſely bitter, and Father Southwell was both.
The 'ſtatute 27 Elizabeth, c. 2, enacted, “That
any Popiſh prieſt, born in the dominions of the
crown of England, who ſhould come over thither
from beyond the ſea (unleſs driven by ſtreſs of
weather and tarrying only a reaſonable time), or
ſhould be in England three days without conform-
ing and taking the oath, ſhould be guilty of high
treaſon.” Southwell had braved the penalties of
this harſh law; not only did he not “conform and
take the oath,” but he was zealouſly employed in
performing all the functions of a Catholic prieſt,
making converts, and performing the forbidden
rites. He was the Father Confeffor of the Counteſs
of Arundel; and, protected by that noble lady, he
purſued his ſacred duties for a period of fix years
undiſturbed, wrote his paſſionately Catholic poems,
and was at laſt betrayed to the Government by the
treachery of a money-ſeeking woman.
Before we
Robert Southwell.
129
Treat of this event, we will ſay a few words upon
the moſt note-worthy of his proſe writings; and
one which gives us a perfect key to the nature and
character of the martyr poet.
Southwell's father was a courtier, and, according
to his ſon's views of religion, an outcaſt and a
“ brand for the burning.” While attempting to
ſave and reſcue others from the pit, it was not to
be expected that one ſo loving and filial would not
look upon the condition of his fire with profound
grief, and uſe his utmoſt endeavours to reclaim him.
This he did in a letter of earneſt eloquence and
fervid faith. It is addreſſed, “ To the worſhipful
,
luis very good father, Mr. R. S., his dutiful ſon,
R. S., wiſheth all happineſs,” and in a paſſionate
exhortation to his father to conſider the peril in
which his everlaſting happineſs is placed by his
worldly courſe, he ſpeaks of his own conduct in
ſeeking to ſave him from ſuch danger in the follow-
ing manner ;-“Who hath more intereſt in the
grape than he who planted the vine? who more
right to the crop than he who fowed the corn? or
where can the child owe fo great ſervice as to him
to whom he is indebted for his very life and being?
With young Tobias, I have travelled far, and
brought home a freight of ſpiritual ſubſtance to
enrich you, and medicinable receipts againſt your
ghoſtly maladies. I have, with Eſau, after a long
a
K
130
Robert Southwell,
toil in purſuing a long and painful chace, returned
with the full prey you were wont to love, deſiring
thereby to inſure your bleſſing. I have, in this
general famine of all true and Chriſtian food, with
Joſeph, prepared abundance of the bread of angels
for the repaſt of your ſoul. And now my deſire is
that my drugs may cure you, my prey delight you,
and my proviſion feed you, by whom I have been
cured, enlightened, and fed myſelf; that your cour-
teſies
may,
in part, be countervailed, and my duty,
in ſome fort, performed. Deſpiſe not, good fire,
.
the youth of your ſon, neither deem your God
meaſureth his endowments by number of years.
Hoary ſenſes are often couched under youthful
locks, and ſome are riper in the ſpring than others
in the autumn of their age. God choſe not Eſau
himſelf, nor his eldeſt ſon, but young David to
,
conquer Goliah, and to rule his people; not the
moſt aged perſon, but Daniel, the moſt innocent
youth, delivered Suſannah from the iniquity of the
judges. Chriſt at twelve years of age was found in
the temple, queſtioning with the greateſt doctors.
A true Elias can conceive that a little cloud may
caſt a large and abundant ſhower; and the Scripture
teacheth us that God unveileth to little ones that
which he concealeth from the wiſeſt ſages. His
truth is not abaſhed by the minority of the ſpeaker:
for out of the mouths of infants and ſucklings He
Robert Southwell.
131
can perfect His praiſes. Timothy was young, and
yet a principal paſtor : St. John, a youth, and yet
an apoſtle: yea, the angels, by appearing in youth-
ful ſemblance, gave us a proof that many glorious
gifts may be ſhrouded under tender ſhapes. All
this I ſay, not to claim any privileges ſurmounting
I
the rate of uſual abilities, but to avoid all touch of
preſumption in adviſing my elders; ſeeing that it hath
the warrant of Scripture, the teſtimony of example,
and ſufficient grounds both in grace
and nature.'
After this prelude he breaks out into this vivid
portrayal of the horrors which are in ſtore for the
worldly-minded, the heretic, and thoſe who die in
their fins : “ If you,” ſays this earneſt zealot, “ if
you were ſtretched on your departing bed, bur-
thened with the heavy load of your former tres-
paſſes, and gored with the ſting of a feſtered con-
ſcience; if you felt the hand of death graſping your
heart-ſtrings, and ready to make the rueful divorce
between body and ſoul; if you lay panting for
breath and bathed in a cold and fatal ſweat, wearied
with ſtruggling againſt the pangs of death, oh,
, ,
how much would you give for one hour for repent-
ance, at what rate would you value one day's con-
trition? Worlds would then be worthleſs in reſpect
of a little reſpite; a ſhort time would ſeem more
precious than the treaſures of empires. Nothing
would be ſo much eſteemed as a moment of time,
a
K 2
132
Robert Southwell.
1
which is now by months and years ſo laviſhly miſ-
ſpent. Oh! how deeply would it wound your
heart, when, looking back into yourſelf, you con-
ſider many faults committed and not confeſſed,
many good works omitted or not recovered, your
ſervice to God promiſed but never performed.
How intolerable will be your cafe ! Your friends are
fled, your ſervants frightened, your thoughts
amazed, your memory diſtracted, your whole mind
aghaſt, and unable to perform what it would, only
your guilty conſcience will continually upbraid you
with moſt bitter accuſations. What will be your
thoughts, when, ſtripped of your mortal body, and
turned both out of the ſervice and houſe-room of
this world, you are forced to enter into uncouth
and ſtrange paths, and with unknown and ugly
company to be carried before a moſt ſevere judge,
carrying in your own conſcience your judgment
written, and a perfect regiſter of all your miſdeeds;
when you ſhall ſee Him prepared to paſs ſentence
upon you, againſt whom you have tranſgreſſed; He
is to be the umpire whom by ſo many
offences
you
have made your enemy; when not only the devils,
but even the angels will plead againſt you, and
yourſelf, in ſpite of your will, be your own ſharpeſt
,
impeacher? What would you do in theſe dreadful
exigencies, when you ſaw the ghaſtly dungeon and
huge gulf of hell breaking out with moſt fearful
Robert Southwell.
133
flames : when you heard the weeping and gnaſhing
of teeth, the rage of thoſe helliſh monſters, the
horror of the place, the rigour of the pain, the
terror of the company, and the eternity of the pun-
iſhment? Would you then think them wiſe that
would delay in ſuch weighty matters, and idly play
away a time allotted to prevent ſuch intolerable
calamities? Would
you
then account it fecure to
nurſe in your boſom a brood of ſerpents, or ſuffer
your ſoul to entertain ſo many accuſers? Would
not you, then, think a whole life too little to do
penance for ſo many iniquities? Why, then, do
you not at leaſt devote the ſmall remnant and ſur-
plus of theſe your latter days in ſeeking to make
an atonement with God, and in freeing your con-
ſcience from the corruption that, by your treaſon
and fall, has crept into it; whoſe very eyes that read
this diſcourſe, and very underſtanding that con-
ceiveth it, ſhall be cited as certain witneſſes of what
I deſcribe? Your ſoul will then experience the
moſt terrible fears, if you do not recover yourſelf
into the fold and family of God's Church.” In
ſuch language we detect the true martyr ſpirit
which would dare all things for the ſake of truth,
and with Robert Southwell the truth was with the
Catholic Church, his adherence to which he was
ſoon to ſeal with his blood.
In the year 1592 the fix years of uninterrupted
134
Robert Southwell.
labour, combining prieſtly duties with poetic com-
poſitions, were diſaſtrouſly brought to an end, and
the poet was arreſted and caſt into priſon. His
lateſt biographer, Mr. W. B. Turnbull, thus records
this “foul betrayal.” “There was reſident at
Uxendon, near Harrow-on-the-Hill, in Middleſex,
a Catholic family of the name of Bellamy, whom
Southwell was in the habit of viſiting and providing
with religious inſtruction when he exchanged his
ordinary cloſe confinement for a purer atmoſphere.
One of the daughters, Ann, had in her early youth
exhibited marks of the moſt vivid and unmiſtake-
able piety; but, having been committed to the
Gatehouſe of Weſtminſter, her faith gradually de-
parted, and along with it her virtue. For, having
formed an intrigue with the keeper of the priſon,
The ſubſequently married him, and by that ſtep
forfeited all claim which ſhe had by law or favour
upon her father. In order, therefore, to obtain
ſome fortune, ſhe reſolved to take advantage of the
Act of 27 Elizabeth, which made the harbouring
of a prieſt treaſon, with confiſcation of the offender's
goods. Accordingly ſhe ſent a meſſenger to South-
well, urging him to meet her on a certain day and
hour at her father's houſe, whither he, either in
ignorance of what had happened, or under the im-
preſſion that ſhe fought his fpiritual aſſiſtance
through motives of penitence, went at the appointed
a
Robert Southwell.
135
time. In the meanwhile, having appriſed her
huſband of this, as alſo of the place of concealment
in her father's houſe, and the mode of acceſs, he
conveyed the information to Topcliffe, an implacable
perſecutor and denouncer of the Catholics, who,
with a band of his fatellites, ſurrounded the pre-
miſes, broke open the houſe, arreſted his reverence,
and carried him off in open day, expoſed to the gaze
of the populace. He was taken in the firſt inſtance
to Topcliffe's houſe, where during a few weeks he
was put to the torture ten times, with ſuch dreadful
ſeverity, that Southwell, complaining of it to his
judges, declared in the name of God that death
would have been more preferable. The manner in
which he was agoniſed may be ſeen in Tanner's
"Societas Jeſu Martyr.' But all was to no pur-
poſe; the ſufferer maintained an inflexible ſilence;
nothing could ſhake his conſtancy; and the tormen-
ters affirmed that he reſembled a poſt rather than a
He was then transferred to the fame Gate-
houſe which was kept by the huſband of the wretch
who had betrayed him, and after being confined
there for two months, was removed to the Tower,
and thrown into a dungeon ſo filthy and noiſome,
that, when brought forth at the end of a month to
be examined, his clothes were covered with vermin.
Whereupon his father preſented a petition to Eliza-
beth, humbly entreating that if his ſon had committed
man.
136
Robert Southwell.
3
anything for which by the laws he had deſerved it,
he might ſuffer death ; if not, as he was a gentle-
man, he hoped her Majeſty would be pleaſed to
order that he ſhould be treated as ſuch, and not be
confined in that filthy hole. The Queen, in con-
ſequence, ordered that he ſhould be better lodged,
and gave his father permiſſion to ſupply him with
clothing, neceſſaries, and books; of which latter,
the only ones which he aſked for were the Bible
and the works of St. Bernard. During all his
protracted confinement, although his ſiſter Mary,
who was married to a gentleman of the name of
Banniſter, had occaſional acceſs to him, he never
diſcourſed of anything but religion."*
Southwell was kept in priſon for three years,
and
then, upon his own petition, was brought to trial.
We read in Challmer's “ Memoirs of Miſſionary
Prieſts,” that Lord Treaſurer Cecil's reply to this
requeſt was, “ That if he was in ſo much hafte to
be hanged, he ſhould quickly have his deſire ;” but
it wants confirmation, and is not in keeping with
the character of Cecil. However, the poet was
removed from the Tower to Newgate ; and on the
21ſt of February, 1594-5, he was taken to Weſt-
minſter, and tried before the Lord Chief Juſtice
»*
1
* “Memoir of Robert Southwell.” By W. B. Turnbull. Pre-
fixed to the edition of Southwell's Poems, publiſhed by Mr. J. Ruſſell
Smith,
Robert Southwell.
137
Popham, Juſtice Owen, Baron Evans, and Serjeant
Daniel ; Sir Edward Coke, Solicitor-General, con-
ducted the caſe for the Crown. His conduct at his
trial was in keeping with his whole life ; manly, but
without preſumption. He denied any treaſonable
intentions towards the Queen or the State; con-
feſſed that he was a Catholic prieſt, and that his
purpoſe in England was to adminiſter the rites of
his Church to her faithful children. He was found
guilty, condemned, and on the morning of the
22nd was executed at Tyburn. He died as mar-
tyrs
of
every
faith have ever died; with firmneſs,
hope, and a deeper conviction of the truth of the
cauſe for which they ſuffer. Through the clumſi-
neſs of the executioner his death was prolonged,
and he “ſeveral times made the ſign of the croſs
while he was hanging.” The uſual and diſguſting
proceedings which then accompanied executions for
treaſon were gone through; but we are glad to ſay,
through the kindneſs and interference of the by-
ſtanders, the martyr was allowed to die before the
indignities and mutilations were allowed.
periſhed Father Southwell, at thirty-three years of
age, and ſo, unhappily, have periſhed many of the
wife and virtuous of the earth. Conſcious of ſuf-
fering in the ſuppoſed beſt of cauſes, he ſeems to
have met death without terror — to have received
, -
the crown of martyrdom not only with reſignation
"So
-
138
Robert Southwell.
but with joy. Indeed, perſecution and martyrdom,
torture and death, muſt have been frequent ſub-
jects of his contemplation. His brethren of the
prieſthood were falling around him, and he himſelf
aſſumed the character of a comforter and encourager
a
to thoſe who remained. Life's uncertainty and the
world's vanity, the crimes and follies of hu-
manity, and the conſolations and glories of religion,
are the conſtant themes of his writings, both in
proſe and verſe; and the kindlineſs and benignity
of his nature, and the moral excellence of his cha-
racter, are diffused alike over both.”*
Before we leave the life and turn to the works of
Southwell, we are compelled to ſay a word or two
in deprecation of the manner in which Mr. Turn-
bull has written his biography of the poet. We
utterly abhor the ſpirit which led to the perſecution
of ſuch a man; but we abhor it alike, whether the
object of ſuch perſecution be a Catholic or a Pro-
teftant. Mr. Turnbull's ire ſeems to be excited
only when the former is the victim. From his
work no one could gather that any one but Catho-
lics had ever been perſecuted in England. The
cauſes which led to their perſecution under Eliza-
beth are not even hinted at; the horrors of the
pre-
ceding reign are carefully kept aloof; the cauſes of
"The Retroſpective Review," vol. iv. p. 270.
Robert Southwell.
139
a
the ſtatute 27 Elizabeth are judiciouſly, but not fairly
nor frankly, withheld. No one will gather from his
Life that Elizabeth had been excommunicated by
the Pope ; that a price was offered for her aſſaſ-
ſination ; that the glory of ſainthood and the bliſs
!
of Paradiſe were enſured to the faithful child of the
Church whoſe knife ſhould cut off this arch heretic.
It
may be ſaid that, to heighten our ſympathy and
to increaſe our indignation, the picture of the
martyr's ſufferings is kept free of any of theſe
alleviating, if not juſtifying, adjuncts; but this is not
being faithful to the office of a teacher in the high
functions of hiſtory. To call Topcliffe a “wretch,”
a “ bloodhound,” a “perſecutor,” and other hard
names, is an eaſy thing, and ſure to meet with the
agreement of the reader, but affords no information
upon the nature of the times in which the poet's
lot was caſt. We queſtion if, in Mary's reign, any
petition to that Queen in behalf of
any
Proteſtant
ſufferer would have met with the reſponſe which
Elizabeth gave to that of Southwell's father. When
“Good Queen Beſs” received it ſhe anſwered by
granting its prayer, and the poet was “better
lodged,” allowed “clothing, neceſſaries, and books,”
and the conſoling viſits of friends. Every religion,
every ſect, has had its martyrs; and of all could be
appropriately ſaid what Mr. Turnbull ſays of South-
well; and of every Church what he ſays of the
"
140
Robert Southwell.
Catholic. “In blood the Church was planted;
with blood it has been watered; and its fecundity
has ever been the greater in proportion' to the
efforts made to eradicate it.” Few, however, will
agree with his ſpecial application of the principle
when he ſays “ The feed fown by perſecution in
“
the three laſt centuries, begins in the preſent to
bring forth an hundred fold.” What the wiſe,
although at times harſh, government of Elizabeth
ſaved us from is well known, and Mr. Turnbull
affords us a notable example when he, admiringly
and approvingly quoting Tanner, ſays, “After
Southwell's death, one of his ſiſters, a Catholic in
heart, but timidly and blameably ſimulating hereſy,
wrought with ſome reliques of the martyr ſeveral
cures on perſons affli&ted with deſperate and deadly
diſeaſes, which had bafled the ſkill of all phyſicians.
Thus God, in his uſual manner, honours his faints.”
This was publiſhed in the year 1856 !
To Mr. Turnbull, and to all who think with
him, we commend the words of Mr. Buckle, whoſe
great work on the Hiſtory of Civiliſation in Eng-
land is a good antidote to the medievaliſm of the
recent writers of the Roman Church.
puniſh,” ſays Mr. Buckle, “even a ſingle man for
a
his religious tenets is aſſuredly a crime of the deepeſt
* Theſe ſtrictures were written before the controverſy which has
led to Mr. Turnbull's reſignation of his labours at the Record-Office.
- To
Robert Southwell.
141
dye; but to puniſh a large body of men, to perſe-
cute an entire ſect, to aitempt to extirpate opinions
which, growing out of the ſtate of ſociety in which
they ariſe, are themſelves a rnanifeſtation of the
marvellous and luxurious fertility of the human
mind,—to do this is not only one of the moſt
per-
nicious, but one of the moſt fooliſh acts that can
poſſibly be conceived. Nevertheleſs, it is an un-
doubted fact that an overwhelming majority of
religious perſecutors have been men of the pureſt
intentions, of the moſt admirable morals. It is
impoſſible that this ſhould be otherwiſe, for they
are not bad-intentioned men who ſeek to enforce
opinions which they believe to be good. Still leſs
are they bad men who are ſo regardleſs of temporal
conſiderations as to employ all the reſources of their
power, not for their own benefit, but for the pur-
poſe of propagating a religion which they think neces-
ſary to the future happineſs of mankind. Such men
as thoſe are not bad, they are only ignorant—igno-
rant of the nature of truth, ignorant of the conſe-
quences of their own acts; but in a moral point of
view their motives are unimpeachable. Indeed, it
is the very ardour of their fincerity which warms
them into perſecution ; it is the holy zeal by which
they are fired that quickens their fanaticiſm into a
deadly activity. If you can impreſs any man with
abſorbing convictions of the ſupreme importance of
a
142
Robert Southwell.
.
ſome moral or religious doctrine ; if you can make
him believe that thoſe who reject that doctrine are
doomed to eternal perdition ; if you can give that
man power, and by means of his ignorance blind
him to the ultimate conſequences of his own act, he
will infallibly perſecute thoſe who deny his doctrine,
and the extent of his perſecution will be regulated
by the extent of his fincerity. Diminiſh the ſincerity,
and you will diminiſh his perſecution ; in other
words, by weakening the virtue you may check the
evil.” There is not a doubt but that, with his
fincerity, his courage, his deep and intenſe faith,
Father Southwell the perſecuted, in Elizabeth's reign,
would have been Father Southwell the perſecutor,
in Mary's reign. His letter to his father contains all
the elements neceſſary to form ſuch a character.
Properly to eſtimate the poetry of Southwell, his
faith and his circumſtances muſt be conſidered. It
is intenſely Roman Catholic. His longeſt poem is
“ Saint Peter's Complaint,” and is ſtrongly reli-
gious, though often its ſtrength is at the expenſe of
its verſe. It is generally harſh in its conſtruction,
and lacks the ſweet flow and the noble ring which
frequently marks the efforts of contemporary poets.
It is direct ; full of a fierce energy which is out of
keeping with the character of the Apoſtle whoſe
complaint it profeſſes to be. It is finely exaggerated,
and deals in hyperbole to an extraordinary extent.
a
Robert Southwell.
143
Perhaps the occaſion juſtifies this. St. Peter medi-
tating upon his denial of his Lord, and giving vent
to his feelings in words, would not perhaps be nice
in his phraſes or mincing in his fimiles. A little
out Heroding of Herod may not be out of place in
ſuch a poem; but in ſome hundred and forty ſix-
line ſtanzas, there is no ceſſation of this ſtormy out-
burſt; no ſweet and gentle remembrances of the
heavenly ſweetneſs and gentleneſs of his Divine
Maſter. We have «
We have “blazing comets and lightning
flames of love,” in abundance; but very little of
the “balm, the myrrh, and frankincenſe,” which
even to St. Peter ſhould have ſoothed and allayed
the bitterneſs of remorſe and fin. As an illuſtration
we quote the firſt four ſtanzas: -
“ Launch forth, my ſoul, into a main of tears,
Full fraught with grief, the traffic of thy mind;
Torn fails will ſerve thoughts rent with guilty fears,
Give care the ſtern, uſe ſighs inſtead of wind:
Remorſe thy pilot, thy miſdeed thy card,
Torment thy haven, ſhipwreck thy beſt reward.
“ Shun not the ſhelf of moſt deſerved ſhame,
Stick in the ſands of agoniſing dread;
Content thee to be ſtorms' and billows' game,
Divorced from grace, thy ſoul to penance wed :
Fly not from foreign ills, fly from the heart,
Worſe than the worſt of ills is that thou art.
• Give vent unto the vapours of thy breaſt,
That thicken in the brims of cloudy eyes;
Where ſin was hatch'd, let tears now waſh the neſt,
Where life was loſt, recover life with crics;
Thy treſſpaſs foul, let not thy tear sbe few,
Baptize thy ſpotted ſoul in weeping dew.
144
Robert Southwell.
Fly mournful plaints, the echoes of my ruth,
When ſcreeches in my frighted conſcience ring,
Sob out my ſorrows, fruits of mine untruth,
Report the ſmart of ſin's infernal ſting;
Tell hearts that languiſh in the ſorrieſt plight,
There is on earth a far more ſorry wight.”
All this is forcible enough, but ſuch elaborate
fancies are ſcarcely natural to the hero on the occa-
ſion. Again he ſays:
“ Chriſt, as my God, was templed in my thought,
As man, He lent mine eyes their deareſt light;
But ſin His temple hath to ruin brought,
And now He lighteneth terror from His fight.
Now, of my late unconſecrate deſires,
Profanèd wretch! I taſte the earned hires.
“Ah! ſin, the nothing that doth all things file,
Outcaſt from heaven, earth's curſe, the curſe of hell;
Parent of death, author of our exile,
The wreck of ſouls, the wares the fiends do ſell ;
That men to monſters, angels turn to devils,
Wrong of all rights, ſelf-ruin, root of evils.
“ A thing moſt done, yet more than God can do ;
Daily new done, yet ever done amiſs;
Friended of all, yet unto alla foe;
Seeming an heaven, yet baniſhing from bliſs ;
Served with toil, yet paying nought but pain,
Man's deepeſt loſs, though falſe-eſteemèd gain.
“ Shot without noiſe; wound without preſent ſmart;
Firſt ſeeming light, proving in fine a load ;
Entering with eaſe, not eaſily won to part,
Far in effects from that the ſhows abode;
Indorſed with hope, ſubſcribed with deſpair,
Ugly in death, though life did fain it fair."
This may be good metaphyſical verſe, but it is
not the utterance of a paſſionate heart, torn by
Robert Southwell.
145
remorſe, and rent with the agony of a ſuppoſed
unpardonable fin. Saint Peter is, of courſe, in our
author's poem a good Catholic, and the Virgin
Mother holds her proper place in his Complaint :
When, traitor to the Son, in Mother's eyes,
I fall preſent my humble ſuit for grace,
What bluſh can paint the ſhame that will ariſe,
Or write
my
inward feelings on my face?
Might ſhe the ſorrow with the finner ſee,
Though I'm deſpiſed, my grief might pitied be.
“ But ah! how can her ears my ſpeech endure,
Or ſcent my breath ſtill reeking helliſh ſteam ?
Can Mother like what did the Son abjure,
Or heart deflower'd a virgin's love redeem ?
The Mother nothing loves that Son doth loathe
Ah ! loathſome wretch, deteſted of them both!”
ܪ
This is very finely expreſſed; and there is a
pathos in theſe ſtanzas not often reached in the
poem. With the next quotation we take our leave
of St. Peter's Complaint; they are, to our mind,
among the ſweeteſt of the poem :
“O beams of mercy! beat on ſorrow's cloud,
Pour ſuppling ſhowers upon my parched ground;
Bring forth the fruit to your due ſervice vow'd,
Let good deſires with like deſerts be crown's :
Water young blooming virtue's tender flow'r,
Sin did all grace of riper growth devour.
“Weep balm and myrrh, you ſweet Arabian trees,
With pureſt gums perfume and pearl your rine;
Shed on your honey-drops, you buſy bees,
I, barren plant, must weep unpleaſant brine:
Hornets I hive, ſalt drops their labour plies,
Suck'd out of ſin, and ſhed by ſhowering eyes.”
L
146
Robert Southwell.
In his moral poems our author is a much more
pleaſant companion. His Muſe is then freer from
reſtraint; and he ſings more at his eaſe. Many
writers of a more modern date have borrowed of
his ſtores without acknowledgment. He is but a
dull reader who will not be pleaſed with, and he
is but a harſh critic who will not admire and
praiſe the ſpirit with which our author ſang
" CONTENT AND RICH.
" I dwell in Grace's court,
Enrich'd with Virtue's rights;
Faith guides my wit, Love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights,
“ In lowly vales I mount
To pleaſure's higheſt pitch;
My filly ſhroud true honour brings,
My poor
eſtate to rich.
My conſcience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my reſt;
My heart is happy in itſelf,
My bliſs is in
my
breaſt.
“Enough I reckon wealth ;
A mean the ſureſt lot,
That lies too high for baſe contempt,
Too low for envy's ſhot.
My wiſhes are but few,
All eaſy to fulfil ;
I make the limits of my power,
The bounds unto my will.
“ I have no hope but one,
Which is of heavenly reign;
Effects attend, or not deſire,
All lower hopes refrain.
Robert Southwell,
147
"I feel no care of coin,
Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While
grace
affordeth health.
“ I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of ſwelling pride;
Their fall is worſt, that from the height
Of greateſt honours ſlide.
“ Sith ſails of largeſt ſize
The ſtorm doth ſooneſt tear,
I bear ſo low and ſmall a fail,
As frëeth me from fear.
" I wreſtle not with rage,
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to ſtop the ſtreams
Until the tide doth turn.
" But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enlarged foe
Into a quiet friend.
“ And taught with often proof,
A temper'd calm I find
To be moſt ſolace to itſelf,
Beſt cure for angry mind.
Spare diet is my fare,
My clothes more fit than fine
I know I feed and clothe a foe,
That pamper'd would repine.
i
“ I envy not their hap,
Whom favour doth advance;
I take no pleaſure in their pain,
That have leſs happy chance.
" To riſe by others' fall,
I deem a loſing gain ;
All ſtates with others' ruin built,
To ruin run amain.
L2
148
Robert Southwell.
“ No chance of Fortune's calms
Can caſt my comforts down;
When Fortune ſmiles, I ſmile to think
How quickly ſhe will frown.
" And when in froward mood
She proves an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
Leſs loſs to let her go.”
Will it not be proper to hand back ſome of Dr.
Cotton's honour, ſuch as it is, to the elder poet?
Every reader of Engliſh poetry has read and
praiſed Nicolls'
poem “I may not ſcorn the meaneſt
thing;” Southwell's piece to the ſame text is much
more beautiful and much more poetical. It is
ſhort, and we give it entire ;-
« SCORN NOT THE LEAST.
" Where words are weak and foes encount'ring ſtrong,
Where mightier do aſſault than do defend,
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,
And ſilent ſees that ſpeech could not amend.
Yet higher powers moſt think though they repine,
When ſun is ſet, the little ſtars will ſhine.
“ While pike doth range the ſilly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with ſmaller fiſh;
Yet pikes are caught when little fiſh go by,
Theſe fleet afloat while thoſe do fill the diſh :
There is a time even for the worms to creep,
And ſuck the dew while all their foes do Neep.
" The martin cannot ever foar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound ftill purſue the chaſe ;
The tender lark will find a time to fly,
And fearful hare to run a quiet race:
He that the growth on cedars did beſtow,
Gave alſo lowly muſhrooms leave to grow.
Robert Southwell.
149
“ In Aman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe ;
The Lazar pined while Dives' feaſt was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go
We trample graſs and prize the flowers of May,
Yet graſs is green when flowers do fade away.”
Southwell's views of poetry were ſuch as fadly to
fetter and reſtrain his genius. He enters the realm
of the Muſes as Ulyſſes paſſed the Sirens, bound,
and with his ears filled with wax. He fears their
blandiſhments, and ſhrinks from entering their
gardens, leſt the temptations which almoſt over-
came Rinaldo, ſhould prevail againſt him. Verſe
ſeems to fetter him; and the ſpirit which in plain
proſe often foars to a height you little anticipate,
appears bowed down and takes but a timid flight
when it links, or ſeeks to link itſelf with a mea-
ſured utterance. He is too ſerious, too earneſt,
too ſectarianly religious to allow of any dalliance
with the fair ladies who dwell on Parnaſſus. Poetry
which ſings not immediately and directly in praiſe
of God, of Chriſt, of the Virgin Mary, of the
Saints, or of the Church, or is not purpoſely
hooked to ſome uſeful end, is with him a ſerving
of the devil. Tennyſon's “Sleeping Beauty'
would be as uſeleſs and idle a fancy as a vain
ditty in honour of Venus; or as a Bacchanalian
royſterer's catch.
“ If you are merry, ſing pſalms,”
would have been his anſwer to any queſtion on this
1)
150
Robert Southwell.
head. Pſalms are good, and ſongs are good, each
in their place; but Southwell would always have
the pſalms, and never the ſongs. He only knew of
one way of praiſing God, and that was in and through
the Catholic Church. Into that glorious region of
flowers and fancy, of fragrance and beauty, in which
ſo many other truly religious poets have funned
themſelves, his ſoul never entered. His ſtrains have
no touch of the fields and flowers about them;
the thruſh, the linnet, the nightingale, and the
“glorious bird of dawning," lent him not a note.
His poems have always a ſmack of the Vatican,
and all is worſe than idleneſs which does not ad-
miniſter to the honour and glory of the Church.
Of true love, the love of woman, he seems to know
nothing. His poſition as a prieſt cut him off from
all the joys and delights which ſpring from the ·
nobleſt, pureſt, and holieſt part of life. The feel-
ing which in ſo calm and ſelf-conſcious a poet as
Wordſworth inſpired lines of the moſt exquiſite
beauty, was an alien to Southwell. Of
and
devoted love the poet of our day fings thus:---
pure
66 He beheld
A viſion, and adored the thing he ſaw :
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought for him.
Earth breathed in one great preſence of the ſpring;
Life turned the meaneſt of her implements,
Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
The home ſhe dwelt in was a fainted ſhrine ;
Robert Southwell.
151
Her chamber windows did ſurpaſs in glory
The portals of the dawn; all paradiſe
Could, by the fimple opening of a door,
Let itſelf in upon him; pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment till his fpirit ſank
Surcharged within him,-overbleſt to move
Beneath a fun that wakes a weary world
To its dull round of ordinary cares ;
A man too happy for mortality."*
Of the ſame power, and of the condition of thoſe
under its influence, the Martyr Poet thus ſings in
his
poem
called
« LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.
“ Love miſtreſs is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they ſerve;
They reckon leaſt how little love
Their ſervice doth deſerve.
" The will ſhe robbeth from the wit,
The ſenſe from reaſon's lore ;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.
- She ſhroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill;
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,
A kiſs, where ſhe doth kill.
“ A honey-ſhower rains from her lips,
Sweet lights ſhine in her face
She hath the bluſh of virgin's mind,
The mind of viper's race.
“ She makes thee ſeek, yet fear to find ;
To find but not enjoy ;
In many frowns ſome gliding ſmiles
She yields, to more annoy.
* Wordſworth.
152
Robert Southwell.
" She woos thee to come near her fire,
Yet doth draw it from thee;
Far off the makes thy heart to fry,
And yet to freeze in thee.
“ She letteth fall ſome living baits
For fools to gather up ;
To ſweet, to four, to every taſte,
She tempereth her cup.
“ Soft ſouls ſhe binds in tender twiſt,
Small Aies in ſpinner's web;
She ſets afloat ſome luring ſtreams,
But makes them foon to ebb.
“ Her watery eyes have burning force,
Her floods and fames conſpire;
Tears kindle ſparks, fobs fuel are,
And fighs do blow her fire.
“ May never was the month of love,
For May is full of powers ;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of ſhowers.
“ Like tyrant, cruel wounds ſhe gives,
Like ſurgeon, ſalves ſhe lends;
But ſalve and ſore have equal force,
For death is both their ends.
“ But ſoothed words enthralled ſouls
She chains in ſervile bands;
Her
eye
in ſilence hath a ſpeech,
Which eye beſt underſtands.
6. Her little ſweet hath
many
fours
;
Short hap immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her fongs, bewitching charms.
" Like winter roſe and ſummer ice,
Her joys are ſtill untimely ;
Before her hope, behind remorſe,
Fair firſt, in fine unſeemly.
Robert Southwell.
153
“ Moods, paſſions, fancies, jealous fits,
Attend
upon
her train;
She yieldeth reſt without repoſe,
A heaven in helliſh pain.
“ Her houſe is ſloth, her door deceit,
And flippery hopes her ſtairs ;
Unbaſhful boldneſs bids her gueſts,
And every vice repairs.
“ Her diet is of ſuch delights
As pleaſe, till they be paſt;
But then, the poiſon kills the heart
That did entice the taſte.
“ Her ſleep in ſin doth end in wrath,
Remorſe rings her awake;
Death calls her up, ſhame drives her out,
Deſpairs her upſhot make.
Plough not the ſeas, ſow not the ſands,
Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other miſtreſs for your
minds,
Love's ſervice is in vain."
In this ſtrain does the Father vituperate that love
of which a living poet thus ſpeaks :-"Love is the
.
great gravitating power in the ſocial ſyſtem, cement-
ing heart to heart, ſex to ſex, family to family, ,
hamlet to hamlet, village to village, town to town,
city to city, nation to nation, earth to heaven, and
man to his Maker. Love is the burden to the
ſeraph's ſong. Love is the only angel which went
from Paradiſe with tearleſs eyes, and has been
the faithful companion of man throughout his
chequered hiſtory. It is the bird that ſings by
our own domeſtic hearth; it is the ſunſhine we
.
154
Robert Southwell.
) *
carry with us into the deepeſt gloom. It is, indeed,
impoſſible for the world to go on without it: there
is no domeſtic peace, no national proſperity, where
love is wanting.” *
An old critic, Edward Bolton, ſays: - Never
muſt be forgotten St. Peter's Complaint, and thoſe
other ſerious poems, ſaid to be Father Southwell's;
the Engliſh whereof, as it is very proper, ſo the ſharp-
neſs and light of wit is moſt rare in them.”+ And
as we have no deſire to part with the poet on other
than the moſt friendly terms, we will conclude by
quoting a poem which we can heartily praiſe. It
is a devotional poem ; and is a really good one.
The ſubject is in itſelf beautiful, and the author
writes with all his heart, and with more than his
wonted fires. Numerous as are the
poems
which
have been written to the Child Jeſus, we know
of no one which in all reſpects equals Southwell's.
6 A CHILD MY CHOICE.
“ Let folly praiſe that fancy loves,
I praiſe and love that child
Whoſe heart no thought, whoſe tongue no word,
Whoſe head no deed defiled ;
" I praiſe him moſt, I love him beſt,
All praiſe and love is his ;
While him I love, in him I live,
And cannot live amiſs.
* Edward Capern.
+ Quoted in Warton's “Hiſtory of Engliſh Poetry," vol. iïi.
p. 227.
Robert Southwell.
155
“ Love's ſweeteſt mark, land's higheſt theme,
Man's moſt deſired light,
To love him life, to leave him death,
To live in him delight.
“He mine by gift, I his by debt,
Thus each to other due,
Firſt friend he was, beſt friend he is,
All times will try him true.
" Though young, yet wife; though ſmall, yet ſtrong;
Though man, yet God he is;
As wiſe he knows, as ſtrong he can,
As God he loves to bleſs.
“ His knowledge rules, his ſtrength defends,
His love doth cheriſh all;
His birth our joy, his life our light,
His death our end of thrall.
66 Alas ! he weeps, he fighs, he pants,
Yet doth his angels ſing;
Out of his tears, his fighs and throbs,
Doth bud a joyful ſpring.
“ Almighty babe, whoſe tender arms
Can force all foes to fly,
Correct my faults, protect my life,
Direct me when I die."
a
And ſo with a tear for his fate; with admiration
;
for his courage ; with love for his gentleneſs of
mind and kindneſs of heart; and with a moderate
eſtimation of his genius, and a not extravagant
admiration of his poetry, we bid farewell to the
Catholic Martyr Poet, Robert Southwell !
GEORGE WITHER.
GEORGE WITHER was born at Bentworth, in
Hampſhire, in the year 1588. Little is known
reſpecting either his early life, or the condition of
his parents. If we are literally to interpret his own
words, they muſt have been wealthy, and his youth
muſt have been ſpent in almoſt luxurious affluence.
In his poem written on the plague, and entitled
“ Britain's Remembrancer,” he ſays:-
" When daily I on change of dainties fed,
Lodged night by night upon an eaſy bed,
In lordly chambers, and had wherewithal
Attendants forwarder than I to call,
Who brought me all things needful ; when at hand,
Hounds, hawks, and horſes, were at my command,
Then chooſe I did my walks on hills or valleys,
In groves, near ſprings, or in ſweet garden alleys,
Repoſing either in a natural ſhade
Or in neat arbours which by hands were made,
Where I might have required, without denial,
The lute, the organ, or deep ſounding viol,
To cheer my ſpirits ; with what elſe beſide
Was pleaſant, when my friends did thus provide
Without
my
coſt or labour.”
He “received his early education in the village
of Colemore, under one John Greaves, a ſchool-
V

23
7
WITHER.
George Wither.
157
maſter of ſome celebrity.” He was afterwards
ſent to Magdalen College, Oxford, but from a
change in the circumſtances of his father, was
unable to complete his education, and had to leave
the claſſic Oxford to “ follow the plough.”. This
employment little ſuited the hopes and aſpirations
of Wither; and at eighteen he went to London
" to ſeek his fortune,” and found, what ſo many
beſides have found in that redoubtable ſearch, a
priſon. Like ſo many gifted youths in ſimilar cir-
cumſtances, he firſt thought of the law as a profeſ-
fion, and entered himſelf at Lincoln's Inn; but
poetry was mightier than the ſtatutes, and he ſoon
gave himſelf up to the delights and blandiſhments
of the Muſes. They at firſt ſmiled upon him and
brought him into favour; but their ſmiles and
favours led to no worldly reſults. Poor Wither
found that living by his pen was not an eaſy thing,
and he had to eat the bread of bitterneſs and diſ-
appointment. In 1613, he publiſhed his fatire,
“Abuſes Stript and Whipt,” which ſharp and
fierce philippic againſt the prevailing ſins of the
time won for him the crown of perſecution, and he
was committed to the Marſhalſea priſon. Here
he remained ſome years; and here he wrote his
“Shepherd's Hunting,” and other poems, which
are among the beſt of his productions. As our
extracts will afterwards prove, in the “
“Shepherd's
158
George Wither.
Hunting,” amid much that is dull and proſaic, there
are paſſages of great beauty; and one remarkable
burſt on the joy and conſolation that poetry had
afforded him has rarely, if ever, been ſurpaſſed.
Judging by his own words, his impriſonment
ſeems to have been moſt diſgracefully harſh and
ſevere. In his “Scholar's Purgatory,” he thus
refers to it: “All my apparent good intentions
were ſo miſtaken by the aggravation of ſome ill-
affected towards my endeavours, that I was ſhut up
from the ſociety of mankind, and as one unworthy
the compaſſion vouchſafed to thieves and murderers,
was neither permitted the uſe of
my pen,
the acceſs
or right of acquaintance, the allowances uſually
afforded other cloſe priſoners, nor means to ſend
for neceſſaries befitting my preſent condition, by
which means I was for many days compelled to feed
on nothing but the coarſeſt bread, and ſometimes
locked
up four-and-twenty hours together, without
ſo much as a drop of water to cool my tongue;
and being at the ſame time in one of the groſſeſt
extremities of dullneſs that ever was inflicted upon
my body, the help both of phyſician and apothe-
cary was uncivilly denied me; ſo that if God had
not, by reſolutions of the mind which he infuſed
into me, extraordinarily enabled me to wreſtle with
theſe, and ſuch other afflictions, as I was then exer-
ciſed withal, I had been dangerouſly and laſtingly
N
George Wither.
159
a
overcome. But of theſe uſages I complain not ;
he that made me, made me ſtrong enough to de-
ſpiſe them.” This is in fad contraſt with the poetic
deſcription of his youthful pleaſures which we have
before quoted.
Wither addreſſed a ſatire to the king, and ſoon
after obtained his releaſe. But it is doubtful
whether he owed this favour to James or to the
Earl of Pembroke. One favour, however, he did
owe to Royalty, and that was a patent granted him
for his “Hymns and Songs of the Church,” a
work deſerving ſuch a patent; but the Royal grant
was injurious to the author. The bookſellers of
the day were offended; their “ veſted rights” were
ſuppoſed to be interfered with ; their intereſts were
threatened ; and their ire arouſed. So they com-
bined, and would not ſell the patented Hymns and
Songs. They brought all ſorts of charges againſt
them ; called them by evil names; and damned
them with opprobrious epithets. Our author ſays
in his “Scholar's Purgatory :”—
“Some give out that my Book contains nothing
but a few needleſs Songs, which I compoſed, and
got privilege by Patent, merely for my private
benefit, to the oppreſſion of the Commonwealth,
“Some diſcourage thoſe that come to buy the
Book, otherwiles denying that it is to be had, and
otherwiles peremptorily proteſting againſt the ſelling
160
George Wither.
of it; or diſgracefully telling ſuch as enquire after
the ſame, that the book is ridiculous; and that it
better befitted me to meddle with my Poetry than
to be tampering with Divinity ; with ſuch like
other words of contempt.
“ Other ſome there be, who dare aver that my
Lord's Grace of Canterbury, with many of the
Biſhops and beſt Divines, do much diſlike and
oppoſe the ſaid Hymns.
“Others again buzz in the people's ears, that
the Hymns for the obſervable times are Popiſh,
and tending to the maintenance of ſuperſtition.
“ And ſome there be among them, who in ſuch
terms of ribaldry, as no Stews can go beyond them,
blaſphemingly affirm, that the Canticles are ob-
ſcene, and not fit to be divulged in ſong or verſe.
“ Yea, many other objections they make, and
caſt out diverſe aſperſions, as well upon the Author
as on his Book, to bring both into contempt.”
Such were a few of the difficulties which met an
author publiſhing for himſelf in the year 1623 ; I
wonder if they exiſt under like circumſtances in the
year 1861 !
In 1625 London was viſited by the plague.
Wither was a witneſs of its horrors, and nobly
performed his part as a Chriſtian during this
terrible viſitation. In a poem of more than 600
pages, called “Britain's Remembrancer," he has
George Wither.
161
- after
Chat it
than
3 like
а
at my
f the
and
that
ppiſh
,
ſuch
chem,
given us an account of this ſcourge; and a more
curious record was perhaps never written. Wither
was a true poet; but he has written a frightful load
of rubbiſh, and his poem on the plague is one of
the moſt incongruous collection of verſes ever pub-
liſhed; ſuch a curious compound of ſlipſhod
verſe, far-fetched conceits, wild prophecy, fanatical
ſentiments, fatire, tragic incidents, and ſometimes a
direct and heart-rending pathos in true accord with
the ſad ſcenes which he depicts. We have ſelected
the following extracts from this poem from an
article which appeared in the ſeventh volume of th
Retroſpective Review. The firſt extract affords a
rather amuſing picture of the Londoners of the
ſeventeenth century. This is how they left the
city at the coming of the plague :-
“ Thoſe who, in all their life-time, never went
So far as is neareſt part of Kent;
Thoſe who did never travel, till of late,
Half way to Pancras from the city gate ;
Thoſe who might think the ſun did riſe at Bow,
And ſet at Acton, for aught they did know;
And dream young partridge fuck not, but are fed
As lambs and rabbits, which of eggs are bred :
Ev'n ſome of thoſe have journeys ventur'd on
Five miles by land (as far as Edmonton).
Some hazarded themſelves from Lion-key
Almoſt as far as Erith down by ſea;
Some row'd againſt the ſtream, and ſtraggled out
As far as Hounſlow heath, or thereabout:
Some climbed Highgate-hill, and there they ſee
The world so large that they amazed be;
Yea, fome have gone ſo far that they do know
Ere this, how wheat is made, and malt doth grow.
cob-
-le.
and
uthor
et an
3;
I
1 the
gue.
obly
this
>
600
has
M
162
George Wither.
10
I
“Oh, how they trudg'd and buſtled up and down,
To get themſelves a furlong out of town.
And how they were becumbered to provide,
That had about a mile or two to ride.
But when whole houſeholds further off were ſent,
You would have thought the maſter of it meant
To furniſh forth fome navy, and that he
Had got his neighbours venturers to be.
For all the near acquaintance thereabout,
By lending ſomewhat help to ſet them out.
What hiring was there of our hackney jades?
What ſcouring up of old and ruſty blades ?
What running to and fro was there to borrow
A ſafeguard, or a cloak, until the morrow ?
What ſhift made Jack for girths ! what ſhift made Gillian,
To get her neighbour's footſtool to her pillion,
Which are not yet returned ? How great the pother
To furniſh or unfurniſh one another,
In this great voyage did there then appear;
And what a time was that for bankrupts here ?
Thoſe who had thought (by night) to ſteal away,
Did unſuſpected ſhut up ſhop by day;
And (if good luck it in concluſion prove)
Two dangers were eſcap'd at one remove :
Some hired palfreys for a day or twaine,
But rode ſo far they came not back againe.
Some dealed by their neighbours as the Jews
At their departure did th' Ægyptians uſe :
And ſome (with what was of their own content)
Took
up their baggage, and away they went.
“ And had you heard how loud the coaches rumbled
Beheld how cars and carts together jumbled ;
Seen how the ways with people thronged were ;
The bands of foot and troops of horſemen there;
What multitudes away by land were ſent;
How many thouſands forth by water went;
And how the wealth of London thence was borne ;
You would have wonder'd; and (almoſt) have ſworn
The city had been leaving her foundation,
And ſeeking out another ſituation;
Or, that ſome enemy, with dreadful power,
Was coming to beſiege, and to devour."
George Wither.
163
Our next paſſage is one in a very different vein;
and contains in every line the evidence of an eye-
witneſs, and that that eye-witneſs was a true poet.
The picture is a terribly gloomy and painful one;
but let us remember, who only read theſe things,
that our poet beheld them.
There is much poetry
in this extract; the plague is at its awful work,
and death in every form is in the midſt of the
doomed city.
" To others, Death, no doubt, himſelf convey'd
In other forms, and other pageants played.
Whilſt in her arms the mother thought ſhe kept
Her infant ſafe, Death ſtole him when ſhe Nept.
Sometimes he took the mother's life away,
And left the little babe to lye and play
With her cold breaſt, and childiſh game to make
About thoſe
eyes
that never more ſhall wake.
" Sometimes when friends were talking, he did force
The one to leave unfiniſhed his diſcourſe.
Sometimes their marriage meetings he hath thwarted,
Who thought not they for ever had been parted
The night before. And many a lovely bride
He hath deflowered by the bridegroom's ſide.
At ev'ry hand lay one or other dying,
On ev'ry part were men and women crying ;
One for a huſband; for a friend another;
One for a ſiſter, wife, or only brother:
Some children for their parents moan were making ;
Some for the loſs of ſervants care were taking;
Some parents for a child ; and ſome again
For loſs of all their children did complain.
The mother dared not to cloſe her eyes,
Through fear, that while ſhe ſleeps, her baby dies.
Wives truſted not their huſbands out of door,
Leſt they might back again return no more.
And, in their abſence, if they did but hear
One knock or call in hafte, they quak'd through fear,
a
M2
164
George Wither.
That ſome unlucky meſſenger had brought
The news of thoſe miſchances they forethought.
And if, with care and grief o'er-tired they ſlept,
They dream'd of ghoſts and graves, and ſhriekt and wept."
What a ſtreet-ſcene is this !
a
“ Here one man ſtagger'd by, with viſage pale;
There, lean’d another, grunting on a ſtall.
A third, half dead, lay gaſping for his grave;
A fourth did out at window call and rave;
Yon came the bearers ſweating from the pit,
To fetch more bodies to repleniſh it.
A little further off, one ſits and ſhows
The ſpots, which he Death's tokens doth ſuppoſe,
(Ere ſuch they be) and makes them ſo indeed.”
)
We conclude theſe quotations from Wither's
“ Britain's Remembrancer,” with his own thanks-
giving for his ſafety and preſervation.
“Oh! God, how great a bleſſing, then, didſt thou
Confer upon me! And what grace allow?
Oh! what am I, and what my parentage ?
That thou, of all the children of this age,
Didſt chooſe out me, ſo highly to prefer,
As of thy acts to be a regiſter ?
And give me fortitude and reſolution
To ſtay and view thy judgment's execution ;
That I ſhould live to ſee thy angel here,
Ev'n in his greateſt dreadfulneſs appear?
That when a thouſand fell before my face,
And at my right hand, in as little ſpace
Ten thouſand more, I ſhould be ſtill protected
From that contagious blaſt, which them infected !
That, when of arrows thou didſt ſhoot a flight
So thick by day, and ſuch a ſtorm by night
Of poiſon’d ſhafts; I, then, ſhould walk among
The ſharpeſt of them; and yet paſs along
Unharm’d? And that I ſhould behold the path
Which thou didſt pace in thy hot burning wrath,
Yet not conſume to aſhes."
George Wither.
165
a
In 1641 Wither publiſhed his “ Halleluiah, or
Britain's Second Remembrancer,” containing ſome
very fine hymns, a ſpecimen or two of which we
ſhall give before concluding this paper. About
this time a great change came over the poet, and
the Royaliſt became a hot and zealous Puritan.
Much abuſe has been heaped upon Wither for
this; but it ſhould be remembered that this was a
time of ſudden changes. In all periods of revolu-
tion men are rapidly influenced; and paſſion often
rules where judgment has little power. The old
land-marks are ſuddenly diſplaced, and men con-
ſcientiouſly leave a cauſe or change principles for
which a few hours paſt they would willingly, nay,
eagerly, have given up their properties, their per-
ſons, and their lives. The changes of ſuch times
muſt not be judged by the colder and more gradual
changes which occur in ordinary times. We ſhould
heſitate to ſay, with Mr. Farr, that “ This change
in the ſentiments of Wither is evidently the fruit of
diſappointment.” Wither, it is true, up to this
date, ſpeaks warmly of the Church and the Throne;
but his religious views always inclined towards
Puritaniſm. The Plague was in 1625, and ſoon
after its occurrence “The Britain's Remembrancer"
was publiſhed. This poem is full of evidence of
the Puritan feelings of its author; and we all know
how eaſily the mind is influenced in its changes
166
George Wither,
1
1
.
1
when ſo prediſpoſed to ſympathiſe with the think-
ings of a party. The ſtep is not very far then to
ſympathiſing with and joining in their acts. In
1646, ſays Mr. Farr, “he had become as fiery a
Puritan as any in England.” The truth is, that
he was always more or leſs one of that body; and
in the above year openly advocated their cauſe, and
proclaimed himſelf of their party. There is little
reaſon to doubt the ſincerity of the change.
Whether ſincere or not, Wither ſuffered for his
conduct at the Reſtoration.
“ His property was
confiſcated; and all his MSS. and books were ſeized
under a warrant from Secretary Nicholas, while he
himſelf was ſent to Newgate. He was ſubſequently
removed to the Tower, where he appears to have
remained for more than a year. Campbell ſays
that he died in the Tower ; but this is a miſtake,
for he was releaſed on the 27th of July, 1663, after
having given bond for his good behaviour."*
Wither's life was henceforth one of forrow.
To quote from the author to whom we have been
chiefly indebted for the incidents of the poet's life,
“ The peſtilence and the fire fo thinned and ſepa-
rated the poet's friends, that he contemplated
retirement 'to a ſolitary habitation in the place of
his nativity,' but this intention was abandoned on
* Edward Farr. Introduction prefixed to Wither's Hymns and
Songs, in Mr. Ruſſell Smith's admirable “Library of Old Authors.”
George Wither.
167
the advice of ſome of his few remaining friends.
But his end was drawing nigh. His 'path had
gradually been growing rougher and more painful,
as he wound deeper into the vale of years, but it
is pleaſing to obſerve, from ſome of the laſt words
traced by the poet's pen, that, after all the ſtorms,
roughneſſes of life, his faith remained unſhaken, and
that he awaited his final ſummons with the calm
fortitude of a genuine Chriſtian. He died on the
2nd of May, 1667, and was buried in the church
belonging to the Savoy Hoſpital in the Strand.
According to Aubrey, Wither married Elizabeth
Emerſon, of South Lambeth, who was a great wit,
and could alſo write verſe. How tenderly he was
attached to his confort many touching paſſages in
his poetry teſtify. No mention is made of her
death, but it ſeems probable that ſhe preceded him
to the tomb. His wife had borne him fix children,
but one only, a daughter, ſurvived her parents.
“ The private character of Wither was one of
almoſt patriarchal fimplicity. It was a reflex of his
poetry. As a ſon, a friend, a parent, and a huſband,
never did character ſhine more brightly. Auſterely
ſimple and unoftentatious, he loathed the fawning
adulation of the age in which he lived. To uſe his
own language,
a
a
6. "When any bow'd to me with congees trim,
All I could do was ſtand and laugh at him :
168
George Wither.
>
Bleſs me! I thought, what will this coxcomb do?
When I perceived one reaching at
my
ſhoe.'
1
« In his habits he was very temperate.
His
chief indulgence was in the luxury of ſmoking.
In Newgate his pipe was a ſolace to him, and he
gratefully acknowledged God's mercy in wrapping
up a bleſſing in a weed.'”
Wither was a very prolific author. His verſes
are numbered by their thouſands, and none of them
are very dull reading. Others, on the contrary,
are moſt delightful and refreſhing. Much of his
poetry beautifully illuſtrates and proves the truth
of Mr. Farr's character of the man. Simple,
natural, unoftentatious, it comes from the heart of
a genuine poet and a genuine Chriſtian. Not alto-
gether free from the ſins of the
yet eſcapes
them to a wonderful extent. He had in his own
mind a true ſtandard of, and in his own heart a true
feeling for, poetry. The age in many things was a
curious one, full of affectations, quaintneſſes, artifi-
cialities, recondite fancies, and pedantic conceits.
And all theſe characteriſtics abounded in its poetry.
It was the age of figure-hunting and conceit-chaſing,
not only to the verge of the ridiculous, but often
into the very midſt of the region of fillineſs.
Wither does not altogether eſcape, but compared
with many of his contemporaries, his poetry is
a clear mountain ſtream bright and ſparkling,
age,
he
1
1
George Wither.
169
while theirs is a dull, leaden, and muddy ſtagnation
of waters. When he errs, it is againſt his better
judgment, and in violation of his better taſte. In
his Preface to his “Emblems” he ſpeaks on this
matter, and curious and recondite as moſt of the
Emblems are, he juſtifies their fimplicity, and the
abſence of the peculiarities which the age it ſeems
required, in the following noticeable words : “I
take little pleaſure in rhymes, fictions, or conceited
compoſitions for their own fakes ; neither could I
ever take ſo much pains, as to ſpend time to put
my meanings into other words than ſuch as flowed
forth without ſtudy : partly becauſe I delight more
in matter than in wordy flouriſhes; but chiefly
becauſe theſe wordy conceits, which by ſome are
accounted moſt elegant, are not only for the greater
part empty ſounds and impertinent clinches in them-
felves, but ſuch inventions as do ſometime alſo
obſcure the ſenſe to common readers; and ſerve to
little other purpoſe but for witty men to ſhew
tricks to one another; for the ignorant underſtand
them not, and the wife need them not. So much
of them, as without darkening the matters to them
that moſt need inſtruction, may be made uſe of to
ſtir up the affections, win attention, or help the
memory,
I
approve, and make uſe of to thoſe good
purpoſes, according as my leiſure and the meaſure
of my faculties will permit.” He certainly did
170
George Wither.
a
this a little more than was neceſſary for the purpoſes
mentioned; but that he could write free from any
of the entanglements he thus deprecates, that he
could fing as naturally and as ſweetly as the lark in
the “blinding ſky,” the following beautiful paſſage
from the “ Shepherd's Hunting," will ſufficiently
teſtify. It has won, and muſt win, the admiration
of all who have a true appreciation and love of
poetry. This was written in the Marſhal-
fea
1
natural poetry.
:
“ Seeſt thou not in cleareſt days,
Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays ;
And that vapours which do breathe
From the earth's groſs womb beneath,
Seem not to us with black ſteams,
To pollute the ſun's bright beams,
And yet vaniſh into air,
Leaving it unblemiſh'd fair ?
So, my Willy, ſhall it be,
With Detraction's breath in thee :
It ſhall never riſe ſo high,
As to ſtain thy poeſy.
As that fun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale ;
Poeſy ſo ſometimes drains
Groſs conceits from muddy brains ;
Miſts of envy, fogs of ſpite,
'Twixt men's judgments and her light;
But ſo much her power may do,
That ſhe can diſſolve them too.
If thy verſe do bravely tower,
As ſhe makes wing ſhe gets power ;
Yet the higher ſhe doth ſoar,
She's affronted ſtill the more ;
Till ſhe to the high'lt hath paſt,
Then the reſts with fame at laſt :
1
George Wither.
171
.
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight;
For if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very ſtars I'd climb;
There begin again and fly
Till I reach'd eternity.
But, alas ! my muſe is flow;
For thy place ſhe flags too low;
Yea, the more's her hapleſs fate,
Her ſhort wings were clipt too late :
And poor I, her fortune rueing,
Am myſelf put up a mewing :
But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did :
And though for her fake I am croſt,
Though my beſt hopes I have loſt,
And knew ſhe would make
my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double;
I ſhould love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world can do.
For, though baniſh'd from
my
Alocks,
And confin'd within theſe rocks,
Here I waſte away the light,
And conſume the ſullen night,
She doth for my comfort ſtay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miſs the flowery fields,
With thoſe ſweets the ſpring-tide yields,
Though I may not ſee thoſe groves,
Where the ſhepherds chant their loves,
And the laſſes more excel
Than the ſweet-voiced Philomel.
Though of all theſe pleaſures paft,
Nothing now remains at laſt,
But Remembrance, poor relief,
That more makes than mends my grief ;*
She's my mind's companion ſtill,
Maugre Envy's evil will.
*
*
This is truth the poet ſings,
That a forrow's crown of ſorrow is rememb’ring happier things.”
TennysON.
172
George Wither.
3
1
1
(Whence ſhe would be driven, too,
Were 't in mortal's power to do.)
She doth tell me where to borrow,
Comfort in the midſt of ſorrow :
Makes the deſolateſt place
In her preſence be a grace;
And the blackeſt diſcontents,
To be pleaſing ornaments.
In my former days of bliſs,
Her divine ſkill taught me this,
That from everything I ſaw,
I could ſome invention draw :
And raiſe pleaſure to her height,
Through the meaneſt object's fight,
By the murmur of a ſpring,
Or the leaſt bough's ruſtlëing.
By a daiſy whoſe leaves ſpread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed ;
Or a ſhady buſh or tree,
She could more infuſe in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In ſome other wiſer man.
By her help I alſo now
Make this churliſh place allow
Some things that may ſweeten gladneſs,
In the very gall of ſadneſs.
The dull loneneſs, the black ſhade,
That theſe hanging vaults have made :
The ſtrange muſic of the waves,
Beating on theſe hollow caves :
This black den which rocks imboſs,
Overgrown with eldeſt moſs ;
The rude portals that give light,
More to Terror than Delight:
This my chamber of Neglect,
Wall'd about with Diſreſpect,
From all theſe and this dull air,
A fit object for deſpair,
She hath taught me by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou beſt earthly bliſs,
I will cherish thee for this.
-
George Wither.
173
Poeſy, thou ſweet'ſt content,
That e'er heaven to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whoſe dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a ſcorn,
That to nought but earth are born,
Let
my
life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wiſe ones call thee madneſs,
Let me never taſte of gladneſs,
If I love not thy madd'ſt fits
More than all their greateſt wits.
And though ſome, too, ſeeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou doſt teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them."
Wither's “Hymns and Songs of the Church” are
admirable ſpecimens of devotional poetry. It is a
difficult taſk to put into Engliſh metre the magni-
ficent ſongs and pſalms of the Old Teſtament; and
we know of no verſion which can compare for
fimplicity and grandeur with our own proſe verſion
as given in the Bible. Our minds have from child-
hood been aſſociated with its beautiful and homely
dreſs, and the addition of rhyme ſeems more like an
impertinence than an ornament. It almoſt ſeems
to us raſh beyond meaſure to put the Ten Com-
mandments, the Lord's Prayer, the Apoſtles' Creed,
and other equally well known religious formularies,
into eights and fixes. Yet this Wither has done ;
and we wiſh he had not. The ſame objection does
not apply to other parts of the work, and the Song
of Moſes, the Song of Deborah and Barak, the
174
George Wither.
1
Canticles, the Songs for the various Apoſtles' days,
and ſo on, are not ſubject to the ſame objection ;
ſtill the reading of them, even in Wither's verſe, can
only ſerve to increaſe our love for the ſource whence
he derived his inſpiration, and make us turn with
renewed pleaſure to the originals. In ſuch com-
poſitions the only praiſe which can be accorded is,
that their author has been faithful to his text; that
he has employed no meretricious ornaments; and
that his language is ſimple and nervous; and his
verſe muſical. Theſe requirements our poet has
fulfilled ; and his fame in no wiſe ſuffers from his
“Hymns and Songs.” We ſelect two examples,
one from the Old and the other from the New
Teſtament portions of his work. The firſt has a
ſweet lyrical flow which is in rare accordance with
the ſubject :-
6 THE FIRST CANTICLE.
I
“ Come, kiſs me with thoſe lips of thine;
For better are thy loves than wine;
And as the powered ointments be,
Such is the favour of thy name.
And for the ſweetneſs of the fame,
The virgins are in love with thee.
1
2
6 Begin but thou to draw me on,
And then we after thee will run ?
Oh, King, thy chambers bring me to ;
So we in thee delight ſhall find,
And more than wine thy love will find,
And love thee as the righteous do.
George Wither.
175
3
" And daughters of Jeruſalem,
I pray you do not me contemn,
Becauſe that black I now appea!;
For I as lovely am (I know)
As Kedar tents (appear in ſhow)
Of Solomon his curtains are.
4
Though black I am, regard it not
It is but ſun-beam I have got,
Whereof my mother's ſons were cauſe;
Their vineyard keeper me they made,
(Through envy which to me they had)
So my own vine neglected was.
5
“ Thou whom my ſoul doth beſt affect,
Unto thy paſtures me direct,
Where thou at noon art ſtretched along;
For why ſhould I be ſtraggling spied,
Like her that loves to turn aſide,
Thy fellow-ſhepherd's flocks among ?
6
“Oh, faireſt of all womankind !
(If him thou know not where to find)
Go where the paths of cattle are;
Their tracks of footſteps ſtray not from,
Till to the ſhepherds' tents thou come,
And feed thy tender kidlings there.
7
My love thou art, of greater force
Than Pharaoh's troops of chariot horſe ;
Thy cheeks and neck made lovely be,
With rows of ſtones, and many a chain;
And we gold borders will ordain,
Beſet with ſilver ſtuds for thee.”
We confeſs to a conſiderable partiality to our
author's Hymn on St. Stephen's Day; and there-
176.
George Wither.
fore fondly hope that others may take it in like
favour. It has ſtrength and earneſtneſs; and is a
grand example of Wither's power :--
"ST. STEPHEN'S DAY.
I
“ Lord, with what zeal did thy firſt martyr breathe
Thy bleſſed truth, to ſuch as him withſtood !
With what Itout mind embraced he his death!
A holy witneſs ſealing with his blood !
The praiſe is thine, that him ſo ſtrong didſt make,
And bleſt is he, that died for thy fake.
2
“Unquenched love in him appear'd to be,
When for his murd'rous foes he did intreat:
A piercing eye made bright by faith had he,
For he beheld Thee in Thy glory ſet;
And ſo unmov’d his patience he did keep,
He died, as if he had but fallen alleep.
3
“ Our lukewarm hearts with his hot zeal inflame,
So conſtant, and ſo loving, let us be ;
So let us living glorify Thy name ;
So let us dying fix our eyes on Thee :
And when the ſleep of Death ſhall us o'ertake
With him to life eternal us awake.”
Of Wither's “Emblems” we give the one
”
on Love, which the critic in the “ Retroſpective
Review” calls “lively, ingenious, and delightful.”
o
“ If to his thoughts my comments have aſſented,
By whom the following Emblem was invented,
I'll hereby teach you, ladies, to diſcover
A true-bred Cupid from a fancied lover;
And ſhow, if you have wooers, which be they,
That worthieſt are to bear your hearts away.
a
George Wither.
177
ike
S a
a
How every
“ As is the boy which here you pictured ſee,
Let them be young, or let them, rather be,
Of ſuiting years, which is inſtead of youth,
And woo you in the nakedneſs of truth;
Not in the common and diſguiſed clothes,
Of mimic geſtures, compliments, and oaths,
Let them be winged with a ſwift deſire ;
And not with flow affection, that will tire.
But look to this as to the principal ;
That Love do make them truly muſical.
For Love's a good muſician: and will ſhow
faithful lover
miy
be ſo.
“ Each word he ſpeaks will preſently appear,
To be melodious raptures in your ear ;
Each geſture of his body, when he moves,
Will ſeem to play, or ſing a ſong of loves :
The
very
looks and motions of the eyes
Will touch your heart-ſtrings with ſweet harmonies;
And if the name of him be but expreſt,
'Twill cauſe a thouſand quaverings in your
breaſt.
Nay, ev'n thoſe diſcords, which occaſion'd are,
Will make your muſic much the ſweeter far.
And ſuch a moving diapafon ſtrike,
As none but Love can ever play the like."
:
ร)
No ſpecimens of the Puritan Poet's genius
would be complete did they not contain his famous
ſong :
“ Shall I, waſting in deſpair,
Die becauſe a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cauſe another's roſy are ?
Be ſhe fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads of May ;
If ſhe be not ſo to me,
What care I how fair ſhe be ?
" Shall
my
fooliſh heart be pin'd,
'Cauſe I ſee a woman kind?
N
178
George Wither.
Or a well-diſpoſed nature,
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be ſhe meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican ;
If ſhe be not fo to me,
What care I how kind ſhe be?
a
“ Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to periſh for her love?
Or, her well-defervings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be the with that goodneſs bleſt,
Which
may
merit name as beſt;
If ſhe be not ſuch to me,
What care I how good ſhe be?
“ 'Cauſe her fortune ſeems too high,
Shall I play the fool, and die ?
Thoſe that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo ;
And, unleſs that mind I ſee,
What care I how great ſhe be?
“Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more deſpair :
If ſhe love me, this believe-
I will die ere ſhe ſhall grieve.
If ſhe Night me when I woo,
I can ſcorn, and let her go :
If ſhe be not fit for me,
What care I for whom ſhe be?"
Above all the works of Wither we confeſs to a
love of his “ Halleluiah, or Britain's Second Re-
membrancer.” This volume contains hymns for
almoſt every poſſible condition and circumſtance in
which a man can be placed during his pilgrimage
on earth. Nothing can be finer either in ſpirit or
George Wither.
179
execution than many of theſe devotional pieces.
Poetry of the higheſt order abounds in them. The
pure fire of heaven inſpires you as you read, even as
it inſpired the poet when he wrote them. A fine
religious fervour and a rich lyrical flow are oftener
united than from ſome of Wither's other works
you
would anticipate. In ſome of theſe hymns he has
concentrated his whole genius; and his genius under
its beſt influences. The opening poem is a magni-
ficent outburſt of devotional and poetic feeling;
and is well entitled
66 A GENERAL INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.
I
“Come, oh come in pious lays,
Sound we God Almighty's praiſe;
Hither bring in one conſent,
Heart and voice and inſtrument.
Muſic add of every kind;
Sound the trump, the cornet wind ;
Strike the viol, touch the lute;
Let no tongue nor ſtring be mute;
Nor a creature dumb be found,
That hath either voice or ſound.
2
“ Let thoſe things which do not live,
In ſtill muſic praiſes give :
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth, or in the deep :
Loud aloft your
voices ſtrain,
Beaſts and monſters of the main :
Birds, your warbling treble ling;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring:
Sun and moon, exalted higher,
And bright ſtars, augment this choir.
N 2
180
George Wither.
3
“ Come, ye ſons of human race,
In this chorus take a place ;
And amid the mortal throng,
Be you maſters of the ſong.
Angels and ſupernal powers,
Be the nobleſt tenor yours ;
Let in praiſe of God, the ſound
Run in never-ending round;
That our ſong of praiſe may be
Everlaſting as is He.
4
" From earth's vaſt and hollow womb,
Muſic's deepeſt baſs may come ;
Seas and floods, from ſhore to ſhore,
Shall their counter-tenors roar,
To this concert, when we ſing,
Whiſtling winds, your deſcants bring;
That our ſong may overclimb
All the bounds of place and time,
And aſcend from ſphere to ſphere,
To the great Almighty's ear.
;
5
“ So, from heaven, on earth he ſhall
Let his gracious bleſſings fall;
And this huge wide orb we ſee,
Shall one choir, one temple be ;
Where, in ſuch a praiſeful tone
We will ſing what he hath done,
That the curſed fiends below
Shall thereat impatient grow.
Then, oh come, in pious lays,
Sound we God Almighty's praiſe,”
The tenderneſs and beauty of the following have
not often been ſurpaſſed :-
“ FOR ANNIVERSARY MARRIAGE DAYS.
1
“ Lord ! living here are we
As faſt united yet,
George Wither.
181
As when our hands and hearts by Thee
Together faſt were knit;
And in a thankful ſong
Now ſing we will Thy praiſe,
For that Thou doſt as well prolong
Our loving as our days.
2
“ Together we have now
Begun another year,
But how much time Thou wilt allow,
Thou mak'ſt it not appear :
We therefore do implore,
That live and love we may
Still ſo, as if but one day more
Together we ſhould ſtay.
a
3
6. Let each of other's wealth
Preſerve a faithful care,
And of each other's joy and health,
As if but one ſoul were;
Such conſcience let us make,
Each other not to grieve,
As if we daily were to take
Our everlaſting leave.
4
" The frowardneſs that ſprings
From our corrupted kind,
Or from thoſe troublous outward things
Which may diſtract the mind :
Permit Thou not, O Lord !
Our conſtant love to ſhake,
Or to diſturb our true accord,
Or make our hearts to ache.
5
" But let theſe frailties
prove
Affection's exerciſe,
And that diſcretion teach our love
Which wins the nobleſt prize :
182
George Wither.
So time which wears away,
And ruins all things elſe,
Shall fix our love on Thee for aye,
In whom perfection dwells."
« In the midſt of life we are in death,” and the
merry marriage peal is cloſely followed by the knell
of death and the funeral dirge. The above hymn
is the one next preceding one
FOR AN ANNIVERSARY FUNERAL DAY,
and our author adds, “Sing this in fad and aſhy
weeds.” It is very lyrical.
I
“ The day is now return'd
Which is memorial of my friend,
When firſt for him I mourn's,
To ſet apart I did intend;
'Tis now a year
Since for my dear,
This yearly rite was done,
And I as yet
Do not forget
My loſſes to bemoan.
2
" I muſt indeed confeſs,
That though to love ſtill true I am,
My paſſions now are leſs,
And that my grief is not the ſame;
For time aſſures
More perfect cures
When ſorrow woundeth man,
Than all the pow'rs
Of herbs and flow'rs,
Or human reaſon can.
3
" Thy name, O God! I praiſe,
That Thou by time haſt eaſed me ſo,
George Wither.
183
For doubtleſs length of days
Without Thy mercy lengthens woe;
When Thou doſt pleaſe
From pain to eale,
We in a night return;
And when we grieve,
Thou muſt relieve,
Or we ſhall ever mourn.
4
“ That yearly rite, therefore,
Which to my friend my paſſion vow'd,
Shall honour him the more,
If in Thy praiſe it be beſtow'd,
And if this day
Will paſs away
In thankful thoughts of Thee,
Which once I meant
To have miſſpent
In griefs that fruitleſs be.
5
“ Nor is my friend forgot,
Though thus I turn from him to Thee;
The leſs I love him not,
Though now I ſing Thy love to me:
Whilſt Thee I mind,
In Thee I find
My friend again revived ;
When him alone
I think upon,
I for one dead am grieved.
6
" The virtues of this friend
Within myfelf let me improve,
And to that noble end,
Cauſe his memorial me to move ;
For if we ſtray
From their juſt way
Whom we in life approved,
184
George Wither.
Thoſe whom we ſeem'd
To have eſteem'd,
We never truly loved.
7
" Lord ! I am drawing near
To his eſtate whom I bemoan ;
Yea, nearer by a year
Than when this duty laſt was done :
And ſtill I come
The further from
The ſtate I did deplore,
As nearer to
That ſtate I grow
Which equals rich and poor.
8
“ Vouchſafe, O God! I pray,
That hence removed when I ſhall be,
In Thee behold I
may
All thoſe that were beloved of me;
Yea, let none here
To me be dear,
But thoſe whom I ſhall find
Enjoy that love
In heaven above,
Which they on earth ſhould mind.”
We have before quoted our author's words on
the benign and bleſſed influences of poetry; we will
cloſe our extracts from his "Halleluiah” with his
“
hymn “For a Poet,” in reading which we cannot
help but feel how high was his own ideal, and how
exalted was his view of the poet's vocation.
I
By art a poet is not made,
For though by art ſome better'd be,
Immediately his gift he had
From Thee, O God! from none but Thee :
:
George Wither.
185
And fitted in the womb he was
To be, by what Thou didſt inſpire,
In extraordinary place,
A chaplain in this lower choir ;
Moſt poets future things declare,
And prophets, true or falſe, they are.
2
They who with meekneſs entertain,
And with an humble ſoul admit,
Thoſe raptures which Thy grace doth deign,
Become for Thy true ſervice fit:
And though the 'ſcapes which we condemn,
In theſe may otherwiſe be found,
Thy ſecrets Thou reveal'lt by them,
And mak'ſt their tongues Thy praiſe to found :
Such Moſes was, ſuch David proved,
Men famous, holy, and beloved.
3
“ And ſuch, though lower in degree,
Are ſome who live among us yet ;
And they with truth inſpired be,
By muſing on Thy Holy Writ;
In ordinary ſome of thoſe
Upon Thy ſervice do attend,
Divulging forth in holy proſe,
Thy meſſages which Thou doſt ſend;
And ſome of theſe Thy truths diſplay,
Not in an ordinary way.
4
“ But where this gift puffs up with pride,
The devil enters in thereby ;
And through the ſame doth means provide
To raiſe his own inventions high :
Blaſphemous fancies are infuſed,
All holy new things are expellid;
He that hath moſt profanely muſed
Is famed as having moſt excell'd;
And thoſe are prieſts and prophets made,
To Him from whom their ſtrains they had.
186
George Wither.
5
“ Such were thoſe poets who of old
To heathen gods their hymns did frame,
Or have blaſphemous fables told,
To truth's abuſe and virtue's blame;
Such are theſe poets in theſe days,
Who vent the fumes of luſt and wine,
Then crown each other's heads with bays,
As if their poems were divine;
And ſuch, though they ſome truths foreſee,
Falſe-hearted and falſe prophets be.
6
" Therefore ſince I reputed am,
Among thoſe few on whom the times
Impoſed have a poet's name,
Lord ! give me grace to fhun their crimes;
My precious gift let me employ,
Not as imprudent poets uſe,
That grace
and virtue to deſtroy
Which I ſhould ſtrengthen by my muſe ;
But help to free them of the wrongs
Suſtain’d by drunkards' rhymes and ſongs.
7
“ Yea, whilſt Thou ſhalt prolong my days,
Lord ! all the muſings of my heart,
To be advancements of Thy praiſe,
And to the public weal convert :
That when to duſt I muſt return,
It may not juſtly be my thought,
That to a bleſſing I was born,
Which by abuſe a curſe hath brought;
But let my conſcience truly ſay,
My ſoul in peace departs away.”
That true lover and appreciator of our old poets,
Charles Lamb, has, in his eſſay on the poetry of
George Wither, thus admirably ſummed up his
characteriſtics and merits. He ſays, “Whether
.
George Wither.
187
encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never ſeems
to have abated one jot of that free ſpirit which ſets
its mark upon his writings, as much as a predomi-
nant feature of independence impreſſes every page
of our late glorious Burns; but the elder poet
wraps his proof armour cloſer about him, the other
wears his too much outwards; he is thinking too
much of annoying the foe to be quite eaſy within ;
the ſpiritual defences are a perpetual ſource of in-
ward ſunſhine; the magnanimity of the modern is
not without its alloy of foreneſs, and a ſenſe of in-
juſtice which ſeems perpetually to gall and irritate.
Wither was better ſkilled in the ſweet uſes of
adverſity;' he knew how to extract the "precious
jewel' from the head of the toad,' without drawing
any of the ugly venom' along with it. The priſon
notes of Wither are finer than the wood notes of
moſt of his poetical brethren. The deſcription in
the Fourth Eclogue of his Shepherd's Hunting *
(which was compoſed during his impriſonment in
the Marſhalſea) of the power of the Muſe to extract
pleaſure from common objects, has been oftener
quoted, and is more known, than any part of his
writings. Indeed, the whole Eclogue is in a ſtrain
ſo much above not only what himſelf, but what
almoſt
any other poet has written, that he himſelf
could not help noticing it; he remarks that his
Quoted at page 170.
188
George Wither.
fpirits had been raiſed higher than they were wont,
through the love of poeſy. The praiſes of poetry
have been often ſung in ancient and in modern
times; ftrange powers have been aſcribed to it of
influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its
force over faſcinated crowds has been acknowledged ;
but before Wither, no one ever celebrated its
power
at home, the wealth and the ſtrength which this
divine gift confers upon its poſſeſſor.
its poſſeſſor. Fame, and
that too after death, was all which hitherto the
poets had promiſed themſelves from this art. It
ſeems to have been left to Wither to diſcover that
poetry was a preſent poffeffion, as well as a rich
reverſion, and that the Muſe had a promiſe of
both lives,-of this, and of that which was to
come.”
What more can, or need be ſaid? We can but
ſay of his works what he has himſelf ſo beautifully
ſaid of wonian's beauty :
“ Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehenfions in my mind
Of more ſweetneſs than all art
Or inventions can impart.
Thoughts too deep to be expreſs'd,
And too ſtrong to be ſuppreſs’d.”
LOVELACE, THE CAVALIER.
PARLIAMENTARIAN, Commonwealth's man as I
am upon principle and conviction, I cannot help
admiring the Cavaliers. Gallant, gay, loyal, de-
voted, and unſelfiſh, indifferent to life and fortune
in the cauſe they ſupported, ſome of the choiceſt
virtues of our nature were poſſeſſed by theſe “curled
darlings of the land.” While the Puritans were
ſtruggling for truth, and light, and liberty, the very
neceſſaries of a brave and noble life, the Cavaliers
had that which made life fair and beautiful. All
the graces and amenities of life were theirs. They
loved muſic and drawing, poetry, the drama, paint-
ing—all things in ſhort that are wiſely and truly
conſidered as ſhedding a grace upon and giving a
ſweetneſs to exiſtence. The one ſought after and
obtained the ſtrong, ftern daily bread, the others
rejoiced in the flowers and wine of life. Both
ſhowed equal devotion, bravery and daring, but
with this difference—the Puritans were devoted to
a good cauſe, the Cavaliers to a weak bad man,
who uſed their ſervices, their money, their ſwords, ,
190
Lovelace.
but never ſcrupled to ſacrifice them when ſuch
facrifice ſerved or appeared to ſerve his own ends.
Looking back upon that ſtruggle, it is impoſſible
not to love and pity the men who through battle
and loſs, and ruin, exile, poverty, neglect and
death, ſtill adhered to the cauſe of Charles the Firſt,
and wept, and toiled, and bled, and prayed for the
reſtoration of Charles the Second.
It is true that many of them were riotous,
royſtering, ſwaggering blades, drunk deeply, ſwore
roundly, gambled madly, and were very looſe livers
in other reſpects. A good deal of this reckleſs,
bravado ſort of life was however put on, and was
not ſo much the nature of the men, as a ſign of
their antagoniſm to the Roundhead. Whatever
was moſt oppoſed in thought, word and deed to
the enemies of the king was ſure to be adopted by
his friends. The Puritan prayed, therefore the
Cavalier ſwore; the one fang only pſalms or
hymns, therefore the other chanted looſe ſongs and
roared out wild bacchanalian ſtaves, and “rouſed
the night-owl with a catch.” To the one, ſtage-
plays were an abomination, a device and invention
of the evil one; the others, therefore, were the
ſworn friends of the actor and the devotees of the
theatre. From their intenſe hatred of “papiſtry,”
and the uſe which the Roman Church had made of
that art in forcing what they called the “ſervice of
Lovelace.
191
idolatry,” the Puritans abuſed, and, where they
could, too often deſtroyed works of ineſtimable
value; this only made the Cavaliers more zealous
lovers of the fine arts, and more vociferous in pub-
liſhing the fact. Whatever could diſtinguiſh them
from their foes, even when it penetrated more
deeply than in letting their hair flow in ringlets
down their backs, becauſe the Puritans cut theirs
ſhort; or in wearing rich and coloured clothes,
becauſe the Puritans adopted drab as “their only
wear,” and affected the morals of themſelves and of
their party, the Cavaliers did not heſitate to win
and keep a diſtinction baſed upon diſſoluteneſs of
living, and ſhameleſs effrontery of fin. The abſurd
peculiarities and the frequent hypocriſies of the
Puritans alſo tended to keep up the wantonneſs of
the Royaliſts. To be the very oppoſite of what
he hated, and to appear even more oppoſite than
he truly was, became the actuating feeling of the
Cavalier. The ſhort-cut hair, the lengthened,
ſerious face, the downcaſt eye, the ſombre ſuit, the
naſal twang, the “fix-mile
and three-mile
graces” of the Roundhead were ſure to provoke
long hair, frank open face, ſtaring looks, gay and
coloured clothes, loud-ringing voice, and ſhort
devotions in the Cavalier. And this would go on
until in the deſire to make the diſtinction as broad
and marked as poſſible he would put on a vice,
prayers
192
Lovelace.
CC
although he had it not, ſo that the world might
know that he at leaſt was none of the “ vile canting
crew.” This is natural. We all know what a
temptation it is, when oppreſſed by the piety of the
unco gude,” to ſay ſomething extremely wicked
which ſhall make them bluſh into ſilence. The
feeling that any one is proteſting too much is
ſure to raiſe an antagoniſm that will go into the
oppoſite extreme. The “ righteous overmuch”
are often the cauſe of much fin beſides their own.
The aſſumption of a tou rigid piety provokes the
aſſumption of a laxneſs that is not felt, and men
often appear worſe than they are from diſguſt at
cant, bigotry, and hypocriſy. So it was, to a very
large extent, with the Cavalier. He was not ſo bad
as he ſeemed. His vices were often of the ſurface,
while his virtues were deep-ſeated although never
or rarely obtruded. As with the true Roman
Catholic a firm faith in the infallibility of the Pope
and the divine power of the Church covers, or may
cover, a multitude of fins; ſo with the Royaliſt a
devotion to Charles, and a profeſſed belief in the
Engliſh Church, held the place of and did duty for
all the virtues of which the Puritans made ſuch a
fuſs. He was a good citizen and a true believer
who allowed the king to be his conſcience in politics,
and the Church to be his conſcience in religion.
The holding of theſe two articles of faith thoroughly
>
Lovelace.
193
allowed
ample room and verge enough” for free
living, and wild doings in other reſpects. And
when the greateſt of all mortal offences was to be
or to ſeem to be a Puritan, the road to the
very
oppoſite of all that Puritaniſm did and required of
its profeſſors was eaſy for ſuch hearty and deadly
foes as were the Cavaliers. They, at leaſt, would
ſhow the world that they had no fear of being
thought wicked in the cauſe of the church and the
king-and too often the king was put before the
church; and rather than not be eſteemed good
royaliſts they preferred not to be eſteemed good
men.
Yet where ſhall we look for many of the nobleſt
traits of our nature, if not to theſe devoted ſoldiers
of a ruinous cauſe, and an unworthy leader? Of
the men who gathered round Charles, ſcarcely any
counted life or money dear to them ſo that they
might ſpend and be ſpent in his ſervice. From
them you might ſelect examples of every virtue and
nobleneſs of which man is capable. The moſt
generous ſelf-ſacrifice, the pureſt loyalty, the ſub-
limeſt devotion, and the moſt heroic courage, were
with them. Many, nay, the moſt of theſe men,
wild, reckleſs, and wicked as they appeared to their
contemporaries, and too often were in fact, would
not have ſcrupled to lay down their lives to ſave
him whom they called maſter. This with a ſmile,
0
194
Lovelace.
a cheerful
grace, and a courtlineſs, they too often
did. Their ſervice was generally unrewarded, their
devotion unrecogniſed, their worth Nighted; but
none the leſs were they ready to ſerve and be again
unrewarded; none the leſs were they at their king's
beck and call to do whatſoever he willed, although
certain that when that will was done they and their
doings would hold no place on the treacherous
tablets of the royal brain. Such were the Royaliſts
of England; and of thoſe Royaliſts a nobler, a
gayer, a gallanter, and one more devoted to the
cauſe, could not be found than Richard Lovelace,
the Cavalier.
Nearly all that we know of the life of Lovelace
to be found in Wood's Athene Oxonienſis. From
this fource all that has been written of him ſince
has been borrowed. Something more about his
family has been provided by other writers, but none
have increaſed our knowledge of the poet himſelf.
Haſted, in his Hiſtory of Kent, has many ſcattered
notices of the Lovelaces; and a writer, in the ſixty-
firſt and fixty-ſecond volumes of “ The Gentleman's
Magazine,” has given ſeveral papers on the ſubject;
but ſtill Wood is our beſt and moſt original ſource
for all that we know, or perhaps are ever likely to
know, of him who has immortaliſed his priſon life
by that glorious ſong, of which a ſtanza forms the
motto to this book. To Wood then we ſhall
a
Lovelace.
195
revert, and from his pages gather our facts for this
ſketch of the life of Richard Lovelace.
Richard Lovelace was the eldeſt ſon of Sir
William Lovelace, of Woollidge, in Kent, and was
born in that county in the beginning of the year
1618. At the age of fixteen, after having received
his firſt education in Charter-houſe ſchool, near
London, he became a gentleman commoner of
Glouceſter-hall, Oxford. He was then, ſays Wood,
“accounted the moſt amiable and beautiful perſon
that ever eye beheld, a perſon alſo of innate modeſty,
virtue and courtly deportment, which made him
then, but eſpecially after, when he retired to the
great city, much admired and adored by the female
ſex.”* This attractiveneſs of perſon ſeems to have
ſerved him well; for we find that in the year 1636,
when the king and queen were entertained at
Oxford, young Lovelace, although a ſtudent of but
two years ſtanding, was, at the requeſt “of a great
lady belonging to the queen made to the Archbiſhop
of Canterbury, then Chancellor of the Univerſity,
actually created, among other perſons of quality,
Maſter of Arts.”+ Such a thing was not likely to
leſſen the young man's reputation, or to weaken
his influence with the fair ſex. From the univerſity
he paſſed to the court, and there lived in great
*
Wood's “ Athena Oxonienſis.” Bliss's edition, vol. III., p. 460.
+ Ibid, p. 460.
02
196
Lovelace.
ſplendour. He was taken into the favour of
George Lord Goring, afterwards Earl of Norwich.
In his ſervice young Lovelace became a ſoldier, and
as enſign was engaged in the Scottiſh expedition of
1639. In the ſecond expedition to that country he
was commiſſioned as a captain in the ſame regiment.
About this time he wrote his tragedy called the
“Soldier,” a play which has not yet been put upon
>)
the ſtage.
His ſhort ſpell of ſoldiering over, Captain Love-
lace, on the pacification of Berwick, retired to his
country-ſeat, Lovelace Place, in the pariſh of
Bethenden, at Canterbury, Chart, Halden, &c.,
worth at leaſt sool. per annum. He was, as might
be readily anticipated, a thorough-going Royaliſt ;
and the county of Kent having drawn up their
famous petition to the Houſe of Commons, pray-
ing that the king might be reſtored to his rights,
and the government ſettled, Lovelace was ſelected
to preſent it. For this preſentation his reward was
a commitment to priſon. The Gatehouſe at
Weſtminſter was the priſon made famous by being
the place in which he wrote ſome of his beſt
poems,
including that delightful one to Althea, which will
be quoted when we come to ſpeak of his works.
His term of “durance vile” was not a very pro-
tracted one, but the ſurety demanded was a very
large one. After three or four months' confine-
Lovelace..
197
ment he was liberated on bail of 40,000l., not to
ftir out of the lines of communication without a
paſs from the ſpeaker. Still he was moſt active in
the king's cauſe. Out of his own purſe he fur-
niſhed men with horſes and arms, equipped his two
brothers, Colonel Francis Lovelace and Captain
William Lovelace, who was afterwards killed at
Caermarthen. He alſo maintained his other brother,
Dudley Poſthumus Lovelace, in Holland, where he
was ſtudying tactics and fortification. « Afterthe
rendition of Oxford garriſon in 1646, he formed a
regiment for the ſervice of the French king, was
colonel of it, and wounded at Dunkirk; and in
1648, returning into England, he, with Dudley
Poſthumus before mention'd, then a captain under
him, were both committed priſoners to Peterhouſe,
in London, where he fram'd his poems for the
*
preſs.”*
The volume thus prepared is the 1649 edition,
entitled, “Lucaſta: Epodes, Odes, Sonnets, Songs,
&c.,” and Wood tells us that “ The reaſon why he
gave that title was becauſe, fome time before, he
had made his amours to a gentlewoman of great
beauty and fortune, named Lucy Sacheverel, whom
he uſually called Lux Caſta; but ſhe, upon a ſtrong
report that Lovelace was dead of his wound
* Wood's “ Athena Oxonienſis.” Bliss's edition, vol. 111., p. 462.
198
Lovelace.
received at Dunkirk, ſoon after married."* With
“Lucaſta,” he alſo publiſhed “ Amarantha, a Paſ-
toral,” which Henry Lawes ſet to muſic. After
the execution of Charles, Lovelace was ſet at
liberty; and lived, according to Aubrey and Wood,
in great poverty and diſtreſs, in which he died.
This melancholy end of an active and noble life is
thus recorded by Wood. After telling us of his
being ſet at liberty, he continues, “ and having by
that time conſumed all his eſtate, grew very
melan-
choly (which brought him at length into a conſump-
tion), became very poor in body and purſe, was the
object of charity, went in ragged cloaths (whereas
when he was in his glory he wore cloth of gold
and ſilver), and moſtly lodged in obſcure and dirty
places, more befitting the worſt of beggars and
pooreſt of ſervants, &c.
He died in a
very mean lodging in Gunpowder Alley, near
Shoe-lane, and was buried at the weſt end of the
Church of S. Bride, alias Bridget, in London,
near to the body of his kinſman, Will Lovelace
of Grey's-Inn, eſq., in fixteen hundred fifty and
eight, having before been accounted by all thoſe
that well knew him to have been a perſon well
verſ’d in the Greek and Lat. poets; in muſic,
whether practical or theoretical, inſtrumental or
* Wood's “ Athena Oxonienſis.” Bliss's edition, vol. III., p. 462.
>
Lovelace.
199
a
vocal, and in other things befitting a gentleman.
Some of the ſaid perſons have alſo added in my
hearing, that his common diſcourſe was not only
fignificant and witty, but incomparably graceful,
which drew reſpect from all men and women.
Many other things I could now ſay of him, relating
either to his moſt generous mind in his proſperity,
or dejected eſtate in his worſt ſtate of poverty, but
for brevity's ſake I ſhall now paſs them by.”
The following is Aubrey's brief account of Love-
lace. He ſays: “Richard Lovelace, eſq., obiit in a
cellar in Long Acre, a little before the reſtauration
of his matie. Mr. Edm. Wyld, &c., had made
collections for him and given him money. He was
of - in Kent, £500, or more.
He was an
extraordinary handſome man, but prowd. He wrote
a poem called Lucaſta, 8vo., 1649. He was of
Glouceſter-hall, as I have been told. He had two
younger brothers, viz., Col. Fr. L., and another
that died at Carmarthen. George Petty, haber-
daſher, in Fleetſtreet, carryed xx s. to him every
Munday morning from Sir Many and Charles
Cotton, eſq., for months, but was never repayd.”+
A writer in the “Retroſpective Review” for 1821
throws fome doubt about the extreme poverty in
which Lovelace died; and we ſincerely hope that
>
>
* Wood's “ Athenæ Oxonienſis,” vol. 111., pp. 462-3.
+ Ibid, note to pp. 462-3.
200
Lovelace.
a
ſuch was not the real ſtate of his laſt few years
of exiſtence. Such a termination to ſuch a career
is too ſad to be welcome, and we ſhould rejoice at
any well-founded proof of the contrary. The
Reviewer ſays, “Aubrey is by no means eſteemed
very highly, and it is to be hoped that the accurate
Anthony à Wood has, in this inſtance, ſomewhat
exaggerated the miſery of our unfortunate author,
or been in ſome meaſure miſinformed. For it
appears that Lovelace's daughter, who married
Lord —'s (ſon or) nephew, brought her huſband
the family eſtates in Kent, though it is poſſible that
during her father's lifetime, the rents may have
been entirely in the hands of the creditors of Love-
lace, or, if they had been previouſly ſold, they
may, at the Reſtoration, have been returned to his
family. Yet he left two, if not three, brothers
behind him, who do not appear to have been in
want, and who, it is hardly probable, would permit
their brother to fall into the abject ſtate above
deſcribed. Eſpecially as the greateſt affection in-
dubitably exiſted among them, and ſince Dudley
Poſthumus was indebted to his elder brother for
his rank and education ; for whoſe memory he
appears to have had ſuch a regard, that he, imme-
diately after his death, collected and publiſhed his
remains. Moreover, the numerous elegies upon
his death, which are collected at the end of the
Lovelace.
201
poſthumous “ Lucaſta,” are not in the ſtrain which
might have been expected, had Lovelace died in the
friendleſs and wretched ſtate deſcribed by Wood
and Aubrey.
The above quotation gives ſufficient reaſons for a
doubt upon the ſubject; and when it is attended
with ſuch a pleaſant thought as that the poet was
not in ſuch diſtreſſed and penurious circumſtances,
and that his death was not ſo gloomily melancholy
as has been generally ſuppoſed, we are only too
willing to take up the doubt and believe that the
ſadneſs and ſorrow of his laſt days have been
exaggerated. Compared with his former affluence
and ſplendour, his end may have been in narrow
and ſtraitened circumſtances; for fate was adverſe
to him, and fortune was not kind; and his cauſe
was the loſing one, and his wealth, as we have ſeen,
had been generouſly expended in that cauſe ; ſtill
:
there is room to ſuppoſe that he had not to beg or
borrow, or to be a dependant on the bounty of
the charitable for his daily bread. That he died
poor is certain ; but that he died in ſuch abject
l
poverty and wretchedneſs as his biographers de-
ſcribe, is happily doubtful. For his ſake we truſt
that it was not ſo.
We muſt now paſs from the author to his works;
* "Retroſpective Review," vol. iv., note to pp. 118-19.
202
Lovelace.
a
and it is to be confeſſed that there is not much true
and genuine poetry in Lovelace. Like almoſt all
of his contemporaries, he abounds in idle conceits, in
falſe images, in quaint and far-fetched fimiles, in
all the miſtaken adornments of a curious rather than
a rich or chaſtened fancy. Long and meaningleſs
diſplays of ingenuity in verſe characteriſe the larger
productions of his muſe. Nature is abandoned for
the artificial; and ſuch artifice is uſed as to baniſh
the works, for the moſt part, from the realm of
art as well as from the field of nature. Lovelace
was not ſo pure and graceful a poet as Herrick, and
yet as Campbell truly ſays, “his beauties are ſo
deeply involved in ſurrounding coarſeneſs and ex-
travagance, as to conſtitute not a tenth part of his
poetry, or rather it may be ſafely affirmed, that of
the 1400 pages of verſe which he has left, not an
hundred are worth reading."* So it is with Love-
lace. He, like Herrick, has the true lyrical vein ;
and when he is true to himſelf, and ſpeaks from his
heart, and not from his head only, when he allows
his nature free play, and ceaſes to twiſt and torture
it for idle exerciſe in verſe-making, he could write,
and did write what men will ever delight in reading
and remembering as long as they are capable of
delighting in poetry at all. We ſhall give a ſpecimen
• Campbell's “Elay on Engliſh Poetry," p. 236.
Eſſay
1
Lovelace.
203
or two of his worſt moments, not of inſpiration,
but of falſe worſhip and puerile devotion to the
wretched taſte of the times. That he could riſe
above all this ; that his heart was open at times to
the inbreathing of the true ſpirit of poetry and ſong,
the piece he wrote in the Gatehouſe priſon, Weſt-
minſter, is an imperiſhable proof, as it is a deathleſs
crown of fame to the memory of Lovelace :-
a
" TO ALTHEA.
HIS BEING IN PRISON,
" When Love, with unconfined wings,
Hover'd within my gates,
And my
divine Althea brings
To whiſper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd in her eye, -
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know not ſạch liberty.
“ When flowing cups run ſwiftly round,
With no alloying themes,
Our careleſs heads with roſes bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirſty griefs in wine we ſteep,
When healths and draughts are free, -
Fiſhes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no ſuch liberty.
66
When, like committed linnets, I,
With Thriller notes ſhall ſing
The ſweetneſs, mercy, majeſty,
And glories of my king ;
When I ſhall voice aloud how good
He is, and great ſhould be,–
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no ſuch liberty.
204
Lovelace.
• Stone walls do not a priſon make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
A ſpotleſs mind and innocent
Calls that a hermitage ;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my ſoul am free,
Angels alone that are above
Enjoy ſuch liberty."
The laſt verſe is equal to anything of the kind in
the language. In this poem the lyrical ſpirit of
Ben Jonſon, and Herrick in his beſt moods, ſeems
to have poffeffed our author. It is indeed what
poſſeſſed
Mr. Bliſs (from whoſe verſion we quote) calls an
“ exquiſite ſong.” Nor is our next much inferior.
It is well known to all lovers of poetry, and is ſtored
in the memories of many; but it will bear quoting
again, and ſo we quote it. It is
66 TO LUCASTA.
"ON HIS GOING TO THE WARS.
• Tell me not, ſweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaſte breaſt, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
" True, a new miſtreſs now I chace,
The firſt foe in the field ;
And, with a ſtronger faith, embrace
A ſword, a horſe, a ſhield.
“ Yet this inconſtancy is ſuch
As you too ſhall adore ;
I could not love thee, dear, ſo much,
Lov'd I not honour more."
Lovelace.
205
а.
Is it not a moſt elegant thing? The laſt two
lines are worthy of being the motto of every lover,
and ſhould be the text a wiſe maiden would apply
to aſcertain his worth; for he who values even the
poſſeſſion of his miſtreſs more highly than he values
his honour, is not worthy of the love of a true and
pure-minded woman. Unfortunately Lovelace did
not always write in ſuch a pure and rational vein.
He was almoſt always fantaſtic; winding through
“ dim-diſcovered tracts;” avoiding clearneſs as if
it were a fin; and hunting the poor Engliſh lan-
guage to death for queer and quaint epithets.
This was not ſo much the vice of the man as of the
age. The gallant poets of the time finned in this
reſpect more than he, while but few of them ever
reached the clear heights to which he frequently
clomb. To read theſe poets now is a fine exerciſe
of patience, and ſhows to what extent men are cap-
able of being miſled by the follies of faſhion, and
the puerilities of manner. Nothing can be more
tedious or weariſome than the reading of theſe
exerciſes of the Muſe which once afforded ſo much
pleaſure to "gallant knights and ladies fair.” The
more unlike anything in the heavens above or on
the earth below that an excited fancy could deviſe
to ſay about his ladye-love, or to compare with
her, the greater the achievement, the nobler the
victory. The following lines by Lovelace on “A
206
Lovelace.
Black Patch on a Lady's Cheek, covering a Bee's
Sting,” is at once an example and a warning:-
>
" And that black marble tablet there,
So near her either ſphere
Was plac'd; nor foil, nor ornament,
But the ſweet little bee's large monument.”
What a contraſt to that exquiſite verſe from
Orpheus lamenting the death of his wife :-
-
" Oh, could you
view the melody
Of ev'ry grace,
And muſic of her face,
You'd drop a tear ;
Seeing more harmony
In her bright eye,
Than now you hear.”
Or the following ſong,
" THE SCRUTINY.
“Why ſhould you ſwear I am forſworn ?
Since thine I vow'd to be;
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas laſt night I ſwore to thee
That fond impoſſibility.
“ Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' ſpace?
I muſt all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I ſtill dote upon thy face.
“ Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found ;
But I muſt ſearch the black or fair,
Like ſkilful mineraliſts that found
For treaſure in unplow'd-up ground.
Lovelace.
207
Then, if when I have lov'd my round,
Thou prov'ſt the pleaſant fhe;
With ſpoils of meaner beauties crown'd,
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n fated with variety.”
Compare this with his
" DEDICATION.
“ TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MY LADY ANN LOVELACE.
66 To the richeſt TREASURY
That e'er fill'd ambitious eye ;
To the fair bright MAGAZINE
Hath impoveriſh'd Love's queen;
To th' EXCHEQUER of all honour
(All take penſions but from her);
To the TAPER of the thore
Which the God himſelf but bore ;
To the Sea of chaſte delight
Let me caſt the DROP I write.
.
“ And as at LORETTo's ſhrine
CÆSAR ſhovels in his mine,
The Empreſs ſpreads her carcanets,
The Lords ſubmit their coronets;
Knights their chaſed arms hang by,
Maids diamond-ruby fancies tie;
Whilſt from the PILGRIM ſhe wears
One
poor
falſe pearl, but ten true tears.
“ So amongſt the orient prize
(Sapphire-onyx eulogies),
Offer'd up unto your fame :
Take
my
GARNET-DOUBLET name,
And vouchſafe, 'midſt thoſe rich joys,
With devotion theſe Toys."
One would ſcarcely believe them to be written by
the ſame author. How free and flowing is the
208
Lovelace.
Song, and how ſtrangely fantaſtic the Dedication !
The contraſt is even more ſtriking if we make the
compariſon with ſome of his other poems—the
lyrical flow of “Stone Walls do not a Priſon
Make,” or the next pretty little thing
“TO LUCASTA,
GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
“ If to be abſent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone,
You and I were alone;
Then, my Lucaſta, might I crave
Pity from bluſt'ring wind, or ſwallowing wave.
“ But I'll not ſigh one blaſt or gale
To ſwell my fail,
Or pay a tear to 'ſuage
The foaming blue-god's rage ;
For whether he will let me paſs
Or no, I'm ſtill as happy as I was.
Though ſeas and land betwixt us both,
Our faith and troth,
Like ſeparated ſouls,
All time and ſpace controls :
Above the higheſt ſphere we meet
Unſeen, unknown, and greet as angels greet.
" So then we do anticipate
Our after fate,
And are alive i' th’ ſkies,
If thus our lips and eyes
Can ſpeak like ſpirits unconfin’d
In heav'n, their earthly bodies left behind."
And what a pretty piece of natural painting and
ſimple love of a ſimple inſect is our next ſelection!
Lovelace.
209
This piece might have been written by one of our
late lovers of ſong and nature. It has often been
quoted, but in illuſtrating Lovelace's preſent powers
we muſt not omit a poem like that to
« THE GRASSHOPPER.
“ TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON.
ODE.
a
Up
" Oh thou that ſwing'ſt upon the waving hair
Of ſome well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear
Dropp'd thee from heav'n where now thou ’rt rear'd.
" The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings doth hop and fly,
And when thy poppy works thou doſt retire
To thy carv'd acorn bed to lie.
with the day, the ſun thou welcom'ſt then,
Sport'ſt in the gilt-plats of his beams,
And all theſe merry days mak'ſt merry men,
Thyſelf, and melancholy ſtreams.
“ But ah, the ſickle ! golden ears are cropp’d;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharp froſty fingers all your flowers have topp'd
And what ſcythes ſpar'd, winds ſhave off quite.
“ Poor verdant fool! and now, green ice, thy joys
Large and as laſting as thy perch of graſs,
Bid us lay in 'gainſt winter, rain, and poiſe
Their floods, with an o'erflowing glaſs.
" Thou beſt of men and friends! we will create
A genuine ſummer in each other's breaſt;
And ſpite of this cold time and frozen fate
Thaw us a warm feat to our reſt.
“ Our ſacred hearths ſhall burn eternally
As veſtal flames, the north-wind, he
P
210
Lovelace.
Shall ſtrike his froſt-ſtretch'd wings, diſſolve and fly
This Ætna in epitome.
Dropping December ſhall come weeping in,
Bewail th' uſurping of his reign;
But when in ſhow'rs of old Greek we begin
Shall cry, he hath his crown again !
“Night, as clear Heſper ſhall our tapers whip
From the light caſements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle ſtrip,
And ſtick there everlaſting day.
“ Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That aſking nothing, nothing need :
Though lord of all what ſeas embrace; yet he
That wants himſelf, is poor indeed.”
It is, however, with his priſon-poems that we are
,
more particularly concerned ; and as if to prove
.
the
truth of his own cheerful view of the ſuperiority of
a “ſpotleſs mind and innocent,” theſe are among
his very beſt productions. Perhaps this removal
from the unhealthy air of court poetry was beneficial
to his muſe. There he had to truſt more to his
own feelings, and the true ſpirit of Song was freer
to viſit and to inſpire him. Judged by his works,
this was doubtleſs the fact; for his language was
leſs cumbered by the peculiarities which mark ſo
many of his loving ditties, and his fancies ſpread a
freer wing, and clothed themſelves in a more natural
form of expreſſion. It is pleaſant to contemplate
him in his narrow cell, cheering his confinement
and ſolitude by courting this true liberator of the
Lovelace.
211
mind, and warbling from behind his iron grates
ſuch love-lyrics as this :-
" TO LUCASTA.
" FROM PRISON.
AN EPODE.
“ Long in thy ſhackles, liberty,
I aſk not from theſe walls, but thee;.
Left for awhile another's bride,
To fancy all the world beſide.
" Yet e'er I do begin to love,
See ! how I all my objects prove;
Then my free ſoul to that confine,
'Twere poſſible I might call mine.
* Firſt I would be in love with peace,
And her rich ſwelling breaſts increaſe į
But how, alas ! how may that be,
Deſpiſing earth, ſhe will love me?
" Fain would I be in love with war
As my dear juſt avenging ſtar;
But war is loved ſo ev'rywhere
Ev’n he diſdains a lodging here.
“ Thee and thy wounds I would bemoan
Fair thorough-ſhot religion;
But he lives only that kills thee,
And whoſo binds thy hands is free.
“I would love a parliament
As a main prop from heav'n ſent;
But, ah! who's he that would be wedded
To th’ faireſt body that 's beheaded ?
“ Next would I court my liberty,
And then my birthright, property ;
But can that be, when it is known
There's nothing you can call your own ?
P 2
212
Lovelace.
“ A reformation I would have,
As for our griefs a ſov'reign ſalve ;
That is, a cleanſing of each wheel
Of ſtate, that yet ſome ruft doth feel :
" But not a reformation ſo,
As to reform were to o’erthrow;
Like watches by unſkilful men
Disjointed, and ſet ill again.
“ The public faith I would adore,
But ſhe is bankrupt of her ſtore ;
Nor how to truſt her can ſee,
For ſhe that cozens all, muſt me.
6. Since then none of theſe can be
Fit objects of my love and me ;
What then remains, but th' only ſpring
Of all our loves and joys ? The King.
“ He, who being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When ſeeking to eclipſe his right
Blinded we ſtand in our own light.
" And now an univerſal miſt
Of error is ſpread o'er each breaſt,
With ſuch a fury edg’d, as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abyſs.
“ Oh, from thy glorious ſtarry wain
Diſpenſe on me one ſacred beam,
To light me where I ſoon may ſee
How to ſerve
you,
and
you
truſt me.”
a
From theſe ſpecimens a juſt idea of Lovelace's
poetry may be gathered; its
its ſtrength and its
weakneſs ; its grace and its groteſqueneſs; its
beauty and its deformity. We ſee the gallant
cavalier in the happy moods when he was true to
his natural feelings, and wrote as men with any power
Lovelace.
213
at all always write when unfettered by a ſyſtem,
unprejudiced by a theory. In priſon his poetry
was freer than when he himſelf was at liberty. The
fetters on his body ſeemed not only not to chain
his mind, but to leave it more elaſtic and buoyant
to roam in the fairy-land of love and poetry. What
would have overcome leſs ſelf-reliant and heroic
men, and bound them down until they became
equal to the degrading circumſtances which oppreſſed
them, only raiſed the poet and made him what men,
ſtrong and heroic men always are, ſuperior to thoſe
circumſtances--their lord and maſter. Thus while
ſerving his royal maſter at court or in the field;
while wooing his Lucaſta in bodily freedom; while
ſtruggling with his fancy to fetter it into obeying
the falſe ſtandard of taſte then ſet
up, poems are
not to be read without a ſenſe of wearineſs, and a
not flight expreſſion of annoyance and wrath; but
when in the ſtone walls of his cell he lifts up his
voice and ſings in honour of love, of conſtancy, of
loyalty and truth, he ſtrikes a chord ſo true, ſo
national and ſo univerſal, that we cheerfully lend
him our ear; willingly give ourſelves up to the
delight of his verſe; and yield him our warmeſt
praiſe. A more generous, chivalrous, and noble-
hearted man than Richard Lovelace never made a
priſon famous, or glorified a dungeon by the power
his
of ſong.
BUNYAN,
AND HIS PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.
Few periods of hiſtory preſent greater contraſts
than thoſe which produced the Don Quixote of
Spain and the Pilgrim's Progreſs of England. It
is true that, to a certain extent, fanaticiſm was the
characteriſtic of both ; but what a contraſt between
the inquiſitorial and tyrannous fanaticiſm of the Pen-
inſula, and the freedom-loving, man-aſſerting, and
political greatneſs of the fanaticiſm of the Iſland. The
one was the fanaticiſm of life; the other the fanaticiſm
of death. In Spain, the gloom was of that kind
which precedes decay ; in England it was the gloom
which aroſe from a conſciouſneſs of wrongs which
ought to be, and could be righted. The Spaniſh
bigotry was employed in deviſing every kind of
torture and puniſhment to deſtroy freedom of
thought and ſpeech, and ended in producing the
dull and cowardly uniformity, which is at once a
cauſe and an effect of national degradation. The
brave but ſombre Puritan gave up his own life

BUNYAN.
Bunyan.
215
that conſcience might be free ; that the right of
free ſpeech might be eſtabliſhed upon an imperiſh-
able baſis; that God might be worſhipped without
the interference of pope, prieſt, or king; that
liberty might be guaranteed by law; and that the
foul of man might have room to grow and develop
her powers to the utmoſt without reſtraint from
tyrant-laws, tyrant-church, or tyrant-prerogative.
But if there was ſuch a contraſt in the actual condi-
tions of the two people, what a much greater con-
traſt is there in their after hiſtories and their preſent
ſtate. From the death of Philip II., the decay of
Spain was marked, rapid, and undeviating; from
the acceſſion of Elizabeth, the expanſion of Engliſh
power and freedom has been as marked, rapid, and
undeviating. In this progreſſive courſe, the moſt
noble and heroic age—the one in which her people
did their mightieſt work, and ſtruck their heavieſt
blow-the one in which they ſettled their rights
and liberties in ſuch unmiſtakeable faſhion, that
neither the corruption of the ſecond Charles, nor
the narrow-minded, Spaniſh-like bigotry of the
ſecond James, could effectually difturb, or materially
weaken-was the one in which God bleſſed her
with three of her nobleſt children; in which
Cromwell fought his good fight, Milton ſung his
marvellous ſtrain, and Bunyan dreamed his won-
drous dream.
216
Bunyan.
a
a
The author of Don Quixote had been dead only
twelve years when John Bunyan firſt ſaw the light.
His life is ſo well known to all Engliſh readers,
that the mereſt outline will ſuffice. In the little
village of Elſtow, about a mile from Bedford, was
the world's dreamer born, in the year 1628. His
father was a tinker, and John was brought up to
the ſame trade. The queſtion of his early depravity
and wickedneſs is no longer a moot point. Only
in the language of pietiſts, who conſider all men
utterly depraved until they are converted and
have received the grace of God, can Bunyan be
again named as a “vile wretch," an " abandoned
man,” a “son of Belial ; ” nor, except in the ſame
ſenſe, can his own ſelf-denunciations be received.
That he was addicted to ſwearing at one period of
his life is true ; yet one rebuke, and one ſtruggle
cured him of this fooliſh practice. He was never a
drunkard, never a profligate. He played at “cat”
and “hockey” on Sunday afternoon it is true, yet
he attended church in the morning. He married
before he was nineteen, and was a good and faithful
huſband; capable, as was proved by the conduct of
his ſecond wife, of inſpiring the deepeſt love and
the braveſt heroiſm, in the heart of a woman. In
a word, his great wickedneſs and depravity are to
be underſtood only in their peculiar religious ſenſe.
He was a good huſband, a good father, and a
Bunyan.
217
religious man, but he was not yet converted;"
had not received the “grace of God through
Chriſt Jeſus,” and was therefore of the “non-elect,"
of the “utterly depraved,” and of the “deſperately
wicked.”
Any one who has much experience with the
religious world will clearly underſtand how Bunyan,
although far from being a bad man, was in his own
eyes all that he deſcribes in that unique piece of
i autobiography, “ Grace Abounding.” In the ſame
ſenſe St. Paul was the “ chiefeſt of ſinners,” and
all other ſaints have uttered the ſame complaint.
The preſent writer is familiar with many inſtances
illuſtrative of the “ſpiritual experiences” of men
during “converſion.” One, with whom he
worked when a boy, was a gentle-hearted, mild-
tempered, loveable man, on the verge of fifty.
He probably had never done a bad or conſciouſly
ſinful action in his life; was ſober, induſtrious,
and a regular attendant at chapel. He had by his
own labour brought up a large family reſpectably,
and given them an education much ſuperior to what
was then general among his claſs. Thus he had
lived, reſpected by all who knew him ; by his
employer, his neighbours, and his fellow-workmen.
He had ſerved the ſame maſter for more than twenty
years, and was a faithful and good ſervant. He
had a quaint, dry humour of his own, and was rich
a
218
Випуап.
ܪ
in “wife faws and modern inſtances." His life had
paſſed on apparently unruffled by any great changes,
or any great ſorrows —a quiet, calm, equable
life—when all at once, even as it were “in the
flaſhing of a moment,” he became thoroughly
changed. He was convinced that he was a great
finner ; that his life had been one whole career of
ſin; that he was the wickedeſt and moſt depraved
of wretches. He would throw himſelf down upon
his bench in the utmoſt paroxyſms of deſpair, calling
upon Chriſt to ſave him from hell and the devil ;
calling upon God to “deliver him from the body
of this death.” His groans were terrible to hear.
Several times he attempted ſuicide ; and his wife
had for fome time to keep his razors and knives
locked up. He had to be watched wherever he
went. He dared not be in a room without a light,
for he ſaid he was haunted by a legion of devils.
Sometimes he was calm but quite melancholy;
abſorbed, as it were, in great grief, and thoroughly
convinced, not only that he ſhould receive, but that
he merited, eternal damnation. He paſſed through
this ſtage, and uſed afterwards to ſpeak of it as his
ſtrugglings with the enemy.” He was converted,
joined the Weſleyan connexion, became a claſs-
leader, and a “brand reſcued from the burning.”
In his new, or, as he called it, “regenerate” ſtate
he ſtill preſerved many of his old characteriſtics.
a
Bunyan.
219
But he was an altered man; and I muſt freely con-
feſs that I preferred him when he was " chiefeſt of
the finners,” to when he was “numbered among
the ſaints.”
One caſe which I have met with was rather
different. The man in this inſtance was almoſt as
vile as he afterwards uſed to deſcribe himſelf. He
was a fierce, paſſionate man, a great drunkard and
an inveterate blackguard. I have ſeen him in
moments of fury, when his work was not going on
to his liking, take up a long-handled chiſel and
beat the unconſcious work until he was thoroughly
exhauſted. With every blow he adminiſtered, he
uttered a volley of the moſt diabolical ſwearing
that ever paſſed from the lips of man. He was alſo
obſcene in his language ; and when drunk, which
he frequently was, he would aſſault the poſts in
the ſtreets, the ſhutters and doors of houſes, utter-
ing at the ſame time the vileft, and often the moſt
blaſphemous words. Fortunately he had no family;
but his wife for more than fifteen years had a fad
and ſorrowful life with ſuch a man. He was pretty
nearly all that Bunyan has erroneouſly deſcribed him-
felf, and all that Bunyan's biographers of his own
ſect have deſcribed him prior to converſion.
From ſome cauſe or other, he could never himſelf
ſay what, but always aſcribed it to Divine Providence
and the finger of God, he went one Sunday into a
220
Bunyan.
Calviniſt chapel. He never could remember much
of the ſermon, but the texts were, “But I ſay unto
you, that every idle word that men ſhall ſpeak,
they ſhall give account thereof in the day of judg-
ment, ”* and “For as many as are of the works of
the law are under the curſe; for it is written, Curſed
is every one that continueth not in all things which
are written in the book of the law to do them.”+
Whatever the preacher may have ſaid, or however
he
may
have enforced theſe texts, the effect was
terrible. The liſtener became ſo horrified with his
condition that for weeks after he was like a maniac.
He was among the condemned; he had been
damned from the beginning; there was no hope,
no ſalvation for him. Exiſtence was wretchedneſs;
and the picture he uſed to draw of the condition of
the damned uſed to terrify my youthful imagination
to ſuch an extent that I uſed to ſee them realiſed in
my dreams, with an intenſity of horror that Dante
might have envied. He joined the Calviniſts, and
was at laſt, after much ſuffering, tribulation, and
ſpiritual torture, convinced that he was of the
“elect.” This converſion, however, did not alter
his nature, it only gave a different bent to it. He
was the ſame wild, extravagant man as before. He
now prayed as luſtily as he uſed to ſwear; and his
* Matthew, xii. 36.
+ Gal. iii. 10.
Bunyan.
221
praying ſeemed to me as horrible as his former
ſwearing. He was wont to talk of hell being filled
with children not a ſpan long. His idea of God
was ſo repulſive that atheiſm would have been
preferable. It was Calviniſm of the blackeſt,
ſterneſt, narroweſt, rigideſt kind. His was not the
mild form of Calviniſm which Bunyan held, and
which made Southey ſay, that “the general tenour
of his writings is mild, and tolerant, and charitable;
and if Calviniſm had never worn a blacker appear-
ance than in Bunyan's works, it would never have
become a term of reproach, nor have driven ſo
many pious minds, in horror of it, to an oppoſite
It was a thorough-going out-and-out
form of the faith which his wild and excited mind
adopted, as black as the blackeſt Spurgeoniſm, and
he held it heartily. It was his nature to do ſo. He
attended every ſermon, every prayer-meeting held
at the conventicle, and was one of the ſtrongeſt,
rougheſt " wreſtlers with God.” Not content with
the opportunities afforded him at the chapel for
ſpiritual drill,” as he called it, he had aſſemblies
at his own houſe at five o'clock in the morning,
and after work at night. He grew a perfect
anatomy from theſe violent exerciſes. Still he
ſhrunk not; but, with a curious inconſiſtency, kept
extreme.” *
CC
a
Southey's “Life of Bunyan."
<
222
Bunyan.
praying in ſpite of his faith, which declared that not
one finner more than was preordained before man
exiſted could be ſaved, although all the angels and
ſaints in heaven were to intercede for him. He
was a poor man, the wages he earned were ſmall; ;
and I ſhall never forget how he ſacrificed everything
like home comfort; how ruthleſſly he puniſhed
himſelf for his former fins. In earlier times he
would have made either an inquiſitor or a martyr ;
for he was of the ſtuff of which ſuch men as a
Simeon Stylites or a Caraffa are made. Late one
night after a “gathering of the elect” had been held
at his houſe, he came back to his maſter, horror-
ſtricken, woe-begone, weeping, and groaning ;
and, throwing himſelf upon the mercy of his em-
ployer, confeſſed that, tempted by the devil, he had
ſtolen the wood to make the forms for his houſehold
prayer-meetings. The
agony
of the man was truly
terrible. His maſter was too wiſe a man not to ſee
that he deſerved pity rather than proſecution ; and
ſo the wood was returned, and the matter ended;
but the remembrance was ever after the great
“thorn in the fleſh ” of this much-ſuffering pro-
ſelyte to Antinomianiſm.
Such caſes are pretty common in a portion of the
religious world; and Bunyan was a remarkable
inſtance of the ſame feelings operating upon an
intenſe and vivid imagination, and of a kindly
Bunyan.
223
nature. He went through all the phaſes of religious
emotion, from the deepeſt deſpair and horror to the
higheſt confidence and ecſtaſy. To his vivid mind
all his temptations were real. A thought of com-
fort was a voice from heaven ; a ſuggeſtion of evil
was a direct temptation of the devil.* Good and
.
>
* Bunyan's devil was to all intents a real being. He and Martin
Luther ſuffered ſimilar temptations, and the devil was to both a
real, viſible, reſtleſs, terrible foe, always employed in ſeeking their
deſtruction. In an admirable eſſay on "The Three Devils :
Luther's, Milton's, and Goethe's," by Mr. David Maffon, there is
a fine expoſition of the way in which the principle of evil was
viewed by the great reformer. I borrow the following rather long
paſſage : “ The devil, as Luther conceived him, was not the Satan
of Milton; although had Luther ſet himſelf to realiſe the Miltonian
narrative, his conception might not have been diſſimilar. But it
was as the enemy of mankind, working in human affairs, that
Luther conceived the devil. We ſhould expect his conception,
therefore, to tally with Goethe's in ſome reſpects, but only as a con-
ception of Luther's would tally with one of Goethe's. Luther's
conception was far truer to the grand ſcriptural definition than either
Milton's or Goethe's. Mephiſtopheles being a character in a drama,
and apparently fully occupied in his capacity as ſuch, we cannot bring
ourſelves to recogniſe in him that virtually omnipotent being to
whom all evil is owing, who is leavening the human mind every-
where, as if the atmoſphere round the globe were charged with the
venom of his ſpirit. In the caſe of Milton's Satan we have no
ſuch difficulty, becauſe in his caſe a whole planet is at ſtake, and
there are only two individuals on it. But Luther's conception met
the whole exigencies of ſcripture. * * * * The devil with him was a
meteorological agent. Devils, he ſaid, are in woods, and waters,
and dark poolly places, ready to hurt paſſers-by ; there are devils
alſo in the thick black clouds, who cauſe hail, and thunders, and
lightnings, and poiſon the air, and the fields, and the paſtures.
When ſuch things happen philoſophers ſay they are natural, and
aſcribe them to the planets, and I know not what all.' The devil
he believed alſo to be the patron of witchcraft. The devil, he ſaid,
had the power of deceiving the ſenſes, ſo that one ſhould dream he
224
Bunyan.
ܪܐ
evil ſpirits held actual communion with him. Now
he felt compelled to commit the unpardonable fin,
and it was the enemy who perſonally aſſailed him.
His viſions were to him actualities, as real as was
the devil's appearance to Martin Luther, when the
great reformer daſhed his ink-pot at the demon's
head, and made him flee. He heard the voices,
could diſtinguiſh the words, could see the ſpirits.
It was no dream; it was a terrible or a conſoling
reality. At one time, wherever he was, or what-
ever he did, he was haunted by a voice invoking
him to ſell Chriſt; then he felt as if, like Judas,
he ſhould burſt in funder. Now as if his breaſt-
bone were breaking; and now he was hearing an
encouraging voice which “ ſeemed to ruſh in at the
window like the noiſe of wind, but very pleaſant
and commanding a great calm in his ſoul.” One
picture of his ſtate of mind is ſo terribly vivid, ſo
remarkable a proof of his ſtrong imagination, that
heard or ſaw ſomething, while really the whole was an illuſion.
The devil alſo was at the bottom of dreaming and ſomnambuliſm.
He was likewiſe the author of diſeaſes. "I hold,' ſaid Luther, 'that
the devil ſendeth all heavy diſeaſes and wickedneſſes upon people.'
Diſeaſes are, as it were, the devil ſtriking people ; only, in ſtriking,
he muſt uſe ſome material inſtrument, as a murderer uſes a ſword.
What with Luther was wreſtling with the devil,'
we at this day call “low ſpirits.' Life muſt be a much more inſipid
thing now than it was then. O what a ſoul that man muſt have
had, under what a weight of feeling, that would have cruſhed a
million of us, he muſt have trod the earth !” All this may be ſaid
with equal truth of Bunyan.
*
#
*
6
Bunyan.
225
we muſt quote in full. He ſays, “I walked to a
neighbouring town, and ſat down upon a ſettle in
the ſtreet, and fell into a very deep pauſe about the
moſt fearful ſtate my ſin had brought me to; and,
after long muſing, I lifted up my head, but me-
thought I ſaw as if the ſun that ſhineth in the
heavens did grudge to give me light, and as if the
very
ſtones in the ſtreet and tiles upon the houſes
did band themſelves againſt me. Methought that
they all combined together to baniſh me out of the
world. I was abhorred of them, and unfit to dwell
among them, becauſe I had finned againſt the
Saviour. Oh, how happy now was every creature
over I! for they ſtood faſt, and kept their ſtation.
But I was gone and loſt.”
Such was the man, and ſuch the ordeal through
which he had to paſs, who wrote the greateſt
allegory the world poſſeſſes. The main incidents
of his life may be ſoon narrated, for they are known
to moſt. How he was convinced that his church-
going was of little uſe, by the pious talk of three
matrons at Bedford ; how he was introduced to the
Rev. John Gifford, and became himſelf a preacher;
how, on the 12th of November, 1660, a few
months after the “ever-bleſſed” Reſtoration, he
was going to preach at Samfell, and was there
arreſted, and afterwards committed to Bedford gaol,
are incidents known to all. Into that wretched
226
Bunyan.
a
place did an Engliſh government put its ſecond
greateſt living man. The firſt was old and blind,
and who, though he had fallen on evil days, was
then preparing for the world a legacy which had
been cheaply purchaſed at the loſs of all the Stuarts.
Bunyan was brought up before Mr. Serjeant
Keeling, and, without any trial, committed to gaol
for three months, with the promiſe that at the end
of that time, unleſs he ceaſed from preaching and
would attend church, he ſhould be baniſhed, and if
ever he returned without a ſpecial licence he would
have to endure a “ſtretching by the neck.” Bunyan
went back to his priſon ; and at the end of three
months the clerk of the peace, Mr. Cobb, viſited
him in his cell, and ſtrove to induce him to conform.
All appeals proving of none effect, threats were
reſorted to, and it was hinted that he might be
“ſent away beyond the ſeas into Spain, or Con-
ftantinople, or fome other remote part of the world.”
The dauntleſs Bunyan replied, “Sir, the law hath
provided two ways of obeying; the one, to do that
which I in my conſcience do believe that I am
bound to do actively; and, when I cannot obey
actively, then I am willing to lie down and to ſuffer
what they ſhall do unto me.” Bunyan had learned
that the “fear of God was the beginning of
wiſdom,” that the “ fear of man is a ſnare;" and he
had the fear of God, and no other fear in him.
a
Bunyan.
227
Our priſoner was not included in the general
gaol delivery which took place on the 23rd of
April, 1661, when Charles the Second was crowned.
The noble conduct of his ſecond wife on this occa-
fion has long placed her among our heroic women.
Thrice did ſhe preſent her petition to the judges,
thrice did ſhe receive the pity of Sir Matthew Hale,
and thrice endure the harſhneſs of Mr. Juſtice
Twiſdon. It was of no uſe. In vain did ſhe urge
that ſhe had “ four ſmall children that cannot help
themſelves, one of which is blind, and we have
nothing to live upon but the charity of good
people.” The judges could not help her, and ſhe
went diſconſolate away. Every reader of Bunyan's
works remembers his pathetic alluſions to his blind
child. “I found myſelf a man,” he ſays, "encom-
paſſed with infirmities. The parting with my wife
and poor children hath often been to me in this
place as the pulling the fleſh from the bones,
and that not only becauſe I am ſomewhat too fond
of theſe great mercies, but alſo becauſe I ſhould
have often brought to my mind the many hard-
ſhips, miſeries, and wants, that my poor family was
like to meet with ſhould I be taken from them,
eſpecially my poor blind child, who lay nearer my
heart than all beſides. Oh, the thoughts of the
hardſhips I thought my poor blind one might go
under would break my heart to pieces! Poor
Q2
228
Bunyan.
child! thought I, what ſorrow art thou like to have
for thy portion in this world! Thou muſt be
beaten, muſt beg, ſuffer hunger, cold, nakedneſs,
and a thouſand calamities, though I cannot now
endure the wind ſhould blow upon thee !” The
great, brave, ſtrong-hearted man-fo full of all
gentleneſs and loving-kindneſs was not the one to
hold the blackeſt form of Calviniſm.
The ſheriff and the gaoler were both friendly
towards Bunyan, and he was frequently allowed to
leave the priſon on his parole. Thus he was often
enabled to meet his friends, to preach, and to go
and « ſee the Chriſtians in London." With theſe
rare and occaſional exceptions, he was a priſoner in
Bedford gaol for twelve years, during which time
he wrote the firſt part of his “ Pilgrim's Progreſs,”
a fact which has made the gloomy cell, which
the waters of the flow-moving Oufe,
one of the ſhrines of England; and ſhed a renown
upon the town of Bedford, which larger cities
might envy, and caſt a glory around that old priſon-
houſe, which the throne of the Stuarts never won.
For there lived, and ſuffered, and wrote, one of
thoſe ſo rarely beſtowed upon earth-a man of
genius.
In 1671, while ſtill a priſoner, the congregation
at Bedford choſe Bunyan to be their miniſter. He
accepted the office, and upon his liberation in 1672
looked upon
Bunyan.
229
а.
CC
became their regular paſtor. He was exceedingly
popular as a preacher, and the learned Dr. Owen is
reported to have ſaid, when aſked by Charles the
Second “ how a learned man ſuch as he could fit
and liſten to an illiterate tinker ? » «
May it pleaſe
your Majeſty, could I poſſeſs that tinker's abilities
for preaching, I would moſt gladly relinquiſh all
my learning.” He uſed to pay a yearly viſit to
.
London ; and, although only a day's notice might
be given of his coming, “the meeting-houſe in
Southwark, at which he generally preached, would
not hold half the people that attended. Three
thouſand perſons have been gathered together there,
and not leſs than twelve hundred on week-days,
and dark winter's mornings at ſeven o'clock.” But
he kept himſelf free from the pride and vanity
which ſuch popularity is likely to create, and which
in minds of weaker ſtuff it always does create. He
had been forely tried, but his ſtrength was great ;
and in adverſity and ſhame he had preſerved him-
ſelf; and in the ſtill greater peril of honour and
renown, his truſt did not fail him. For he had
learned “ to do juſtly, and to love mercy, and to
walk humbly with his God.” *
The laſt act of Bunyan's life was one of mercy,
and was a noble cloſe to ſuch a battle as his had
2
>
* Micah vi. 8.
230
Bunyan.
been. A friend reſiding at Reading, where Bunyan
often preached, “had reſolved to diſinherit his ſon,
the young man requeſted Bunyan to interfere in his
behalf; he did ſo with good ſucceſs, and it was his
laſt labour of love, for, returning to London on
horſeback through heavy rain, a fever enſued,
which, after ten days, proved fatal. He died at
the houſe of his friend, Mr. Stradwick, a grocer, at
the ſign of the Star on Snow Hill, and was buried in
that friend's vault in Bunhill Fields burial-ground,
which the Diſſenters regard as their Campo Santo,
and eſpecially for his fake
It is ſaid that many
have made it their deſire to be interred as near as
poſſible to the ſpot where his remains are depoſited.
His
age
and the date of his deceaſe are thus recorded
on his epitaph :-Mr. John Bunyan, Author of the
Pilgrim's Progreſs, ob. 12 Aug. 1688, æt. 60.
“The Pilgrim's Progreſs now is finiſhed,
And Death has laid him in his earthly bed.” *
But what can we ſay of the Priſon Book of John
Bunyan? Dear to all people, the favourite of
every nation, it is ſcarcely poſſible to add one word
to what has been long ago ſaid in its glory. The
ſimple fact that from the day of its publication to
the preſent time, it has been the delight and inſtruc-
tor of thouſands, is its greateſt eulogy. Tranſ-
*
Southey's “Life of John Bunyan.”
Bunyan.
231
lated into every known tongue, all ſects and all
religions have done honour to its wonderful powers.
With one little curtailment, our Roman Catholic
friends have a “Pilgrim's Progreſs ;” and though
Giant Pope be taken out, we are ſure that thouſands
of them muſt have been made a little more catholic
by reading the work of the ſectarian tinker of
Elſtow. All men alike, learned and ignorant,
gentle and ſimple, bear their teſtimony to the
genius of the great Baptiſt. Truly has Southey
ſaid, “It is a book which makes its way through
the fancy to the underſtanding and the heart; the
child peruſes it with wonder and delight; in youth
we diſcover the genius which it diſplays; its worth
is apprehended as we advance in years; and we
perceive its merits feelingly in declining age.'
Nor need we be ſurpriſed at this when we conſider
that it is the moſt dramatic and real allegory ever
written. Its dramatic power is wonderful. Every
character is diſtinct and real. Every perſon intro-
duced is a man or a woman, and not a ſhadow, an
abſtraction to which names are given. We recog-
niſe them all, ſo vivid and ſo thoroughly human
are they. Bunyan had repreſented and ſeen and
heard it all in his own mind before he committed it
to paper. His perſons have all human hearts, and
the red blood of life flows through their veins, and
* Southey's “ Life of John Bunyan.”
" *
232
Bunyan.
they talk, and feel, and ſlip, and get on, even as
the people we meet in the ſtreets, or amongſt whom
we move, talk, and feel, and flip, and get on.
Every one who keeps his eyes open could ſupply
perſons for every character drawn in the “Pilgrim's
Progreſs.” The dramatic power of Shakſpeare is
more varied, of larger graſp, and more univerſal
meaning; but it is ſcarcely a bit more intenſe than
Bunyan's. This is one of its great ſources of
power over the heart; for men are more moved,
and more permanently influenced, by dramatic than
by any other power of genius.
An analyſis of the Pilgrim's Progreſs ſo eloquent
and complete has been made, and the cauſes of its
popularity fo admirably given by the moſt brilliant of
Engliſh eſſayiſts, that we ſhall conſult the gratifica-
tion of all by transferring its paſſages to theſe pages,
inſtead of bunglingly doing the work afreſh. Lord
Macaulay ſays that this “ wonderful book, while it
obtains admiration from the moſt faſtidious critics,
is loved by thoſe who are too ſimple to admire it.
Doctor Johnſon, all whoſe ſtudies were deſultory,
and who hated, as he ſaid, to read books through,
made an exception in favour of the · Pilgrim's
Progreſs. That work was one of the two or three
which he wiſhed longer. It was by no common
merit that the illiterate ſectary extracted praiſe like
this from the moſt pedantic of critics and the moſt
Bunyan.
233
bigoted of Tories. In the wildeſt parts of Scotland
the ‘Pilgrim's Progreſs' is the delight of the
peaſantry. In every nurſery the Pilgrim's Pro-
greſs' is a greater favourite than • Jack the Giant
Killer. Every man knows the ſtraight and narrow
path as well as he knows a road in which he has
gone
backward and forward a hundred times. This
is the higheſt miracle of genius, that things which
are not ſhould be as though they were, that the
imaginations of one mind ſhould become the per-
fonal recollections of another. And this miracle
the tinker has wrought. There is no aſcent, no
declivity, no reſting-place, no turn-ſtile, with which
we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket-gate,
and the deſolate ſwamp which ſeparates it from the
City of Deſtruction, the long line of road, as ſtraight
as a rule can make it, the Interpreter's houſe, and
all its fair ſhows, the priſoner in the iron cage, the
palace, at the doors of which armed men kept guard,
and on the battlements of which walked perſons
clothed all in gold, the croſs and the ſepulchre, the
ſteep hill and the pleaſant arbour, the ſtately front
of the Houſe Beautiful by the wayſide, the chained
lions crouching in the porch, the low green valley
of Humiliation, rich with graſs and covered with
flocks, all are as well known to us as the ſights of
our own ſtreet. Then we come to the narrow
place where Apollyon ſtrode right acroſs the whole
234
Bunyan.
breadth of the way, to ſtop the journey of Chriſtian,
and where afterwards the pillar was ſet up to teſtify
how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight.
As we advance the valley becomes deeper and deeper.
The ſhade of the precipices on both ſides falls
blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead.
Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the ruſh-
ing of many feet to and fro, are heard through the
darkneſs. The way, hardly diſcernible, in gloom,
runs cloſe by the mouth of the burning pit, which
ſends forth its flames, its noiſome ſmoke, and its
hideous ſhapes, to terrify the adventurer. Thence
he goes on, amidſt the ſnares and pitfalls, with the
mangled bodies of thoſe who have periſhed lying in
the ditch by his ſide. At the end of the long dark
valley he paſſes the dens in which the old giants
dwelt, amidſt the bones of thoſe whom they had
ſlain.
“ Then the road paſſes ſtraight on through a waſte
moor, till at length the towers of a diſtant city ap-
pear before the traveller ; and foon he is in the
midſt of the innumerable multitudes of Vanity Fair.
There are the jugglers and the apes, the ſhops and
the puppet-ſhows. There are Italian Row, and
French Row, and Spaniſh Row, and Britain Row,
with their crowds of buyers, ſellers, and loungers,
jabbering all the languages of the earth.
“ Thence we go on by the little hill of the filver
Bunyan.
235
mine, and through the meadow of lilies, along the
bank of that pleaſant river which is bordered on
both ſides by fruit-trees. On the left branches off
the path leading to the horrible caſtle, the court-
yard of which is paved with the ſkulls of pilgrims;
and right onward are the ſheepfolds and orchards of
the Delectable Mountains.
“ From the Delectable Mountains, the way
lies
through the fogs and briers of the Enchanted
Ground, with here and there a bed of ſoft cuſhions
ſpread under a green arbour. And beyond is the
land of Beulah, where the flowers, the grapes, and
the ſongs of birds never ceaſe, and where the ſun
ſhines night and day. Thence are plainly ſeen the
golden pavements, and ſtreets of pearl, on the other
ſide of that black and cold river over which there is
no bridge.
"All the ſtages of the journey, all the forms which
croſs or overtake the pilgrims, giants, and hob-
goblins, ill-favoured ones, and ſhining ones, the
tall, comely, ſwarthy Madam Bubble, with her
great purſe by her ſide, and her fingers playing with
the money, the black man in the bright veſture,
,
Mr. Worldly Wiſeman, and my Lord Hategood,
Mr. Talkative, and Mrs. Timorous, all are actually
exiſting beings to us. We follow the travellers
through their allegorical progreſs with intereſt not
inferior to that with which we follow Elizabeth
>
236
Bunyan.
from Siberia to Moſcow, or Jeanie Deans from
Edinburgh to London. Bunyan is almoſt the only
writer who ever gave to the abſtract the intereſt of
the concrete. In the works of many celebrated
authors, men are mere perſonifications. We have
not a jealous man, but jealouſy; not a traitor, but
perfidy, not a patriot, but patriotiſm. The mind
of Bunyan, on the contrary, was ſo imaginative that
perſonifications, when he dealt with them, became
men.
A dialogue between two qualities, in his
dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue
between two human beings in moſt plays.”
Such is the way in which a learned, and thought-
ful, and richly-endowed writer of this nineteenth
century ſpeaks of the book of the uneducated
Baptiſt of the ſeventeenth. Truly the ſpirit of God
cometh where it pleaſeth, and uſeth the low things
of the world to confound the mighty. Almoſt at
the
top of all books, certainly at the top of all Priſon
Books, muſt we place the viſion revealed to, and
written down by the priſoner of Bedford gaol.
Of the perſonal appearance of this “ingenious
dreamer,” as Cowper calls him, we have the follow-
ing pen-and-ink ſketch by his firſt biographer: “He
appeared in countenance to be of a ſtern and rough
temper ; but in his converſation mild and affable,
not given to loquacity or much diſcourſe in com-
pany, unleſs ſome urgent occaſion required it;
,
Bunyan.
.
237
obſerving never to boaſt of himſelf, or his parts,
but rather ſeem low in his own eyes, and ſubmit
himſelf to the judgment of others; abhorring lying
and ſwearing ; being juſt in all that lay in his
power
to his word; not ſeeming to revenge injuries ;
loving to reconcile differences, and make friendſhip
with all. He had a ſharp quick eye, accompliſhed
with an excellent diſcerning of perſons, being of
good judgment and quick wit. As for his perſon,
he was tall of ftature; ſtrong-boned, though not
corpulent ; ſomewhat of a ruddy face, with ſparkling
eyes ; wearing his hair on his upper lip, after the
old Britiſh faſhion; his hair reddiſh, but in his later
days time had ſprinkled it with grey ; his noſe well
ſet, but not declining or bending, and his mouth
moderate large, his forehead ſomething high, and
his habit always plain and modeſt. And thus
have we impartially deſcribed the internal and ex-
ternal parts of a perſon who had tried the ſmiles and
frowns of Time, not puffed up in proſperity, nor
ſhaken in adverſity, always holding the golden
a
mean."
In Mr. Southey's excellent edition of the “ Pil-
grim's Progreſs” is a good portrait of Bunyan.
The following poem by Bernard Barton on that
portrait will find a fitting place here :-
“ And this is Bunyan! How unlike the dull
Unmeaning viſage which was wont to ſtand
238
Bunyan.
His Pilgrim's Frontiſpiece,-its pond'rous ſkull
Propp'd graceleſſly on an enormous hand
;
A countenance one. vainly might have ſcann'd
For one bright ray of genius or of ſenſe ;
Much leſs the mental power of him who plann'd
This fabric quaint of rare intelligence,
And, having rear'd its pile, became immortal thence.
“ But here we trace, indelibly defined,
All his admirers' fondeſt hopes could crave;
Shrewdneſs of intellect, and ſtrength of mind,
Devout, yet lively, and acute though grave;
Worthy of him whoſe rare invention gave
To ſerious Truth the charm of Fiction's dreſs,
Yet in that fiction fought the ſoul to ſave
From earth and ſin for heaven and happineſs,
And by his fancied dreams men's waking hours to bleſs.
" Delightful author ! while I look upon
This ſtriking portraiture of Thee-I ſeem
As if my thoughts on Pilgrimage were gone
Down the far viſta of thy pleaſant Dream,
Whoſe varied ſcenes with vivid wonders teem.-
Slough of Deſpond! Thy terrors ſtrike mine eye ;
Over the Wicket Gate I ſee the gleam
Of Shining Light; and catch that Mountain high
Of Difficult aſcent, the Pilgrim's faith to try.
“ The Houſe callid Beautiful ; the lowly Vale
Of Self Humiliation, where the might
Of Chriſtian panoplied in heavenly mail,
O’ercame Apollyon in that fearful fight;
The Valley nam’d of Death, by ſhades of night
Encompaſſ’d, and with horrid phantoms rife ;
The Town of Vanity, where bigot ſpite,
Ever with Chriſtian Pilgrimage at ſtrife,
To martyr'd Faithful gave the Crown of endleſs Life!
" Thence, on with Chriſtian, and his Hopeful peer,
To Doubting Caſtle's Dungeons I deſcend ;
The Key of Promiſe opes thoſe vaults of fear :-
And now o'er Hills Delectable I wend
Випуап.
239
To Beulah's Sunny Plains, where ſweetly blend
Of flowers, and fruits, and ſong, a bliſsful maze ;
Till at the Bridgeleſs Stream my courſe I end,
Eyeing the farther ſhore with rapture's gaze,
Where the Bright City balks in glory's ſunleſs blaze !
“ Immortal Dreamer! while thy magic page
To ſuch celeſtial viſions can give birth,
Well may this Portraiture our love engage,
Which gives, with grace congenial to thy worth,
The form thy living features wore on earth:
For few may boaſt a juſter, prouder claim
Than thine, whoſe labours blending harmleſs mirth
With ſageſt counſel's higher, holier aim,
Have from the wiſe and good won honourable Fame.
" And ſtill for marvelling Childhood, blooming Youth,
Ripe Manhood, ſilver-treff’d and ſerious age, -
Ingenious Fancy, and inſtructive Truth,
Richly adorn thy allegoric page,
Pointing the warfare Chriſtians yet muſt wage,
Who wiſh to journey on that heavenly road ;
And tracing clearly each ſucceſſive ſtage
Of the rough path thy holy Travellers trod,
The Pilgrim's Progreſs marks to glory and to God!”
One great reaſon why the book has taken ſuch a
laſting hold on the hearts and love of the people is
its ſtyle. The language is thoroughly Engliſh.
Like that of a very different man, William Cobbett,
it is pure, ſtrong, idiomatic Saxon. It is pure ver-
nacular ; above no one's capacity, yet anſwering all
the demands of the higheſt. “ The ſtyle of
Bunyan,” ſays a writer whom we have before quoted,
“ is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a
ſtudy to every perſon who wiſhes to obtain a wide
240
Bunyan.
command over the Engliſh language. The voca-
bulary is the vocabulary of the common people.
There is not an expreſſion, if we except a few
technical terms of theology, which would puzzle
the rudeſt peaſant. We have obſerved ſeveral
pages
which do not contain a word of more than
two ſyllables. Yet no writer has ſaid more exactly
what he meant to ſay. For magnificence, for
pathos, for vehement exhortation, for ſubtle dif-
quiſition, for every purpoſe of the poet, the orator,
and the divine, this homely dialect, this dialect of
plain working men, was perfectly ſufficient. There
is no book in our literature on which we would ſo
readily ſtake the fame of the old unpolluted Eng-
liſh language, no book which ſhows ſo well how
rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and
how little it has been improved by all that it has
borrowed.”*
Bunyan was a large-hearted, catholic, and unſec-
tarian man.
He belonged by accident partly, and
perhaps afterwards by choice, to the Baptiſts; but
he preferred being called a Chriſtian to the name of
his own ſect. He ſays, “I know none to whom that
title is ſo proper as to the diſciples of John. And
ſince you would know by what name I would be
diſtinguiſhed from others, I tell you, I would be,
• Macaulay.
Bunyan.
241
and hope I am, a Chriſtian, and chuſe, if God
ſhould count me worthy, to be called a Chriſtian, a
Believer, or other ſuch name which is approved by
the Holy Ghoſt. And as for theſe factious titles
of Anabaptiſts, Independents, Preſbyterians, or the
like, I conclude that they come neither from Jeru-
ſalem, nor from Antioch, but rather from Hell and
Babylon; for they naturally tend to diviſions.
You may know them by their fruits.” Words
which are as full of wiſe meaning now, as when
written by Bunyan; and as worthy the careful
weighing of the fects of to-day, as they were of the
fects of the ſeventeenth century. With theſe brave
and Chriſtian words we take leave of the brave
Chriſtian man, John Bunyan, and his dearly-beloved
and glorious Chriſtian work, “ The Pilgrim's Pro-
greſs.”
R
DR. DODD
AND THE PRISON THOUGHTS.
The fame of a popular preacher is among
the
moſt evaneſcent of things. Like that of the
“poor player
That ſtruts and frets his hour upon the ſtage,
And then is heard no more,"
it is eſſentially ephemeral. Except in the very rare
inſtances—ſo rare that they might be numbered
and ſcarcely exhauſt the units—in which genius has
by ſome curious freak of nature been united with
the ſuperficial acquirements neceſſary for the pro-
feflion, a popular preacher is generally dead to the
world, before his body repoſes beneath the turf.
Nor is the reaſon far to ſeek. The popularity of
both ariſes from the ſame cauſes; it is the child of
excitement, and paſſes away with that which pro-
duced it. It is artificial, requires conſtant fanning
and keeping up, or it dies of its own weakneſs.
A little neglect kills it. A new excitement, and the
Dr. Dodd.
243
a
old one is no more. The glare of the foot-
lights is, in a different ſenſe, required for both;
and while the furore laſts, men and women perform
ſtrange antics, and prove their devotion in moſt
extraordinary ways. Fair hands hurl down bou-
quets of immortelles, and ſtrong lungs ſhout
bravos to the popular actor; and fair hands work
bands, and purſes, and nippers, and ſtrong men
ſhout and loſe their ſenſes for a time, in purſuit of
the popular preacher. But lo! the wind veers
round, and all is changed. A new judge has
ariſen in Iſrael, and men bow down and worſhip
him. In the actor the old accent is miſſed; the
old voice has loſt its charm; or a new claimant
ariſes who is more richly-gifted in the power to
dazzle and faſcinate ; and then the old ſhrine is
deſerted and the old favourite is forſaken. So with
the preacher. His method has become ſtale; his
manneriſm palls; his earneſtneſs offends or is con-
ſidered acting (which in the popular preacher it too
often is), and the firſt excitement over, men are
only too prolific in finding excuſes for their hafty
praiſe and their equally as haſty cenſure. Enough,
the old idol is dethroned, and a new one, to be
again as quickly dealt with, is placed on the vacant
pedeſtal.
In moſt inſtances the fate is a well-merited one.
Bread is aſked, and too often only a ſtone is given.
a
R 2
244
Dr. Dodd.
The thing which attracts is too frequently but a
peculiarity, and when this is worn out, which it
ſoon is, the power is gone, and the charm de-
ſtroyed. This one aſſumes the genteel and lady-
ſtyle of preaching, and gets himſelf up regardleſs
of expenſe, knowing that if he ſecures the fair ſex
as his partiſans, his work is done, and his ſucceſs
aſſured. His forte is the ſuaviter in modo. Not
the moſt faftidious could ever be offended at any-
thing that falls from his lips. The terrors of
religion--if ever he touches upon its terrors—are
veiled ; and if he allude to “miſerable finners” it
is never to the ſelf-ſatisfied congregation he is ad-
dreſſing, but to ſome poor wretches who dwell at a
diſtance, and who have never had the advantage of his
miniſtrations. The road to heaven is ſprinkled with
roſewater and eau-de-Cologne, in which his hearers
will be delighted to walk, and have none of their
cultivated ſenſes offended. The path of duty is a
flowery one; all its thorns are maſked, and its
thiſtles robbed of their ſtings.
And thus for a
time
" The ſnowy-banded, dilettante,
Delicate-handed prieſt intones,"
and people for a time run in crowds to hear him
and he is the popular preacher of the day.
Others take the oppoſite courſe; and put on a
Dr. Dodd.
245
roughneſs and frankneſs approaching to jocularity.
Everything with them is familiar. It is "hail
fellow, well met." For them religion has no
myſteries. All is open, clear, and above board.
They have been taken into the counſels of the
Supreme, and are informed upon all the diſputed
queſtions of faith. They have the right road, and
there is no other. You muſt go to heaven with
them, or not go at all. And with them not to go
means a great deal more than with our firſt popular
friend. They have no ſcruple about deſcribing the
place of torment. Nay, with them it is one of the
great inſtruments of ſucceſs. They “horror on
horror's head accumulate," and the more horrible
the better. The picture of the bottomleſs pit, with
its eternal fires, in which the goats (that is, thoſe
who hold not the popular preacher's faith) are to be
tormented for ever and ever, is painted with an
unction and a power that always takes with the
multitude. As in the old Myſteries and Miracle
Plays, the Devil is often introduced, and is made
the object of much joking and buffoonery. To
give effect, dramatic colloquies are introduced, and
the logic of the “ Tormentor of Souls" is
rally equal to his goodneſs of heart--the weakeſt in
kind and the moſt infinitefimal in quantity. Such
scenes, however, create a little fun, and are moſt
effective as “ draws." Strong phraſes are of
is gene-
246
Dr. Dodd.
frequent occurrence, and ſupply the place of learn-
ing, which is rather deſpiſed, or at leaſt not over
eſtimated by our rough-and-ready friend. The
Apoſtles were fiſhermen, and they were not learned;
ergo, learning is not neceſſary, and not being neceſ-
ſary need not be much troubled after. This mode
of reaſoning, to ſay nothing of the delicately im-
plied parallel between the preacher and the Apoſtles,
is deemed an anſwer to all queſtions reſpecting
acquirements; and ſerves to point many a moral,
and adorn many a tale. St. Paul's example is con-
veniently ignored; and a good voice, a ready
delivery, a rough wit, and ſome dramatic power,
are deemed more valuable than all the learning in
the world. This ſort of preaching is rewarded
with greater popularity than the refined euphuiſtic
method of our ladies’-preacher; for it appeals to a
larger number, and is acceptable to the maſſes. In
reſults, however, it is about the ſame; and we may
ſay that Cæſar and Pompey are very much alike,
eſpecially Pompey.
Others adopt different methods. Some are eccen-
tric; miſtaking oddity for genius, they play on this
one ſtring like a ſpiritual Paganini ; and with about
the ſame effect. Both ſucceed in drawing crowds
to hear them. Some take up curious doctrines,
and gain popularity by making inroads into the
comfortable fields of orthodoxy. The louder the
Dr. Dodd.
247
cry of alarm, the more certain of ſucceſs. The
bolder the doctrine, the wickeder it ſounds, the
more certain it is to hit. " We have both written
a naughty book,” ſaid
a popular noveliſt to
Miſs Brontë ; implying thereby, that both had
excited curioſity by their naughtineſs. So with our
teacher of new or ſtrange doctrines. He has only
to ſpice his teachings with an extraordinary daſh of
boldneſs; to ſay a few things that raiſe a ſen-
ſation of horror in his hearers; to tickle their
ears with a gentle ridicule on things generally
conſidered ſacred, and rapidly will the news
ſpread, great will be the curioſity excited, and
large the audience conſequent thereon. Some
take to Apocalyptic interpretations, and fright the
world from its propriety by the raſhneſs of their
vaticinations. The wilder the prophecy the greater
the notoriety ; but, as a ſort of compenſation, the
ſhorter its exiſtence.
The reaſon of the popularity is the ſame in
all theſe caſes. People go for the moſt part to be
amuſed. As long as the excitement laſts and
the amuſement is afforded, the popularity con-
tinues, and no longer. The
per-
manent good done is ſo ſmall compared with the
temporary gratification, that its effects in no wiſe
counteract the diſmal collapſe of the whole. A
leſs ſatisfactory, or leſs remunerative, life than that
quantum of
248
Dr. Dodd.
of a popular preacher we can ſcarcely conceive.
Such is now, and ſuch always has been, the nature
of his career. Now the “ cynoſure of neigh-
bouring eyes ;” now the “ obſerved of all ob-
ſervers ;” and now ſcarcely a felt influence in the
Church.
This was never more fully, or more painfully,
illuſtrated than by the career of the hero, or rather
hiſtrio, of this paper.
He was in his time the
moſt popular of popular preachers. Belonging to
the class of ladies’-preacher, he ſpared nothing in
the attainment of ſucceſs. All the means and ap-
pliances available for that purpoſe were reſorted to.
He had no fcruples to ſtand in his way.
Whatever
could add to his influence and increaſe his po-
pularity was obtained, no matter at what coſt of
religion or virtue. “He had,” ſays Dr. Doran,
“ſpent whole months with Moſſop the actor,
who drilled him into reading the Litany with
ſuch witching emphaſis, that women went miles
to hear him read the Litany. Mrs. Clive had
made him pay rather dearly in dinners and ſup-
pers, and mulled claret and earrings, for inſtruct-
ing him in a pleaſing delivery of the ſervices for
the ſolemnization of matrimony, the churching of
women, and the private or public baptiſm of
children. Palmer had taught him how to read
a public notice from the pulpit with effect, and
Dr. Dodd.
249
laid out.
Woodward had enlightened him as to the achieve-
ment of diſtinctneſs with grace, in enunciating
the Dearly beloved, and in reading an Epiſtle.
For all this Will was indebted to the players at
Drury Lane,-but the neceſſary money was well
It returned cent. per cent.
Covent
Garden was not backward in lending him a fort
of fitneſs for his calling. The effect was ſeen
on Aſh Wedneſday, when Will had to recite the
Commination ſentences, and on the day ſet aſide
for the proclaiming of the creed of St. Athanaſius.
Then, Will's audiences beat Barry's, and Barry
had been his maſter. Week after week, Will
had attended at Barry's houſe, No. 61, Hart
Street, Covent Garden, and there the two had
gone through the threats and condemnations, till at
laſt Will ſeemed to have gained the ſilver tongue
of
his inſtructor, and congregations of ſome men and
many
maids and matrons flocked to hear terrible
penalties levelled at them, in ſo exquiſite a voice
and method, that even they who remembered the
Fly ſoft ideas' of Miſs Brent, in " Artaxerxes,'
thought Arne's pupil not to be compared with
Barry's.
" Nor was this all that Covent Garden did to
make a graceful apoſtle of him. Smith, that
moſt irreſiſtible of Valentines, addreſſed himſelf to
Will's carriage, and in a very ſhort time, parti-
C
250
Dr. Dodd.
cularly as the “parſon’ went every night to the
play, and from the boxes, thronged with maccaro-
nies, marked how the actor entered on and walked
the ſtage, he produced ſuch improvement, that
half the women, and ſometimes all of them,
in Will's congregation, uſed to ſlowly and filently
riſe to watch his graceful movement as he paſſed
from the veſtry to the pulpit, or from the latter
to within the rails of the Communion.' As this
was always done to a few notes from the organ,
the effect was complete ; and when it was over,
the filly women fell back in faint ecſtaſy, each
looking in a die-away faſhion at her neighbour, and
the expreſſion evidently implying all that is meant
in Did
.
“ There were others in Will's congregation
who always circulated a ſoft and gentle "huſh!'
muſically and tenderly ſibilated previous to his
ſaying 'Let us pray!' For his unparalleled utter-
ance of this, and of the laſt eight words of the
Lord's Prayer, to each of which he ſeemed to
give different emphaſis and additional beauty, he
was indebted to Shuter, at whoſe lodgings, in
Denzil Street, he took a good deal of inſtruction,
and paid for a vaſt deal of liquor."
And ſo the Dr. goes detailing how and where
you ever?'
* "New Pictures on Old Panels.” By Dr. Doran ; pp. 5-6-7.
Dr. Dodd.
251
and from whom he won this grace, or acquired that
accent, and perfected himſelf in all the arts of a
popular preacher. He reached the goal of his am-
bition : he was a popular preacher. Few have ever
been more ſo. The ladies, as is their wont in ſuch
caſes, almoſt went mad about him. They over-
whelmed him with pleaſing tokens of their ad-
miration and devotion; and, ſtrangely too, although
he was a married man. To make one more
extract from Dr. Doran's pleaſant pages.
After
ſpeaking of his popularity among the men, the
Dr. ſays, “Still more was he loved by the women,
even by the really ſerious. To their ſerious
queſtions he could always give ſerious and highly
ſatisfactory anſwers. To theſe inquirers he ſeemed
ſomething angelic, ſo bright, ſo ſoft, ſo conſoling,
was this apoſtle from the taverns. Women more
fooliſh loved him more fondly, and, of courſe,
more fooliſhly. They ſent him bands, and worked
ſlippers for him. The more timid diſpatched to
him leather purſes, on which they had worked his
initials. The more daring offered him braces
knitted by their own hands, and daſhingly offered,
furthermore, to help him on with them.' Mar-
ried women who ſat near him at dinner would
drink out of his glaſs, and then wink at and laugh
with him. Bevies of girls were in the ſeventh
heaven if they could ſecure him at one of their
252
Dr. Dodd.
ners.
games. Solitary adorers diſcourſed with him in cor-
Gifts of value rained upon him ; he had only
to hint a want that he might have it ſupplied ; and
three times his debts had been paid in full by the
ladies of his various congregations. The matrons
paid them the firſt time. The maids accepted
the liability the next. On the third occafion there
was a hot quarrel. The widows claimed the
excluſive privilege, but the claim was diſputed, as
they had previouſly combined with the matrons,
who now aſſerted their right by turn. Ultimately
the matter was compromiſed, and ladies of all
qualities united, and raiſed ſuch a ſum-total, that
the reverend gentleman was not only ſet free
from debt, but preſented with ſuch a ſum over
and above his late incumbrances, that he became
more of the fine gentleman than he had ever been,
ſpeculated in marriage, aimed at winning a lady
of title and a fortune ;—and fancying he had met
both at Lord Sandwich's, eloped with the two, and
found the lady's title one very common at Drury
Lane, and her fortune, a couple of hundred
guineas, contributed with alacrity by my lord !”
And this once popular preacher, ſo courted and
ſo flattered by his admirers, would now ſcarcely
ever be named, had it not been for his ſhameful
crime, its cruel puniſhment, and the Priſon
Thoughts. We ſhall very rapidly ſummariſe his
a
Dr. Dodd.
253
a
life up to that period from which he derives his
claim to a place in this work.
William Dodd was born at Bourne, in Lincoln-
ſhire, on the 29th of May, 1729.
His father
was a clergyman at the ſame place, and was con-
fidered a pious and exemplary man. William
received the firſt part of his education at a private
ſchool, and in the year 1745 was admitted a ſizar
of Clare Hall, Cambridge, at which univerſity he
took his B.A. degree in 1749. He diſtinguiſhed
himſelf by his application to his ſtudies, and there
is every reaſon to believe that his conduct at the
univerſity was praiſeworthy and unexceptionable.
He was very ambitious, and deſired to ſhine and
make a noiſe in the world ; but theſe are qualities
which lead, when united to moral feeling, to fame
and honour. The moral feelings were not over
ſtrong in William Dodd, but the deſire for notoriety
was ; and ſo he went aſtray. With his acquire-
ments and ready talents, it is not to be wondered
at that he commenced authorſhip at an early age.
His firſt efforts, however, were not in original
works, but abridgments of well-known authors.
Thus he publiſhed abridgments of Grotius's “De
Jure Belli,” at Paris ; of Clarke “On the Being
and Attributes of God,” and ſo on.
married on the 15th of April, 1751, to Miſs Mary
Perkins, under peculiar circumſtances, and the
a
2
He was
254
Dr. Dodd.
marriage was doubtleſs a fooliſh and not very happy
one. Two years after his marriage he was ordained,
and permanently ſettled in London, living in a
houſe and at an expenſe far beyond his means. He
was now appointed lecturer of St. Olave, Hart
Street, the ſcene of his triumphs and his follies.
Here it was that he became a popular preacher.
Here it was that ladies of quality, and ladies not of
quality, ruſhed after the exquiſite divine, and ſcat-
tered the incenſe of their beauty, their ſmiles, and
their admiration at his feet. Here he was accom-
panied by all the uſual attendants of a popular
preacher. Crowds of faſhionably dreſſed people
thronged to his miniſtrations, and the lecturer who
was thus drawing men and women to his church,
and was in a powerful and impreſſive manner
enforcing the truths of religion, was himſelf lead-
ing a life of diſſipation, riot, and pleaſure.
The popular preacher was, in ſhort, a weak and
inſincere man. Vain and fond of diſplay, every-
thing was ſacrificed for the gratification of his
deſires. That he had good elements in him is
evident by the manner in which he diſcharged his
duties as the curate of Weſt Ham, and could he have
been kept out of the whirlpool of faſhionable life
and of popular preaching, he might have been a
creditable and uſeful clergyman of the Church.
But his vanity ruined him. His love of diffipation
Dr. Dodd.
255
ous kind.
>
deſtroyed him—and the diſſipation of a pleaſure-
loving parſon is of the moſt ſeductive and ruin-
He was doubtleſs deſirous of being
engaged in good work, as the labours he beſtowed
on the Magdalen Aſylum, and other philanthropical
inſtitutions, fully prove. Still the faſcination of
the bright eyes that rained influence on him at St.
Olave's was irreſiſtible; and the faſcination of other
bright eyes, that beamed on him from other places
than St. Olave's, was quite as irreſiſtible; and our
doctor was not a man to reſiſt ſuch influences.
They were his life, his being; “in them did he
live, and by them did he live.” For thoſe bright
eyes were the miniſtrants to, and the cauſe of, his
popularity, and without that how could he exiſt
at all? The meanneſs of the man is ſomething
extraordinary; and no ſhift was too low either to
keep up the furore of his preaching or to bring
money to his purſe. In 1759, he publiſhed an
edition of Biſhop Hall's Meditations, and dedi-
cated it to Miſs Talbot, a lady living with the
family of Archbiſhop Secker. So fulſome was this
dedication, ſo miſerably flattering, and ſo fervile in
its tone, that the Archbiſhop wrote to him in the
ſtrongeſt terms of deprecation and anger, and at
laſt inſiſted on the edition being cancelled. The
arrow of the place-ſeeking divine had overſhot its
mark,
256
Dr. Dodd.
Mr. Dodd, however, was not a man to be
baulked by a trifle. His popularity kept on in-
creaſing. His literary labours alſo were remunera-
tive; and church honours were not wanting. In
;
fact, everything ſeemed to work in his favour.
He got patronage and help from others than the
fair bevies that thronged St. Olave's ; and he doubt-
leſs worked very hard. His extravagance, how-
ever, more than kept pace with his labours; and
much as he earned, the more he got into debt.
At balls, theatres, and wine-parties, this preacher,
ſo impreſſive, ſo powerful, ſo attractive, conſumed
all that his votaries could provide for him, and ran
up a pretty long bill beyond. His mode of living
was notorious; but it cauſed no diminution in the
attendance at St. Olave's.
We draw near another very notable act in Mr.
Dodd's life. But previous to ſtating this, we muſt
juſt record his progreſs to his Doctorſhip. In
1759 he took his degree of M.A., and in 1763
was made chaplain in ordinary to the king ; Dr.
Squire, Biſhop of St. David's, alſo took him in
hand, and preſented him to the Prebend of Brecon,
and by this biſhop he was recommended to the
Earl of Cheſterfield as a proper perſon for tutor to
Philip Stanhope, heir to the fortunes and title of
that nobleman. In 1766 he took his degree of
LL.D. at Cambridge, and in 1772 was preſenten
Dr. Dodd.
257
to the Rectory of Hockliffe, in Bedfordſhire.
Surely theſe were rewards enough to ſatisfy the
moſt cormorant of appetites ! Not fo.
The
learned doctor ſighed for other loaves and
fiſhes. His cry was ſtill for more. His debts
were very preſſing; and to provide for them our
popular preacher will try his hand at a little bit of
ſimony. Flattery having failed in one inſtance, he
will now try what efficacy bribery has. The
“ jingling of the guinea” may operate where the
“ voice of the charmer” was impotent. At leaſt
he will try.
crown.
In the year 1774, the rich rectory of St. George's,
Hanover Square, had fallen to the diſpoſal of the
Our divine longed for the miniſtration of
its duties, but longed a little more ardently for its
emoluments. To effect ſo good, ſo deſirable an
object, what was a little ſimony in the balance ? It
is true it would not do for the doctor to appear
openly in the matter. But what of that? He
who has no ſcruple to commit a crime will not be
over-faſtidious about the means. It is true that
among right-thinking people anonymous letter-
writing is not conſidered a highly honourable, or
even creditable thing to do. But our divine is
not troubled by ſuch ſmall qualms of conſcience.
Keepers in a menagerie point out to open-mouthed
ruſtics the wonderful adaptability of the elephant,
a
s
258
Dr. Dodd.
and tell the aſtoniſhed crowd how the fame animal
can pull up a tree by the roots and pick up a pin.
Our doctor is equally facile and variouſly endowed.
He can hew a coloſſus out of a rock, and carve
heads upon cherry-ſtones. He can offer a large
ſum of money to purchaſe a place in the church,
and write the anonymous letter offering the bribe.
He can alſo do this in a moſt delicate manner,
proving his knowledge of human nature—at leaſt of
feminine human nature. Inſtead of writing to the
Lord-Chancellor, he writes to the Lord-Chancellor's
lady, and offers a bribe of 3000l. if by her means
he could obtain the deſired living. A pretty little
plot, is it not? Alas! for mortal hopes! The
doctor's knowledge of feminine human nature failed
him in this inſtance. The lady was not enchanted
with the offer. Nay, ſhe at once communicated
the letter to her huſband; it was traced to the
learned divine ; fent to the King; and the reſult
was not the preſentation of the living of St.
George's, Hanover Square, to the popular lecturer.
Inſtead of this he was inſtantly ſtruck off the liſt
of his Majeſty's chaplains ; the newſpapers made
a fine handle of it; he was quizzed and ſatiriſed
without mercy; and wicked Mr. Foote made the
delightful little tranſaction the ſource of one of his
witty entertainments, and performed it to the
rapturous applauſe of his numerous audiences.
?
Dr. Dodd.
259
After this nefarious buſineſs the doctor's career
to ruin was very rapid. He left London, and
joined his noble pupil at Geneva. From him he
obtained the living of Winge in Buckinghamſhire;
and held it conjointly with that of Hockliffe, obtain-
ing a diſpenſation for that purpoſe ; pluraliſm not
being an offence in thoſe days, and if it had it would
not have in any wiſe ſtood in the doctor's way, he
being by no means a particular man in ſuch matters.
Things ſtill went on from bad to worſe. On his
return to London, he tried to get rid of his debts
means of a Commiſſion of Bankruptcy; but in
this he failed. He ſtill preached ; and added the
editorſhip of a newſpaper to his clerical duties ; but
gave up none of his vanities, extravagances, or
follies.
The road to ruin was never better trod than
by Dr. Dodd ; and in 1776 we have one more
inſtance of this man and his nature. Perhaps he
had
grown
reckleſs. All his plans for getting money
or relief from his liabilities had failed. He was a
ruined, and probably a moſt diſtracted man. That
he was weak, wickedly weak, is clear. For in this
year overwhelmed as he was with debt ; hunted by
duns; threatened by tradeſmen ; not knowing
;
where to turn for money, he, “with incredible
folly, appeared in a phaeton at the races at Sablons,
near Paris, tricked out in all the foppery of French
& 2
260
Dr. Dodd.
attire."*
a
From this act to the fatal one of February
1777, there is but one ſtep.
We are now at the culminating point of the
doctor's career. One more act of folly, one more
crime, will fill his cup to overflowing, and place his
life in the power of the law. The fulſome flatterer,
the would-be fimoniſt, the pluraliſt, the popular
preacher, is now about to aſſume another character,
and add that of forger to the above reſpectable lift.
And this was the manner of his doing it. He fent
for a Mr. Robertſon, a broker, and ſhowing him a
bond neither filled up nor ſigned, told him that a
young nobleman juſt come of age wanted to borrow
4000l. The buſineſs was to be conducted with the
utmoſt ſecrecy and confidence, as his Lordſhip did
not wiſh the matter known. Therefore he, as his
Lordſhip's tutor, had undertaken the affair. The
perſons advancing the money were not to be witneſſes
to the execution of the deed. Mr. Robertſon, fully
truſting in the doctor and in the bona fide nature
of the application, applied to ſeveral perſons, who
refuſed in conſequence of not being allowed to be
preſent at the execution of the bond. Meſſrs.
Fletcher and Peach, however, conſented to advance
the ſum ; Mr. Robertſon brought the bond back to
Dr. Dodd, who returned it the next day executed,
when Mr. Robertſon, moſt fooliſhly, if not cul-
ܪ1
* “ The Biographical Dictionary.” Article : Dr. Dodd.
Dr. Dodd.
261
pably, added his name to the doctor's as the other
witneſs. Mr. Robertſon's own explanation was,
that “knowing Mr. Fletcher to be a particular
man, and one of thoſe who would object to one ſub-
ſcribing witneſs only, I put my name under the
doctor's. I then went and received the money,
which I paid into the hands of Dr. Dodd, 3000l.
in notes of Sir Charles Raymond & Co., the re-
maining 1200l. in bank-notes.” Robertſon received
a hundred pounds for his trouble.
Thus then the doctor was provided with money;
and but for a little circumſtance, the mereſt trifle, he
might have lived ſome time without detection. The
thing was cleverly done; the chances apparently of
diſcovery were few. It was not very likely that
the bond would be produced for ſome time ; and
the doctor always aſſerted he meant to repay, and
had no intention whatever of defrauding the Earl.
However this may be, the diſcovery was peculiar,
and deſerves narration. The bond " was in the
penalty of 84001. conditional on the payment of
4200l. as the purchaſe of an annuity, payable
quarterly from the date thereof, in the ſum of 700l.
per annum, during the life of the Earl of Cheſter-
field.”
The bond was depoſited with Mr. Manly,
Meſſrs. Fletcher and Peach's ſolicitor; and in look-
ing through it he noticed a very peculiar blot on
* “ The Newgate Calendar.” Vol. iv., p. 195.
262
Dr. Doda.
the letter E in the word ſeven. To the acute eyes
of the ſolicitor, this blot ſeemed the intentional
work of ſome one ; there were marks of deſign in
it; and without ſuſpecting any crime, Mr. Manly
ſhowed the blot to Mr. Fletcher, and adviſed him
to have a clean bond filled up and ſent to Lord
Cheſterfield to be executed. This was done;
and, of courſe, the forgery diſcovered. An infor-
mation was preferred at Guildhall ; Mr. Robertſon
was taken into cuſtody, four officers of juſtice ac-
companied Mr. Manly to Dr. Dodd's houſe,
accuſed him of the crime, and informed him that
the only means of eſcape was to refund the money.
The wretched doctor at once returned 3000l., drew
on his banker for 5ool., gave a ſecond draught on
his banker for 200l. more, a judgment on his goods
for 400l.; and Mr. Robertſon gave up the 100l.
which he had received for his profeſſional labours
in the matter ; and thus the whole ſum received
from Meſſrs. Fletcher and Peach was made up.
The doctor was, notwithſtanding, taken before the
Lord Mayor on the charge of forgery, and there he
made the following ſtatement :-“I had no inten-
.
tion to defraud my Lord Cheſterfield, or the
gentleman who advanced the money. I hope that
the ſatisfaction I have made in returning the money
will atone for the offence. I was preſſed exceed-
ingly for 300l. to pay ſome bills due to tradeſmen.
Dr. Dodd.
263
" *
I took this ſtep as a temporary reſource. I ſhould
have repaid it in half a year. My Lord Cheſter-
field cannot but have ſome tenderneſs for me, as my
pupil : I love him, and he knows it. There is
nobody wiſhes to proſecute. I am ſure my Lord
I
Cheſterfield don't want my life: I hope he will
ſhow clemency to me. Mercy ſhould triumph over
juſtice.” All this was doubtleſs true. Still he
was committed for trial; and on Saturday, the 22nd
of February, 1777, he was arraigned at the Old
Bailey for the crime, tried, found guilty, and con-
demned to be executed, the cruel ſentence being
carried out.
After the evidence had been completed, the
doctor made the following defence : “My lords
and gentlemen of the jury,-From the evidence that
has this day been produced againſt me, I am now
called upon to anſwer to the charge brought againſt
me. There is no man in the world, my lords and
gentlemen of the jury, has a deeper ſenſe of the
heinouſneſs of the crime of which I ſtand charged.
I view it, my lord, in all its extent of heinouſneſs;
but, my lord, I apprehend that the malignity of
the crime always, both in the eye of law, reaſon,
and religion, conſiſts in the intention. I am in-
I
formed that the Act of Parliament upon this head
* " The Newgate Calendar.” Vol. iv., pp. 210-211.
264
Dr. Dodd.
runs perpetually in that ſtyle with an intention to
defraud. Such an intention, my lords and gentle-
men of the jury, has not been attempted to be
proved upon me; and from the conſequences of
the evidence that has appeared before you, it is
ſufficiently proved that a perfečt and ample reſtitu-
tion has been made. I leave it, my lords, to you
and the gentlemen of the jury to conſider that if an
unhappy man at any time deviates from the law of
right, yet if in the firſt moment of recollection he
does all he can to make full and perfect amends,
what, my lords and gentlemen of the jury, can God
and man deſire more? My lords, there are a
variety of circumſtances, too tedious to trouble
you
with now, with reſpect to myſelf. Were I to give
looſe to my feelings, I have many things to ſay,
and I am ſure you would feel with me with reſpect
.
to them. But, my lords, as it appears upon all
hands, and as it appears, gentlemen of the jury, in
every ſenſe, that I had no intention to have done the
leaſt injury to any man upon the face of the earth, I
hope you will conſider this in its true ſtate. I muſt
obſerve to your lordſhips, though I have met with
all poſſible candour from this court, I have been
purſued with oppreſſive cruelty. I have been pro-
ſecuted after the moſt expreſs engagements, after
the moſt ſolemn aſſertions, and after the moſt delu-
five and ſoothing arguments from Mr. Manly. I
Dr. Dodd.
265
a
have been proſecuted with a cruelty ſcarcely to be
paralleled. A perſon, avowedly a criminal, and
who ſtood in the ſame light as myſelf, is brought
forth and admitted a witneſs againſt me, which is a
fact totally, I believe, unexampled. My lords,
oppreſſed as I am with ignominy, loaded as I am
with diſtreſs, funk under the weight of this cruel
proſecution, your lordſhips and gentlemen of the
jury cannot think life a matter valuable to me.
No, my lords, I ſolemnly proteſt that death, of all
bleſſings, would be the moſt pleaſant to me, after
this place. But I have yet, my lord, ties that call
upon me, ties which render me deſirous even to
continue in this miſerable life. I have a wife, my
lords, who for twenty-ſeven years has lived an un-
paralleled example of conjugal affection to me;
whoſe behaviour, during this trying ſcene, would
draw tears of approbation, I am ſure, even from the
moſt inhuman. My lords, I have creditors too
who will ſuffer greatly, and I hope, for the ſake of
juſtice towards them, ſome mercy will be ſhown.
My lords and gentlemen of the jury, looking upon
it in the moſt impartial view and ſtricteſt manner,
and calling heaven to witneſs, I declare ſolemnly it
was my own intention to have repaid it in three or
four months. I have had Mr. Manly's repeated
and moſt ſacred promiſes that I ſhould not be pro-
ſecuted. As it appears clear to every man there is
266
Dr. Dodd.
!
not the leaſt injury done to any man upon the face
of the earth, I fully confide myſelf in the kindneſs,
humanity, and protection of my country.”
We fancy that my lords muſt have been eſpecially
ſtruck with, and rather grimly ſmiled at ſome
parts of the above addreſs. Mr. Manly's telling
him that the only means of ſaving him would be
by returning the money, is tranſlated into “I have
been proſecuted after the moſt expreſs engagements,
after the moſt folemn aſſertions, and after the moſt
deluſive and ſoothing arguments from Mr. Manly.”
The alluſion to the intereſts of his creditors is a
nice bit of irony from the man who about a year
before ſought to pay them through the Bankruptcy
Court. The queſtion of proſecution or non-proſe-
cution was, from the moment Mr. Manly preferred
his charge of forgery before the Lord Mayor, out of
his hands ; and it could only be as a drowning man
catching at ſtraws, that the doctor could have been
influenced by ſuch a promiſe. The queſtion as to
the admiſſibility of the evidence of the “ perſon
avowedly a criminal, and who ſtood in the fame
light as myſelf,” was reſerved for the confideration
of the judges; and, though found guilty, ſentence
was deferred until their lordſhips' opinion was given.
This opinion was unanimous in favour of the
legality of the evidence. The judges' deciſion was
communicated to the doctor on the 12th of May,
>
Dr. Dodd.
267
and on the 26th he was brought to the bar to
receive his ſentence. He there made the following
addreſs, which bears unmiſtakeable evidence in its
compoſition of the help he had received from
Dr. Johnſon. As theſe addreſſes are “ Priſon
Works,” we make no apology for giving them here.
He ſaid, “My lord, I now ſtand before you a
dreadful example of human infirmity. I entered
I
upon public life with the expectations common to
young men, whoſe education has been liberal, and
whoſe abilities have been flattered. And when I
became a clergyman I conſidered myſelf as not
impairing the dignity of the order. I was not idle,
nor, I hope, a uſeleſs miniſter. I taught the truths
I
of Chriſtianity with the zeal of conviction and the
authority of innocence. My labours were approved;
my pulpit became popular ; and I have reaſon to
believe that of thoſe who heard me ſome have been
preſerved from ſin, and ſome have been reclaimed.
Condeſcend, my lord, to think, if theſe conſidera-
tions aggravate my crime, how muſt they embitter
my puniſhment.
“Being diſtinguiſhed and elated by the confi-
dence of mankind, I had too much confidence in
myſelf; and thinking my integrity-what others
thought it-eſtabliſhed in ſincerity and fortified by
religion, I did not conſider the danger of vanity,
nor ſuſpected the deceitfulneſs of my own heart.
268
Dr. Dodd.
now want.
The day of conflict came, in which temptation
ſurpriſed and overwhelmed me! I committed the
crime, which I entreat your lordſhip to believe that
my conſcience hourly repreſents to me in its full
bulk of miſchief and malignity. Many have been
overpowered by temptation, who are now among
the penitent in heaven!
“For an act, now waiting the deciſion of vin-
dictive juſtice, I will not preſume to oppoſe the
counterbalance of almoſt thirty years (a great part
of the life of man) paſſed in exciting and exer-
ciſing charity; in relieving ſuch diſtreſſes as I now
feel; in adminiſtering thoſe conſolations which I
I will not otherwiſe extenuate my
offence, than by declaring, what many circumſtances
make probable, that I did not intend to be finally
fraudulent. Nor will it become me to apportion
my own puniſhment, by alleging that
my
ſuffer-
ings have been not much leſs than my guilt. I
have fallen from reputation, which ought to have
made me cautious, and from a fortune, which ought
to have given me content. I am ſunk at once into
poverty and ſcorn : my name and my crime fill the
ballads in the ſtreets; the ſport of the thoughtleſs,
and the triumph of the wicked.
“It may ſeem ſtrange, my lord, that, remem-
bering what I have lately been, I ſhould wiſh to
continue what I am; but contempt of death, how
3
Dr. Dodd.
269
ſpeciouſly ſoever it might mingle with heathen
virtues, has nothing in it ſuitable to Chriſtian
penitence.
“Many motives impel me to long earneſtly for
life. I feel the natural horror of a violent death,
and the univerſal dread of untimely diſſolution. I
am deſirous to recompenſe the injury I have done
to the clergy, to the world, and to religion; and to
efface the ſcandal of my crime by the example of
my repentance. But, above all — I wiſh to die with
thoughts more compoſed, and calmer preparations.
“The gloom and confuſion of a priſon, the
anxiety of a trial, and the inevitable viciſſitudes of
paſſion, leave not the mind in a due diſpoſition for
the holy exerciſes of prayer and ſelf-examination.
Let not a little life be denied me, in which I may,
by meditation and contrition, prepare myſelf to
ſtand at the tribunal of Omnipotence, and ſupport
the preſence of that Judge, who ſhall diſtribute to
all according to their works; who will receive to
pardon the repenting finner; and from whom the
merciful ſhall obtain mercy.
“For theſe reaſons, my lord, amidſt ſhame and
miſery, I yet wiſh to live ; and moſt humbly im-
plore that I may be recommended by your lord-
ſhip to the clemency of his Majeſty.”
This may be conſidered a very fine piece of
writing. Yet, conſidering the doctor's life, we are
270
Dr. Dodd.
rather aſtoniſhed at a few of the ſentences of his
addreſs. Speaking of the almoſt thirty years of his
miniſtry, he ſays, that among other Chriſtian deeds
he had done, he had been employed “in re-
lieving ſuch diſtreſſes as I now feel.” In the year
1772, the living of Hockliffe, in Bedfordſhire, was
obtained by the doctor ; and returning thence to
London he was once ſtopped by a highwayman near
Pancras.
The fellow diſcharged a piſtol into the
carriage, which did no other damage but break the
glaſs window. For this he was tried—as he de-
ſerved to be ; of this attempt he, on the evidence
e
of Dr. Dodd, was found guilty and hanged. We
have no record of the reverend proſecutor moving
a ſtep, or ſaying a word, to reſcue this victim of the
ſame barbarous and cruel law by which the doctor
himſelf ſuffered. In footh, his miniſtrations did
not conſiſt in viſiting the priſoner, and in relieving
ſuch diſtreſſes as he then felt. Between the popular
preacher of St. Olave's and the condemned high-
wayman who had broken the glaſs of his carriage
window, there was little manifeſtation of the Chrif-
tian dowry of mercy. It is, however, to be
doubted if the latter were not the honeſter man of
the two. The ſame inſincerity runs through the
whole addreſs--an utter forgetfulneſs of his paſt
life and its foilies; a fooliſh attempt to leſſen the
blackneſs of his own crime, by crying out again and
Dr. Dodd.
271
again that he had made reſtitution. He admirably
illuſtrates the words of our ſubtleſt-thinking eſſayiſt,
Mr. Helps, when he makes the philoſophic Count
Edgar von Straubenheim, while meditating a crime,
exclaim :-
i
“ What ſhould I ſay of any other man?
But then our own miſdeeds are quite peculiar,
White at the edges, ſhading into darkneſs,
Not wholly black like other men's enormities.
Theirs are the thunder-clouds; ours but the ſtreaks
Acroſs the ſetting sun.-No, no! I'm not
A fool like that. I know full well ’tis baſe,
Supremely baſe; natheleſs it ſhall be done.
If there were time, ſome other courſe we might
Deviſe; but that's what ſcoundrels always ſay-
If there were time, they would replace, repay,
In virtue's filvery path they would walk leiſurely."
All was of no avail. He was ſentenced ; and on
the 27th of June, 1777, he ſuffered the extreme
penalty of the law at Tyburn.
Every effort that could be was made to obtain
his pardon. The jury that found him guilty
unanimouſly ſigned a memorial, and preſented it to
the Court, recommending him to mercy. The
Corporation of the City of London petitioned on
his behalf and preſented it at St. James's in a body,
with the Lord Mayor at their head. The charities
he had helped in life worked hard for him in his
hour of peril. Clergymen ſent up individual
2
* “ Oulita, the Serf.” Act i., ſc.
5.
272
Dr. Dodd.
petitions imploring grace. The fair fingers that
had before been ſo induſtriouſly employed in work-
ing bands and ſlippers and braces, were now as
affiduous in the more Chriſtian labour of getting
ſignatures to the prayer for pardon or remiſſion.
It is ſaid that nearly thirty thouſand ſignatures were
obtained. The great and good Dr. Johnſon pub-
liſhed ſome cogent reaſons why he ſhould be
pardoned. All, however, was of no avail. And
looking at it now, we do not ſee how they could
have been. The law was abominably cruel; the
puniſhment, compared with the crime, was out of
all proportion; it was a diſgrace to the ſtatute-
book and to the age which endured it. Still it was
the law, and while men were being hanged almoſt
every week for the ſame, ay, even for leſs offences,
we do not ſee on what ground the miniſters could
have recommended the king to have exerciſed his
prerogative of mercy in favour of Dr. Dodd.
We rejoice that the progreſs of our nation in law
reform and in humanity has ſwept away this and
other like Draconic laws, which were a ſhame to
our civiliſation and to our religion; but we cannot
ſay that, while it was the law to hang for forgery,
and while comparatively ignorant wretches were ſo
frequently ſuffering for that crime, it would have
been right to have pardoned this particular criminal.
With the exception of his ſelection of the “Beau-
Dr. Dodd.
273
"
ties of Shakſpeare” and his “ Priſon Thoughts,”
the literary labours of Doctor Dodd are very little
known. The laſt-mentioned work alone concerns
us here; and on that we propoſe to ſay a few
words.
The “Priſon Thoughts," although written in
blank verſe, can ſcarcely be called poetry. They
are the ſpaſmodic, hyſteric, and inſincere utterances
of a weak man under affliction. The power of
ſelf-deception in the writer is ſomething to be
wondered at. To read theſe thoughts without any
other record of his life, you would gather that he
had committed ſome crime, not perhaps a very
black
one; but that he was otherwiſe a good, pious, holy,
perſecuted man. He is conſtantly ſhrieking out his
complaints againſt the world and its vices; and now
that he can no longer participate in them and enjoy
them, they have become the objects of his bittereſt
denunciations. You feel while reading theſe wild
co
and wayward cries,” that the grapes are four; and
the pity you would otherwiſe have is changed into
ſomething akin to contempt. The true tone of
Chriſtian meekneſs, and ſorrow, and repentance are
wanting. Surely he who had taſted of theſe fo
much denounced pleaſures, who had fallen ſo often
and ſo thoroughly under their faſcinations might
have had a little more charity for thoſe who were
ſtill flaves in the garden of the Syrens! His objur-
T
274
Dr. Dodd.
gations are not ſo much thoſe of one diſguſted with
the ſins, as of one unable to be a participator in
them. So ſtriking is this air of ſuperficial and often-
tatious piety ; ſo vehement is the aſſertion of this
horror at the doings of the world ; ſo apparent is it
that noiſe, and ſhrieks, and groans are no true
meaſure of the writer's true feelings; that all the
time you read there is ringing in your ears the
dreary, monotonous, and unpleaſant old proverb:-
“ When the devil was ſick, the devil a monk would be;
When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he.”
You cannot believe the man. His obliviouſneſs
of the paſt is as great as if he had drunk of Lethe's
ſtream. His aſſumption of piety is ſo offenſive,
his cenſures fo abound with cant, that the mind
fickens as with nauſea at the ſeeming hypocrisy.
Let us ſubſtantiate theſe charges by an examination
of the work, and by the author's own words. As
proofs of ſpaſm and hyſterics, you can open the
“ Priſon Thoughts” at almoſt any page and find
them :-
" Burſt into tears, my
ſoul !
Guſh, every pore of my diſtracted frame,
Guſh into drops of blood !”
" Give me the angel's clarion !- Let me ſound
Loud as the blaſt which ſhall awake the dead ;
Oh, let me found, and call the ſlumberers fortia
To view the viſion which deluſion charms;
Dr. Dodd.
275
To ſhake the potent incantations off ;
Or ere it burſt in ruin on their fouls,
As it has burſt on mine."
“Why then, myſterious Providence, purſued
With ſuch unfeeling ardour! Why purſued
To death's dread bourn, by men to me unknown !
Why–Stop the deep queſtion ; it o'erwhelms my ſoul ;
l
It reels, it ſtaggers !-Earth turns round !—My brain
Whirls in confuſion ! my impetuous heart
Throbs with pulſations not to be reſtrained !
Why?—where ?-Oh, Cheſterfield ! my ſon, my ſon !
Nay, talk not of compoſure! I had thought
That marble-eyed ſeverity would crack
The ſlender nerves which guide my reins of ſenſe,
And give me up to madneſs.”
>
Such incoherent utterances abound; theſe, it may
be urged, the horror of his poſition, the ſenſe of his
guilt, and the conſciouſneſs of what men would ſay
and were ſaying of him, may excuſe. Be it fo;
what can we ſay of ſuch writing as the following?-
" Yet not preſumptuous deem it, Arbiter
Of human thoughts, that through the long, long gloom
Of multiplied tranſgreſſions, I behold
Complacent ſmiling on my fickening foul
• Delight in Thy loved Sabbaths !' Well Thou know'ſt-
For Thou know'ſt all things that the cheerful round,
Of that bleſt day's returns, for circling weeks,
For months, for years, for more than thrice ſeven years,
Was muſic to my heart! My feet rejoiced
To bear me to Thy temples, haply fraught
With comfort's tidings; with Thy goſpel's truth,
The goſpel of Thy peace! Oh, well Thou know't,
Who knoweſt all things, with what welcome toil,
What pleaſing aſſiduity I ſearched
Thy heavenly word, to learn Thy heavenly will;
That faithful I might miniſter its truth,
And of the high commiſſion nought keep back
T 2
276
Dr. Dodd.
From the great congregation! Well Thou know'ft,
-Sole, ſacred witneſs of my private hours-
How copiouſly I bath'd with pleading tears,
How earneſtly in prayer conſigned to Thee,
The humble efforts of my trembling pen ;
My beſt, weak efforts in my Maſter's cauſe;
Weak as the feather 'gainſt the giant's ſhield,
Light as the goſ'mer floating on the wind,
Without Thy aid omnipotent! Thou know'ſt
How, anxious to improve in ev'ry grace
That beſt to man's attention might commend
Th' important meſſage, ſtudious I applied
My feeble talents to the holy art
Of ſuaſive elocution; emulous
Of every acquiſition which might clothe
In pureſt dignity the pureſt work,
The firſt, the higheſt office man can bear,
• The Meſſenger of God!' And well Thou know'ft,
-For all the work, as all the praiſe is Thine-
What ſweet ſucceſs accompanied the toil:
What harveſts blefl'd the feed-time! Well Thou know'ſt
With what triumphant gladneſs my rapt foul
Wrought in the vineyard ! how it thankful bore
The noonday's heat, the evening's chilly froſt,
Exulting in its much-loved Maſter's cauſe
To ſpend, and to be ſpent! and bring it home
From triple labours of the well-toiled day,
A body by fatigue o'erborne ; a mind
Replete with glad emotions to its God!”
This is not a bad picture of a good hard-working
pariſh prieſt. The objection to it is that, ſo far as it
pretends to be autobiographical, it is not true. Dr.
Dodd was anything but this. His own words con-
vict him. In a paper which he wrote in priſon with
the intention that it ſhould have been read at his
execution by Mr. Vilette, the ordinary of Newgate,
he ſays, “The little good that now remains in my
Dr. Dodd.
277
power is to warn others againſt thoſe temptations
by which I have been ſeduced. I have always ſinned
againſt conviction; my principles have never been
fhaken; I have always conſidered the Chriſtian
religion as a revelation from God, and its Divine
author as the Saviour of the world : but the laws
of God, though never diſowned by me, have been
often forſaken. I was led aſtray from religious
ſtrictneſs by the deluſion of how and the delights of
voluptuouſneſs. I never knew or attended to the calls of
frugality, or the needful minuteneſs of painful economy.
Vanity and pleaſure, into which I plunged, required
expenſe diſproportionate to my income ; expenſe
brought diſtreſs upon me; and diſtreſs, importunate
diſtreſs, urged me to temporary fraud.” And ſo to
relieve importunate diſtreſs, and to pay off ſome
300l., he committed a forgery for 4200l. ; and yet
he had the audacity to depict ſuch a picture of more
than thrice ſeven years of active Chriſtian life in his
“Priſon Thoughts” at the time he muſt have been
writing his confeſſion for Mr. Vilette.
His parody of Othello's laſt ſpeech is perhaps
more glaringly untrue and inſincere than that which
we laſt quoted :
“ Then farewell, oh, my friends ! light o'er my grave
The
green fod lay, and dew it with the tear
Of memory affectionate! and you
-The curtain drop deriſive, oh, my foes,
278
Dr. Dodd.
Your rancour drop; and, candid, as I am,
Speak of me, hapleſs! Then you'll ſpeak of one
Whoſe boſom beat at pity's gentleſt touch
From earlieſt infancy: whoſe boyiſh mind
In acts humane and tender ever joyed;
And who-that temper by his inmoſt ſenſe
Approved and cultivate with conſtant care-
Melted through life at forrow's plaintive tale,
And urged, compaſſionate with pleaſure ran
To ſoothe the ſufferer and relieve the woe!
Of one, who, though to humble fortune bred,
With fplendid generoſity's bright form
Too ardently enamoured, turned his light,
Deluded, from frugality's juſt care,
And parſimony needful! One who ſcorned
Mean love of gold, yet to that power—his ſcorn
Retorting vengeful—a mark'd victim fell!
Of one, who, unſuſpecting and ill-formed
For the world's fubtleties, his bare breaſt bore
Unguarded, open ; and ingenuous, thought
All men ingenuous, frank, and open too.
Of one, who, warm with human paſſions, ſoft
To tendereſt impreſſions, frequent ruſh'd
Precipitate into the tangling maze
Of error ;-inſtant to each fault alive.
Who, in this little journey through the world-
Milled, deluded oft, miſtook his
way;
Met with bad roads and robbers, for his ſteps
Inſidious lurking: and by cunning craft
Of fellow-travellers ſometimes deceived,
Severely felt of cruelty and ſcorn,
Of envy, malice, and of ill report,
The heavy hand oppreſſive! One who brought
-From ignorance, from indiscretion blind-
Ills numerous on his head; but never aimed
d
Nor wiſhed an ill or injury to man!
Injured, with cheerful readineſs forgave ;
Not for a moment in his happy heart
Harboured of malice or revenge a thought:
Still glad and bleſt to avenge his foe's deſpite
By deeds of love benevolent !--of one-
Oh painful contradiction, who in God,
a
Dr. Dodd.
279
In duty, placed the ſummit of his joy ;
Yet left that God, that bliſsful duty left,
Prepoſterous, vile deſerter! and received
A juſt return-defertion from his God,
And conſequential plunge into the depth
Of all his preſent—of all human woe!”
The ſelf-deception, if not ſomething worſe, of
this paffage muſt ſtrike every one. Its ſpecial plead-
ing is ſupreme ; but with the facts of his life before
him, he muſt indeed be a dull reader who is not
able to ſee through its (it may be unconſcious) de-
ception and inſincerity. Yet this muſt yield in
hypocritical audacity to our next quotation. Before
we make it, however, we muſt refer to a part of
the doctor's life already narrated. After the
anonymous offer to bribe Lady Apſley to procure
him the living of St. George's, Hanover-ſquare, the
name of Doctor Dodd was of courſe on every one's
lips, his ignominious act the ſubject for all kinds
of comment. The only notice he took of it him-
ſelf was to publiſh the following moſt lame and
unſatisfactory letter. It is addreſſed to the editor of
an evening paper :-
“Sir,—May I earneſtly entreat, through the
channel of your paper, that the candid public will
ſuſpend their ſentence in my caſe ? Under the
preſſure of circumſtances exceedingly adverſe, and
furniſhed with no proofs of innocence but which
are of a negative nature, there is left for me at pre-
a
280
Dr. Dodd.
fent no mode of defence but that of an appeal to a
life paſſed in public ſervice, and an irreproachable
attention to the duties of
my
function. How im-
poſſible it is to oppoſe the torrent of popular invec-
tive, the world will judge. It is hoped, however,
that time will, ere long, put ſome circumſtances in
my power which may lead to an elucidation of this
affair, evince to the ſatisfaction of mankind
my
in-
tegrity, and remove every ill impreſſion with regard
to the proceedings which have juſtly incenſed a moſt
reſpectable perſonage, and drawn ſuch misfortune
WILLIAM DODD.”
upon me.
Of courſe ſuch a letter only excited without
ſatisfying public curioſity. The doctor's crime was
only exceeded by the doctor's folly. Such a man
and ſuch an act was certain to provoke the wits of
the time, and expoſe its perpetrator to their mer-
cileſs quizzing and irony. Something of the feeling
of the time may be gathered from a paſſage in a
letter of Horace Walpole to Lady Offory. Writing
on the 29th of January, 1774, he ſays, “So does
King George, who has ordered the pure preciſe
Dr. Dodd to be ſtruck off the liſt of his chaplains ;
not for gallantry with a Magdalen, as you would
expect, but for offering a thumping bribe to my
Lord Chancellor for the fat living of St. George's
(Hanover-ſquare). It is droll that a young comedy
Dr. Dodd.
281
divine ſhould have fallen into the ſin not of Mary
the Penitent, nor of her hoſt, Simon the Phariſee,
but of Simon Magus. Perhaps as the doctor mar-
ried Lord Sandwich's miſtreſs he had had enough of
des filles repenties.”* Foote of courſe made uſe
of the "young comedy divine,” or “macaroni
o
parſon,” as the town called him.
He ſurely was a
legitimate ſubject for the fatiriſt of the follies and
the vices of the day. Fairer or leſs objectionable
game Foote never aimed at. Speaking of the play
of the “Cozeners,” in which Dr. Dodd is introduced
as Dr. Simony, Mr. Forſter ſays, “Here again was
legitimate fatire. It expoſed traffickers in vice,
denounced the prevailing lax morality as to places
in great men's gifts, laughed at Charles Fox's
,
match-making adventure, and held up to reproba-
tion macaroni preachers and traders in fimony.
Here Mrs. Rudd rehearſed what ſhe ſoon after
acted with the Perreaus, and a gibbet was ſet up
for
Dr. Dodd three years before Lord Cheſterfield
hanged him.”† The manner in which the ſatiriſt
did his work has been ſo admirably ſummariſed by
Mr. Forſter, that we enrich our pages by quoting
it. He ſays, “ But the moſt maſterly ſketch in the
Cozeners' was that of the faſhionable preacher,
Horace Walpole's Letters.” Cunningham's Edition. Vol. vi.
p. 55.
† "Forſter's Biographical Eſſays: Samuel Foote." Vol. ii. p. 423.
282
Dr. Dodd.
Dr. Dodd. This wretched perſon had very recently
offered a large bribe to Lady Apfley on condition
that ſhe obtained for him, from the Chancellor,
the living of St. George's, Hanover-ſquare, and
ſuch indignation was excited by it, and by
Foote's expoſure of it in this play, that Dodd's
name was ſtruck out of the liſt of the king's chap-
lains. He is introduced as Dr. Simony, and from
the flattering portrait of his admiring wife, fome
few traits may be drawn for the reader's edification.
The doctor's powers, according to this partial wit-
neſs, are pretty well known about town; not a
more populous preacher within the ſound of Bow-
bells. And ſhe don't mean the nobility only-
those every canting fellow can catch; but the beſt
people of faſhion arn't aſhamed to follow her
Doctor. Nor is he one of the humdrum, drawling,
long-winded tribe; he never crams congregations,
or gives them more than they can carry away ; not
more than ten or twelve minutes at moſt. Even
the Ducheſs Dowager of Drowſy was never known
to nod at her Doctor. Moreover, he doeſn't pore,
with his eyes cloſe to the book, like a clerk that
reads the firſt leſſon--not he! but all extemporary,
Madam, with a cambric handkerchief in one hand,
and a diamond ring on the other. And theſe he
waves this way and that way, and he curtſies, and
he bows, and he bounces, that all the people are
1
Dr. Dodd.
283
ready to -- But then, the interrupts herſelf
with enthuſiaſm, his wig! She is ſure all muſt
admire his dear wig; not with the buſhy brown
buckles, dangling and dropping like a Newfound-
land ſpaniel, but ſhort, rounded off at the ear to
ſhow his plump cherry cheeks, white as a curd,
feather-topped, and the curls as cloſe as a cauli-
flower. He is ſo obedient too-as humble and
meek as a curate; does only his duties; never
ſcruples to bury, though it be but a tradeſman-
unleſs indeed he happens to be better engaged.
Then he is ſo cheerful, and has ſuch a choice col-
lection of ſongs. Why, he is conſtantly aſked to
the great city feaſts, and does, ſhe verily believes,
more in-door chriſtenings than any three of the
cloth. But above all, her Doctor is none of your
ſchiſmatics — believes in the whole thirty-nine !
And ſo he would if there were nine times as many.
Such is the excellent Dr. Simony, of a race, we
fear, not yet quite extinct upon the earth.” *
This deſcription can in no wiſe be ſaid to be over-
charged. Not a word but the Doctor richly
merited. Doubtleſs it ftung, ftung deeply. One
fo ſuſceptible as the Doctor was to public opinion
muſt have winced at the ſharp-pointed arrows of
-
>
* “Forſter's Biographical Eſſays: Samuel Foote.” Vol. ii. pp.
423-4. The ſcene from the “ Cozeners,” of which the above is an
abſtract, occurs in the firſt act of that witty and pungent drama.
284
Dr. Dodd.
the ſatiriſt! To allude to it at all in ſuch a work
as “Priſon Thoughts” ſhowed an abſence of de-
licacy ſomewhat remarkable. It was ſure to pro-
voke the queſtion as to whether the ſatiriſt was not
right in thus delineating the divine, and the anſwer
was certain to be in the affirmative. This the
Doctor knew, and in order to get a little ſympathy,
writes as if Foote, by making Mrs. Simony de-
ſcribe her lord and maſter, was ſatiriſing not the
Doctor but his wife! Here is this piece of ſuper-
lative hypocriſy:
Yes, yes, thou coward mimic, pamper'd vice,
High praiſe be ſure is thine. Thou haſt obtain'd
A worthy triumph! Thou haſt pierced to the quick
A weak, an amiable female heart,
A conjugal heart moſt faithful, moſt attach'd :
Yet I can pardon thee; for, poor buffoon,
Thy vices muſt be fed; and thou muſt live,
Luxurious live, a foe to God and man;
Commiſioned live thy poiſon to diffuse,
And taint the public virtue with thy crimes."
For cool effrontery and unbluſhing imperti-
nence, the lines in italics are probably without
parallel.
We ſaw that Dr. Samuel Johnſon took a very
active part in trying to obtain a remiſſion of the
ſentence of death. He helped the priſoner in ſeveral
ways, but would not viſit him ; he ſaid to Boſwell,
“ It would have done him more harm than good to
Dodd, who once expreſſed a deſire to ſee him, but
Dr. Dodd.
285
CC
not earneſtly.” Johnſon, however, wrote the
ſpeech delivered at the Old Bailey when ſentence of
death was about to be pronounced on him, and
which we have quoted. He alſo wrote the “Con-
vict's Addreſs to his unhappy Brethren,” the ſermon
which the Doctor, with a few additions, delivered in
the chapel of Newgate, on the 6th of June, 1777,
and which he afterwards publiſhed as his own.
Dr. Johnſon was pleaſed with this fermon, and
wrote to Mrs. Thrale with ſome degree of com-
placency, in Miſs Porteus' judgment (to whom he
had not imparted his tranſactions with Dodd):
'Lucy faid, “When I read Dr. Dodd's ſermon to
the priſoners, I ſaid, Dr. Johnſon could not make
a better.” '*
His activity did not ſtop here; he
wrote to the king, and took, as Mr. Croker calls
it, the “ liberty” to write to the Right Honourable
Charles Jenkinſon, the Secretary-at-War, ſolicit-
ing his influence with his royal maſter.
although,” ſays Mr. Croker, “he thus actively
aſliſted in the ſolicitations for pardon, yet, in his
private judgment, he thought Dodd unworthy of
it, having been known to ſay, that had he been the
adviſer of the king, he ſhould have told him that,
in pardoning Dodd, his juſtice in conſigning the
“ But,
1)
* Boſwell's “Life of Dr. Johnſon;" Croker's edition, vol. iii.
p. 506.
286
Dr. Dodd.
*
a
Perreaus to their fentence would have been called
in queſtion.”+
To this concluſion we think all muſt come, who
have any fixed principles upon the impartiality
with which juſtice ought to be adminiſtered. The
wiſdom or the juſtice of a law may
be queſtionable ;
but while it exiſts, all who violate it muſt expect
the ſame puniſhment. To hang a man for forgery
was to puniſh him in cruel exceſs of his crime. It
was an unrighteous law. We ought to be glad
that the true ſenſe of the relationſhip which ſhould
exiſt between crime and puniſhment, that diſtin-
guiſhes our own times, would not tolerate ſuch a
barbarous law; we ought to rejoice that the moral
feeling of the nation has ſo far improved, that for
one crime alone (and this under the proteſt of many
wife and good men) is capital puniſhment retained ;
but while the juſtly condemned and wiſely repealed
law did exiſt, and while men ſuffered the extreme
penalty for ſuch a crime, we think it may be ſafely
averred that no one was ever ſo puniſhed more
deſervedly than the “young comedy divine,” and
“macaroni parfon,” Doctor Dodd.
* The brothers Perreau were executed for forgery on the 17th
January, 1776.
+ Boſwell's “ Life of Dr. Johnſon ;" Croker's edition, vol. iii.
p. 513.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
“On the whole, my private thought was: Firſt,
How happy it comparatively is for a man of any
earneſtneſs of life, to have no Biography written of
him; but to return filently, with his ſmall, forely
1;
ſoiled bit of work, to the Supreme Silences, who
alone can judge of it or him ; and not to trouble
the reviewers, and greater or leſſer public, with
attempting to judge it! The idea of fame,' as they
call it, poſthumous or other, does not inſpire one
with much ecſtacy in theſe points of view. Secondly,
That Sterling's performance, and real or ſeeming
importance in this world, was actually not of a
kind to demand an expreſs Biography, even accord-
ing to the world's uſages. His character was not
fupremely original ; neither was his fate in the
world wonderful. What he did was inconſiderable
enough; and as to what it lay in him to have done,
this was but a problem, now beyond poſſibility of
ſettlement. Why had a Biography been inflicted
on this man; why had not No-biography, and the
privilege of all the weary, been his lot?”
288
James Montgomery.
The above words, applied by Mr. Carlyle in
reſpect to his own and Archdeacon Hare's Lives of
the unfortunate Sterling, might with much more
juſtice be applied to James Montgomery. What
crime had he committed, that his memory ſhould
be burdened with the ſeven volumes of biography
which Meſſrs. Holland and Everett have heaped
upon
it ? One volume about the ſame ſize as the
ſmalleſt of the ſeven would have been an ample
record of all that the amiable poet did or ſaid worth
recording, and might, with taſte and ſkill, have
formed a pleaſant, a uſeful, and an intereſting bio-
graphy. This ſpinning out of books is a great
evil; and one againſt which every reader has a right
to proteſt, unleſs the ſubject is of real importance,
and its full treatment imperatively demands a large
and extenſive ſurface. We preſume that few will
ſay this of the life of Montgomery. A gentle,
benevolent, pious, and amiable man; twice impri-
ſoned on fooliſh charges, and without having com-
mitted any crime ; for more than thirty years the
proprietor and conductor of a weekly newſpaper ;
a regular attendant at Bible, Miſſionary, and kin-
dred ſocieties' meetings; and the author of many
i
poems which are pleaſant to read, but which diſplay
little of that fire from heaven which is the true in-
dication of the inſpired poet, and which are even
now more frequently talked of than read. What
James Montgomery.
289
had this man done, that ſeven volumes of Biography
ſhould have been inflicted on him and the world?
We aſk this queſtion with a ſtrong feeling of the
injury committed, being now freſh from or rather
weary of-reading the more than two thouſand
pages of miſcellaneous ſmall talk; calendar of at-
tendance at meetings; dates when the mereſt
trifles were written ; unimportant extracts from the
Iris; and the interminable letters which make up
this heavy and ponderous monument to James
Montgomery. From theſe volumes we epitomiſe
the following brief ſketch.
James Montgomery was born at Irvine, Ayrſhire,
on the 4th of November, 1771. His parents were
active members of the Moravian Church, in whoſe
cauſe they laboured zealouſly, and to which they de-
voted their lives with all the calmneſs of the ancient
martyrs. It is an honour of itſelf to be the child of
ſuch
parents. When young Montgomery was four
years of age, the family went to Ireland, where they
remained until he was fix. His parents at the call
of the Church accepted the office of miſſionaries in
the Weſt Indian Iſlands, where they nobly did their
work, and laid down their lives in the cauſe of their
Maſter. Their fon was ſent, to receive his educa-
tion, to the Moravian Inſtitution, which had been
eſtabliſhed in 1748 at Fulneck, near Leeds, York-
Thire. He arrived here on the 16th of October,
U
290
James Montgomery.
1777, and remained about ten years. His life at
ſchool does not appear to have been either fatif-
factory to himſelf or his teacher. His mind was
reſtleſs and prone to melancholy. The peculiar
views of his Church, and the reſtricted and narrow
ſyſtem of education adopted, did not fill up the
young poet's ideal; and he was ever craving for
ſomething which the eſtabliſhment did not provide,
nor had ever anticipated. The only poetry to
which he had acceſs were the Hymns of the Church,
Blair's “ Grave,” and a few others of a ſimilar nature.
Such pabulum muſt appear ſcant indeed to thoſe
who have had free liberty to roam through the
exhauſtleſs pleaſure-grounds of Engliſh poetry.
It was narrow enough for young Montgomery ;
and he was ever dreaming of ſome great poetic
victory, of writing ſome great poem, of which the
poems he knew afforded him neither examples nor
materials. He wrote myriads of verſes on the
model of the Hymns of the Moravians, and was
always projecting ſome great work. The teacher
uſed to read Blair's “Grave” to his pupils; and
Montgomery thus records his own idea of a poem,
which is a curious one. He ſays, “I afterwards
reſolved, oddly enough, that when I became a man,
I would write a round poem ; this notion was per-
petually in my head; an idea of round being my
idea of perfection.” Again, “I wrought it out in
3
James Montgomery.
.291
a
my own mind, as a pebble is rounded by the
ſtream ; I always aimed at it from the beginning.
My firſt idea, as I have before told you, was to
write a round poem ; this was early my beau idéal of
a
perfection; and never ſhall I forget the impreſſion
this vague notion made upon niy boyiſh imagi-
nation. I remember as well as if it was but yeſter-
day, how I leaned upon a rail, while I ſtood upon
ſome ſteps at Fulneck, and deeply and filently
muſed in my mind on the commotion which would
be produced upon the public by the appearance of
this round poem."
It is not wonderful that ſuch a boy ſhould not
fall naturally and gracefully into the fober routine of
a Moravian Inſtitution; and that the deſire of his
1
preceptors to make a miniſter of him ſhould not be
gratified. To this failure of their ſcheme the teachers
did not at once yield; but at laſt found that even
their ſyſtem could not ſubdue nature, although it
might often control the feelings of thoſe who ac-
cept its diſcipline. It was at length reſolved to put
him to a trade, and in 1787 young Montgomery
was ſent to a tradeſman, a member of the Moravian
Church, at Wath, and there for a year and a half he
ſerved behind the counter. Weary of this he made
up his mind to run away, and in 1790 ſet off to
London to ſeek his fortune. His worldly poſſeſ-
ſions were very ſmall, but he had ſome manuſcripts
a
a
U 2
292
James Montgomery.
and many hopes. At London he applied to Mr.
Harriſon, and although his poems were not pub-
liſhed, he was kindly treated, and encouraged to
proceed in his ſtudies. He again returned to
Wath, whence, in 1792, he proceeded to Sheffield,
and by good fortune obtained employment with
Mr. Gales, who was an auctioneer, a printer, and
proprietor of a newſpaper in Sheffield which had
won ſome notoriety as an organ of liberal principles,
at a time when it was dangerous to profeſs and ad-
vocate ſuch principles. Mr. Gales foon reaped the
reward uſual in thoſe days—he became a marked
man—and Montgomery was not long in attaining
that enviable poſition alſo. He aſſiſted Mr. Gales
in the Sheffield Regiſter until 1794, when that
gentleman became a bankrupt, and had to fly for
ſafety. Montgomery then eſtabliſhed the Iris, the
firſt number of which appeared on the 4th of July,
1794. He was ſoon involved in trouble, and had
to bear the penalty of being the advocate of popular
freedom. His firſt difficulty and his firſt perſecu-
tion did not, however, ariſe out of the newſpaper,
but from an event of ſo trifling a nature, that we
cannot do better, to ſhow the ſpirit of the times,
than quote the poet's own account of this ſtrange
occurrence, eſpecially as it is from this event that
Montgomery firſt obtained the diſtinction of being
a Priſon Poet. He ſays,
He ſays, “Little more than a
1
James Montgomery.
293
a
C
month after I had become connected with the newſ-
paper, I was one day called into the bookſeller's
ſhop, where buſineſs orders were received. There
I found a poor-looking elderly man, whom I re-
collected to have ſeen in the ſtreet a little while
before, when I was attracted both by his groteſque
appearance, and his comical addreſs as a ballad-
monger. He ſtood with a bundle of pamphlets in
his hand, crying out in a peculiar tone, 'Here you
have twelve ſongs for a penny.' Then he recapi-
.
tulated at full length the title of each, thus: “The
firſt ſong in the book is’—fo and ſo; • The ſecond
ſong in the book is'-ſo and fo; The third fong'
—fo and ſo; and on he went, 'ſo and ſo,' to the
end of the catalogue. He now offered me the
ſpecimen of an article in his line, and aſked what he
muſt pay for fix quires of the fame. I immediately
replied that I did not deal in ſuch commodities,
having better employment for my preſſes; he muſt
therefore apply elſewhere (I believe I named a place
where he might be ſerved). But, he rejoined,
· '
like one who had ſome knowledge of the terms
uſed by printers, you have this ſtanding in your
office.' " That is more than I know,' was my
anſwer. Taking up the printed leaf I perceived
that it contained two copies of verſes with each of
which I had been long familiar, but had never ſeen
them copied in that ſhape before ; at the top of
294
James Montgomery.
C
the page was the impreſſion of a woodcut (Liberty
and the Britiſh Lion), which I recogniſed as having
figured in the frontiſpiece of an extinct periodical
iſſued by my predeceſſor, and entitled "The
<
Patriot.' The paper, alſo, of which a large ſtock
had devolved to me, was of a particular kind, being
the material of certain forms for the regiſtration of
freeholds under a ſtill-born Act of Parliament,
printed on one ſide only, and which had been fold
for waſte. On diſcovering this I went up into the
office, and aſked when and for whom ſuch things as
I held in my hand had been printed, as I had no
knowledge of the job. “Oh, ſir !' ſaid the fore-
man, they were ſet up ever ſo long ago by Jack
(Mr. Gales's apprentice, who had not been tranſ-
ferred to me), for himſelf, and to give away to his
companions, and the matter is now ſtanding in the
types, juſt as it was when you bought the ſtock in
the office.' 'Indeed,' I exclaimed: but how came
the ballad-ſeller, who was bawling out his twelve
ſongs for a penny the other day, to have a copy ?'
-In explanation of this he ſtated that he had for-
merly known him, when he himſelf was an appren-
tice in an office at Derby, from which ſuch wares
were ſupplied to hawkers. Hearing his voice in
the ſtreet, he had called him in for old acquaintance
ſake, and, in the courſe of talking about trade, had
ſhown him an impreſſion of Jack's ſongs, by which
James Montgomery.
295
a
C
he thought his old acquaintance might make a few
pence in his ſtrange way. "Well, then,' ſaid I,
* let the poor fellow have what he wants, if it will
do him any good; but what does he mean by fix
quires ? '-'Not quires of whole ſheets, but fix
times twenty-four copies of this ſize,' was the in-
formation which I received on this new branch of
literature. I then went down ſtairs, and told my
cuſtomer that he might have the quantity he wanted
for eighteen pence, which would barely be the ex-
penſe of the paper and working off. He was con-
tent, the order was executed, the parcel delivered
by myſelf into his hand, and honeſtly paid for by
him ; away then he went, and I ſaw no more of
him. I have often ſaid, when I have had occaſion
to tell this adventure of my romantic youth (for
adventure it was, and no every-day one, as the
iſſue proved), that if ever in my life I did an act
which was neither good nor bad, or if either, rather
good than bad, it was this.”
This act, however, brought Montgomery to a
gaol. The paper contained “A Patriotic Song by a
Clergyman of Belfaſt,” and one of the verſes ran thus:
Europe's fate on the conteſt's deciſion depends,
Moſt important its iſſue will be ;
For ſhould France be ſubdued, Europe's liberty ends,
If ſhe triumphs the world will be free."
")
This verſe, which is as falſe in fact as it is void of
296
James Montgomery.
a
poetry, although written to celebrate an anniverſary
of the deſtruction of the Baſtile, and referred to the
Duke of Brunſwick's invaſion of France in 1792,
was made out to be a libel on the war which at the
time of its ſale by Montgomery was raging between
England and France; and two months after the
ballad-finger had purchaſed them at the Iris
office, Montgomery was charged with having pub-
liſhed “ ſeveral falſe, ſcandalous, malicious, and
feditious libels.” For this crime he was tried at
the Doncaſter Seſſions, held on the 22nd of January,
1795. The trial laſted nine hours, and ended in a
verdict of guilty, and a ſentence of three months'
impriſonment in York Caſtle, and a fine of twenty
pounds. A curious light is thrown on this trial ;
and a curious illuſtration of thoſe times is the pub-
lication of the documents connected with the trial,
which came into Montgomery's hands in 1839.
In the original draft of the brief delivered to the
counſel for the proſecution is the following paſſage:
“ The priſoner for a long time acted as his (Mr.
Gales’s) amanuenſis, and occaſionally wrote eſſays
for the newſpaper. Since he has been the oſtenſible
manager and proprietor of the Iris, he has
purſued the ſame line of conduct, and his printing-
office has been preciſely of the ſame ſtamp
Without calling in queſtion the names or characters
of ſome of his principal ſupporters, who ought to
a
a
James Montgomery.
297
а.
a
act differently, ſuffice it to ſay, that this proſecution
is carried on chiefly with a view of putting a ſtop to
the meetings of the aſſociated clubs in Sheffie!d; and
it is hoped that if we are fortunate enough to ſuc-
ceed in convicting the priſoner, it will go a great
way towards curbing the inſolence they have
uniformly manifeſted, and particularly ſince the late
acquittals.”
The Government were fortunate enough to get a
conviction, and added one more to the noble lift of
Priſon Poets.
The three months ſoon paſſed away, and the
poet
was once more free. This freedom was not, how-
ever, of long duration. In a few months he was
again in “iron bars.” He has ſtated this ſecond
trial and impriſonment himſelf in ſo brief a manner,
that no ſummary of ours could make it ſhorter. We
therefore quote it: “Of my ſecond offence,” he
writes, “trial, and impriſonment, I ſhould not feel
myſelf juſtified, at this diſtance of time, to republiſh
any detailed account. However political prejudice
may have diſqualified each of us from being a judge
in his own cauſe, it was a perſonal affair between
the proſecutor, a magiſtrate, and myſelf, the writer
of a paragraph in the Iris reflecting hardly upon
his
conduct in quelling a riot at Sheffield on the 4th of
Auguſt, 1795. For this a bill was found againſt
me at Barnſley Seſſions, in October following: I
298
James Montgomery.
.
ſpre
pril
and
“t
his
pe
his
са
te
traverſed to Doncaſter Seſſions in January, 1796.
There the trial came on, and, after an extraordinary
ſcene of contradictory evidence on both ſides, a
verdict was given againſt me, and I was ſentenced to
fix months' impriſonment in York Caſtle, to pay a fine
of thirty pounds to the king, and to give ſecurity to
keep the peace for two years. Neither of the proſecu-
tion, the verdict, nor the ſentence, did I ever com-
plain, conſidering all the circumſtances; becauſe,
according to the law of libel, there was ground for
the firſt, conflicting teſtimony that was deemed to
warrant the ſecond, and the third could not alto-
gether be called vindictive. There and then, though
very diſproportionately matched, my proſecutor and
I joined iſſue on the ſame ground in an open court
of juſtice, face to face, and witneſs againſt witneſs.
It was a fair 'ſtand-up fight' between us, in which
I was overcome, the jury being umpires; for I
count as nothing the fictions of the indictment, the
ſpeeches of counſel, and the part which the magif-
trates took to influence the proceedings.”
Thus again was our poet confined in priſon; and
here did he ſolace his heart as ſo many have done
before him, by cultivating and wooing the Muſe. To
him, as to the other incarcerated ſinging birds, the
ſpirit of poetry came, cheered him with her bright
preſence ; bleſſed him with her ſweet miniſtrations ;
conſoled him with her whiſperings of hope; and
James Montgomery.
299
1
1
1
1
ſpreading her glorious mantle over the gloom of the
priſon houſe, made it a fairy ſcene of bright viſions
and ſoul-foothing creations of another world. There
" the writer amuſed his imagination with attiring
his ſorrows in verſe, that, under the romantic ap-
pearance of fiction, he might ſometimes forget that
his misfortunes were real.”
The poetry written by Montgomery in priſon
conſiſts of nine pieces. They add ſcarcely anything
to his fame; and, although like moſt of his works,
the muſings of his gentle, loving, and amiable heart,
they are muſical and pleaſant to read, they borrow
their chief claim to our attention from the place
and circumſtances under which they were written.
They are not, as very little of our author's poetry
is, of a high order. They do not excite our ſympa-
thies, or move our feelings. Power and pathos are
both wanting. The verſes are ſimple and natural ;
and have a muſic of their own which flows as pleaſant
and agreeably as a ſtreamlet along its ſhallow bed.
You ſee every pebble, every weed, every little
minnow at the bottom ; the ſun's rays reach the
bed, and gliſten on its ſtores, and ſparkle on the
every wavelet, and you yield to the ſweet
influences of the ſcene, and leave it with a pleaſant
memory of it haunting you for many a day. It is
the ſame with our author's ſhorter pieces. They
have little of the “ thoughts that breathe, and words
a
edges of
300
James Montgomery.
that burn;" they have little power to mould or
make a mind ; yet you always remember them as you
do ſweet flowers, or a pretty face, or a ſimple ſong,
or a linnet's trill. The piercing note of the lark, nor
the wondrouſly-varied melody of the nightingale, are
there; but there is a chirping as natural, as true,
and ſometimes as welcome, as the ſtrain of more
gifted birds. Our firſt extract will illuſtrate what
we mean :-
« VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST,
WHO VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.
!
“ Welcome, pretty little ſtranger !
Welcome to my lone retreat !
Here, ſecure from every danger,
Hop about, and chirp, and eat.
Robin ! how I envy thee,
Happy child of liberty !
“ Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,
Shakes the world with tempeſts round,
Heaven above with vapours ſcowling,
Froſt impriſons all the ground ;-
Robin, what are theſe to thee?
Thou art bleft with liberty.
Though yon fair majeſtic river
Mourns in ſolid icy chains
Though yon flocks and.cattle fhiver
On the deſolated plains ;-
Robin ! thou art gay and free,
Happy in thy liberty.
Hunger never ſhall diſtreſs thee,
While my cates one crumb afford;
Colds nor cramps ſhall e'er oppreſs thee ;
Come and ſhare my humble board :
66
3
James Montgomery.
301
Robin ! come and live with me,
Live-yet ſtill at liberty.
“Soon Mall Spring, in ſmiles and bluſhes,
Steal
upon
the blooming year;
Then, amid the enamour'd buſhes,
Thy ſweet ſong ſhall warble clear;
Then ſhall I too, join'd with thee,
Swell the Hymn of Liberty.
“ Should ſome rough unfeeling Dobbin,
In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy neſt, my Robin,
And confine thee in a cage,
Then, poor priſoner ! think of me,
Think-and ſigh for liberty.”
The “Pleaſures of Impriſonment,” in two Epiſtles
to a friend, give a full detail of the way in which he
employed his time in gaol. They ſhow how his
mind was capable of taking advantage of his ſitua-
tion, and how the imagination has power to turn
even a priſon-cell into a ſcene of enchantment.
From the firſt of the epiſtles we ſelect the following
paſſages :
“ Sometimes to fairy land I rove;
Thoſe iron rails become a grove ;
Theſe ſtately buildings fall away,
To moſs-grown cottages of clay ;
Debtors are changed to jolly ſwains,
Who pipe and whiſtle on the plains ;
Yon felons grim, with fetters bound,
Are ſatyrs wild, with garlands crown'd;
Their clanking chains are wreaths of flowers;
Their horrid cells ambroſial bowers :
The oaths expiring on the tongues
Are metamorphoſed into ſongs;
While wretched female priſoners, lo !
Are Dian's nymphs of virgin ſnow,
302
James Montgomery.
Thoſe hideous walls with verdure ſhoot ;
Theſe pillars bend with bluſhing fruit;
That dunghill ſwells into a mountain;
That pump becomes a purling fountain;
The noiſome ſmoke of yonder mills
The circling air with fragrance fills ;
This horſe-pond ſpreads into a lake,
And ſwans of ducks and geeſe I make;
Sparrows are changed to turtle doves,
That bill and coo their pretty loves;
Wagtails, turned thruſhes, charm the vales,
And tomtits ſing like nightingales.
No more the wind through key-holes whiſtles,
But ſighs on beds of pinks and thiſtles ;
The rattling rain that beats without,
And gurgles down the leaden ſpout,
In light, delicious dew diſtils,
And melts away in amber rills;
Elyſium riſes on the
green,
And health and beauty crown the ſcene.
“ Then by the enchantreſs Fancy led,
On violet banks I lay my head ;
Legions of radiant forms ariſe,
In fair array before mine eyes ;
Poetic viſions gild my brain,
And melt in liquid air again ;
As in a magic-lantern clear,
Fantaſtic images appear,
That beaming from the ſpectral glaſs,
In beautiful ſucceſſion paſs,
Yet ſteal the luſtre of their light
From the deep ſhadow of the night:
Thus, in the darkneſs of
my
head,
Ten thouſand ſhining things are bred,
That borrow fplendour from the gloom,
As glow-worms twinkle in a tomb."
We ſhall conclude our extracts from Mont-
gomery's priſon-poems by quoting his
James Montgomery.
-303
"ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.
ز
“ Hail ! reſplendent Evening Star !
Brightly beaming from afar ;
Faireſt
gem of pureſt light
In the diadem of night.
“ Now thy mild and modeſt ray
Lights to reſt the weary day;
While the luſtre of thine
eye
Sweetly trembles through the ſky;
As the cloſing ſhadows roll,
Deep and deeper round the pole,
Lo! thy kindling legions bright
Steal inſenſibly to light;
Till, magnificent and clear,
Shines the ſpangled atmoſphere.
“ In theſe calmly-pleaſing hours,
When the ſoul expands her powers,
And on wings of contemplation,
Ranges round the vaſt creation ;
When the mind's immortal eye
Bounds, with rapture, to the ſky,
And in one triumphant glance,
Comprehends the wide expanſe,
Where ſtars, and ſuns, and ſyſtems ſhine,
Faint beams of MAJESTY DIVINE ;-
-Now, when viſionary ſleep
Lulls the world in ſlumbers deep,
When Glence, awfully profound,
Breathes ſolemn inſpiration round;
Queen of Beauty ; queen of ſtars !
Smile upon theſe frowning bars,
Softly ſliding from thy ſphere,
Condeſcend to viſit here.
- In the circle of this cell,
No tormenting demons dwell:
Round theſe walls, in wild deſpair,
No agoniſing ſpectres glare ;
Here reſide no furies gaunt;
No tumultuous paſſions haunt;
i
304
James Montgomery.
Fell revenge, nor treachery baſe ;
Guilt, with bold unbluſhing face;
Pale remorſe, within whoſe breaſt
Scorpion-horrors murder reſt;
Coward malice, hatred dire,
Lawleſs rapine, dark deſire,
Pining envy, frantic ire;
Never, never dare intrude
On this penſive ſolitude:
-But a ſorely-hunted deer
Finds a ſad aſylum here ;
One whoſe panting ſides have been
Pierced with many an arrow keen ;
One, whoſe deeply-wounded heart
Bears the ſcars of many a dart.
In the herd he vainly mingled;
From the herd when harſhly ſingled,
Too proud to fly, he ſcorn'd to yield;
Too weak to fight, he loſt the field ;
Aſſail'd and captive led away,
He fell a poor inglorious prey.
“ Deign then, gentle Star! to ſhed
Thy ſoft luſtre round mine head ;
With cheering radiance gild the room,
And melt the melancholy gloom.
When I ſee thee, from thy ſphere,
Trembling like a brilliant tear,
Shed a ſympathiſing ray
On the pale expiring day,
Then a welcome emanation
Of reviving conſolation,
Swifter than the lightning's dart,
Glances through my glowing heart;
Soothes my ſorrows, lulls my woes,
In a ſoft, ſerene repoſe.
Like the undulating motion
Of the deep, majeſtic ocean,
When the whiſpering billows glide
Smooth along the tranquil tide;
Calmly thus, prepared, reſignd,
Swells the independent mind,
James Montgomery.
305
“ But when through clouds thy beauteous light,
Streams in fplendour on the night,
Hope, like thee, my leading ſtar,
Through the fullen gloom of care,
Sheds an animating ray
On the dark, bewildering way.
Starting then with ſweet ſurpriſe,
Tears of tranſport ſwell mine eyes ;
Wildly through each throbbing vein,
Rapture thrills with pleaſing pain;
All
my
fretful fears are baniſhid,
All my dreams of anguiſh vanith'd ;
Energy my ſoul inſpires,
And wakes the muſe's hallow'd fires;
Rich in melody, my tongue
Warbles forth ſpontaneous ſong.
“ Thus my priſon moments gay
Swiftly, ſweetly paſs away;
Till the laſt long day declining,
O'er
yon tower thy glory ſhining,
Shall the welcome ſignal be
Of to-morrow's liberty !
Liberty, triumphant borne,
On the roſy wings of morn,
Liberty ſhall then return.
Riſe to ſet the captive free,
Riſe, O Sun of Liberty !”.
Montgomery turned his back on the priſon
doors on the 5th of July, 1796, and from that
day to his death at the advanced age of eighty-
three, his life was one of very few incidents. It
may be ſummed up by ſaying that the time
was ſpent in worthy and noble work—writing
for the Iris; writing and publiſhing his poems ;
lecturing and attending religious meetings. For
fifty-eight years he was thus uſefully and hon-
х
306
James Montgomery.
a
ourably employed. In 1806 he publiſhed his firſt
long poem, “ The Wanderer of Switzerland,” and
”
gained as a prize the wrath of the pugnacious
Edinburgh Reviewers. This was followed by
“ The Weſt Indies," and in 1813 he gave to
the public “The World beſore the Flood.” Six
years afterwards he publiſhed “Greenland ;” in
1825 ſold the Iris, and in 1827 his beſt poem,
"The Pelican IWand.” To each of theſe volumes
were added thoſe various ſhort poems which,
more than the more ambitious endeavours, have
made the name of Montgomery dear to thouſands.
After a ſhort illneſs, Montgomery died April 30th,
1854. He was never married.
In taking a calm and careful ſurvey of our poet's
works, we confeſs ourſelves unable to underſtand
either the cenſure of his adverſe critics, or the
unmingled praiſes of his friendly ones.
mind, the truth lies between the two.
not a great poet; nor was he the mere ſentimental
verſifier which fome conſidered and repreſented
him to be. His harp was not a ſtrong one, nor
did he ſtrike it with a vigorous hand. We have
recently re-read his poems for the firſt time for
ſeveral years; and to read them in ſucceſſion, we
found a rather weary taſk. There is a monotony
in his ſtrain ; an unvaryin ſmoothneſs in his
verſification which leads to ſatiety; the thought,
To our
He was
James Montgomery.
307
often not a great one to begin with, is attenuated
to a degree which leaves the reader nothing to
dwell on after the peruſal. He is not a ſug-
geſtive poet. Even in his minor poems this is
the caſe. And thus it happens that although he
has added many beautiful little gems to our col-
lections, and ſome of his poems will be remembered
while there are men and women with child-like
hearts to love ſimplicity, and tenderneſs, and
child-like natures in others; he has added little
to the ſtock of thought which influences and
moulds the world. Few of his lines have become
the common property of the world, or helped to
increaſe the ſtore of popular wiſdom which does
ſo much to advance the growth and development
of a people, He was a kind-hearted, gentle,
amiable and pious man, and his poetry diſplays
theſe very pleaſant characteriſtics ; but it has little
of “the viſion and the faculty divine” which
are neceſſary to enſure immortality either to his
works or his name. The “ Edinburgh Review"
may have been unneceſſarily harſh ; but the
" Wanderer in Switzerland” is a wretched poem,
which if publiſhed in the preſent time would, if
noticed at all, be met with much feverer cenſure,
and a wonder would certainly be expreſſed how
any man could be found fooliſh enough to write
ſuch verſes, or having been found fooliſh enough
x 2
308
James Montgomery.
to write them, he could ſtill add to that folly
the ſtill greater folly of publiſhing them. In his
beſt larger poems, “ The World before the Flood,”
and « The Pelican Iſland,” there is too little
human intereſt; and having read them once,
there is little to induce one to refer to them again.
A volume of ſelections from his works might be
made with advantage both to the author and the
reader. We muſt content ourſelves with quoting
a few paſſages, which appear to us moſt fully to
expreſs the beſt qualities of our author. The firſt
ſelection ſhall be from “The Weſt Indies":-
“ Lives there a ſavage ruder than the ſave ?
- Cruel as death, inſatiate as the grave,
Falſe as the winds that round his veſſel blow,
Remorſeleſs as the gulph that yawns below,
Is he who toils upon the wafting flood,
A Chriſtian broker in the trade of blood;
Boiſterous in ſpeech, in action prompt and bold,
He buys, he fells—he ſteals, he kills for gold.
At noon, when ſky and ocean, calm and clear,
Bend round his bark, one blue unbroken ſphere,
When dancing dolphins ſparkle through the brine,
And ſunbeam circles on the waters ſhine:
He ſees no beauty in the heaven ſerene,
No foul-enchanting ſweetneſs in the ſcene,
But, darkly ſcowling at the glorious day,
Curſes the winds that loiter on their way.
When ſwoln with hurricanes the billows riſe,
To meet the lightning midway from the ſkies;
When from the unburden'd hold his ſhrieking Naves
Are caſt, at midnight, to the hungry waves ;
Not for his victims ſtrangled in the deeps,
Not for his crimes the harden'd pirate weeps,
James Montgomery.
309
But grimly ſmiling, when the ſtorm is o'er,
Counts his ſure gains, and hurries back for more.
“ Lives there a reptile baſer than the ſlave ?
-Loathſome as death, corrupted as the grave,
See the dull Creole, at his pompous board,
Attendant vaſſals cringing round their lord :
Satiate with food, his heavy eyelids cloſe,
Voluptuous minions fan him to repoſe ;
Prone on the noonday couch he lolls in vain,
Delirious Numbers rock his maudlin brain ;
He ſtarts in horror from bewildering dreams;
His bloodſhot eye with fire and frenzy gleams;
He ſtalks abroad; through all his wonted rounds,
The Negro trembles, and the laſh reſounds,
And cries of anguiſh, thrilling through the air,
To diſtant fields his dread approach declare.
Mark, as he paſſes, every head declined ;
Then Nowly raiſed, -to curſe him from behind.
This is the verieſt wretch on nature's face,
Own'd by no country, ſpurn'd by every race ;
The tether'd tyrant of one narrow ſpan,
The bloated vampire of a living man;
His frame,- a fungous form of dunghill birth,
That taints the air, and rots above the earth ;
His ſoul-has he a ſoul, whoſe ſenſual breaſt
Of ſelfiſh paſſions is a ſerpent's neſt ?
Who follows, headlong, ignorant, and blind,
The vague brute inſtinct of an idiot mind;
Whoſe heart, ʼmidſt ſcenes of ſuffering ſenſeleſs grown,
E'en from his mother's lap was chillid to ſtone;
Whoſe torpid pulſe no ſocial feelings move;
A ſtranger to the tenderneſs of love.
His motley harem, glads his gloating eye,
Where ebon, brown, and olive beauties vie ;
His children, ſprung alike from floth and vice,
Are born his Naves, and loved at market price ;
Has he a foul?—With his departing breath,
A form ſhall hail him at the gates of death,
The ſpectre Conſcience, --Ihrieking through the gloom,
Man, we ſhall meet again beyond the tomb."
310
James Montgomery.
1
The following deſcription of night in the ſouthern
hemiſphere has been generally praiſed and is worthy
of praiſe. It is from “ The Pelican Inand.”
香
​Night, ſilent, cool, tranſparent, crown'd the day;
The ſky receded further into ſpace,
The ſtars came lower down to meet the eye,
Till the whole hemiſphere, alive with light,
Twinkled from eaſt to weſt by one conſent.
The conſtellations round the arctic pole,
That never ſet to us, here ſcarcely roſe,
But in their ſtead, Orion through the north
Purſued the Pleiads; Sirius, with his keen
Quick ſcintillations, in the zenith reign'd.
The ſouth unveil'd its glories ;-there, the Wolf,
With
eyes of lightning watch'd the Centaur's ſpear ;
Through the clear hyaline, the Ship of Heaven
Came failing from eternity; the Dove,
On ſilver pinions, wing'd her peaceful way;
There, at the footſtool of Jehovah's throne,
The Altar kindled from His preſence blazed ;
There, too, all elſe excelling, meekly ſhone
The Croſs, the ſymbol of redeeming love :
The heavens declared the glory of the LORD,
The firmament diſplay'd his handy-work.”
1
To this beautiful paſſage we may add from the
fame poem a moſt graphic deſcription of a ſouthern
tornado :-
a
a
a
" A cloud aroſe amid the tranquil heaven,
Like a man's hand, but held a hurricane
Within its graſp. Compreſſd into a point,
The tempeſt ſtruggled to break looſe. No breath
Was ſtirring, yet the billows roll'd aloof,
And the air moan'd portentoully ; ere long
The ſky was hidden, darkneſs to be felt
Confounded all things; land and water vanilh'd,
And there was filence through the univerſe ;
James Montgomery.
311
Silence, that made my ſoul as deſolate
As the blind ſolitude around. Methought
That I had paſſed the bitterneſs of death
Without the agony,-had, unaware,
Entered the unſeen world, and in the gap
Between the life that is and that to come,
Awaited judgment. Fear and trembling ſeized
All that was mortal or immortal in me:
A moment, and the gates of Paradiſe
Might open to receive, or Hell be moved
To meet me. Strength and ſpirit fail'd;
Eternity encloſed me, and I knew not,
Knew not, even then my deſtiny. To doubt
Was to deſpair ; I doubted and deſpair'd.
Then horrible delirium whirled me down
To ocean's nethermoſt receſs; the waves
Diſparting freely, let me fall, and fall,
Lower and lower, paſſive as a ſtone,
Yet rack'd with miſerable pangs,
that
gave
The ſenſe of vain but violent reſiſtance:
And ſtill the depths grew deeper ; ſtill the ground
Receded from
my
feet as I approach'd it.
O how I long'd to light on rocks, that ſunk
Like quickfands ere I touch'd them; or to hide
In caverns ever open to ingulf me,
But, like the horizon's limit, never nearer !
“ Meanwhile the irrepreſſible tornado
Burſt, and involved the elements in chaos;
Wind, rain, and lightning, in one vaſt exploſion,
Ruſh'd from the firmament upon the deep.
Heaven's adamantine arch ſeemed rent aſunder,
And following in a cataract of ruins
My ſwift deſcent through bottomleſs abyſſes,
Where ocean's bed had been abſorb'd in nothing.
I know no further. When again I ſaw
The ſun, the ſea, the iſland, all was calm,
And all was deſolation : not a tree
Of thouſands flouriſhing erewhile ſo fair,
But now was ſplit, uprooted, ſnapt in twain,
Or hurled with all its honours to the duſt.
Heaps upon heaps the foreſt giants lay,
312
James Montgomery.
Even like the Nain in battle, fall’n to riſe
No more, till heaven, and earth, and ſea, with all
Therein, ſhall periſh, as to me they ſeem'd
To periſh in that ruthleſs hurricane."
a
Of Montgomery's ſmaller poems we can ſcarcely
ſpeak too warmly. Of their kind they are per-
haps unrivalled. In theſe gems the ſkill of the
worker is the higheſt. They are poliſhed, and
touched, and retouched with a loving and a gifted
hand. They are muſical with a melody of their
own, which ſets you chanting as you read them.
Many of them have become, and will continue to
be, general favourites. They are ſo well known as
to preclude the neceſſity of making quotations
from them here. We ſhall .only quote one, and
with this poem conclude what we have to ſay of
James Montgomery. The poem illuſtrates ſeveral
of its author's traits. It is a good ſpecimen of his
ſweet verſification; it ſhows his eſtimate of his great
contemporary poets; and gives his own idea of
what is the true.
"THEME FOR A POET.
“ The arrow that ſhall lay me low
Was ſhot from death's unerring bow,
The moment of my
breath :
And every footſtep I proceed
It tracks me with increaſing ſpeed;
I turn-it meets me,-Death
Has given ſuch impulſe to that dart,
It points for ever at my heart.
James Montgomery.
313
a
“ And now of me it muſt be ſaid,
That I have lived, that I am dead;
Of all I leave behind,
A few may weep a little while,
Then bleſs my memory with a ſmile:
What monument of mind
Shall I bequeath to deathleſs Fame,
That after times may love my name?
“ Let Southey fing of war's alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,
The glory and the guilt,-
Of nations barb'rouſly enſlaved,
Of realms by patriot valour faved,
Of blood inſanely ſpilt,
And millions facrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great.
“Let Scott, in wilder ſtrains, delight
To chant the Lady and the Knight,
The tournament, the chaſe,
The wizard's deed without a name,
Perils by ambuſh, flood, and flame :
Or picturesquely trace
The hills that form a world on high,
The lake that ſeems a downward ſky.
“Let Byron, with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot and fiery brand,
Lit at the flames of hell,
Go down and ſearch the human heart,
Till fiends from every corner ſtart,
Their crimes and plagues to tell ;
Then let him Aling his torch away,
And ſun his ſoul in heaven's pure day.
** Let Wordſworth weave, in myſtic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably ſublime,
And ſympathies unknown;
Yet ſo our yielding breaſts enthral,
His genius fhall poſſeſs us all,
His thoughts become our own,
And, ſtrangely pleaſed, we ſtart to find
Such hidden treaſures in our mind.
8
a
314
James Montgomery.
muſe;
“ Let Campbell's ſweeter numbers flow,
Through every change of joy and woe
e ;
Hope's morning dreams diſplay,
The Pennſylvanian cottage wild,
The frenzy of O'Connor's child,
A Linden's dreadful day ;
And ſtill in each new form appear,
To every Muſe and Grace more dear.
" Tranſcendent Maſters of the lyre !
Not to your honours I aſpire ;
Humbler yet higher views
Have touch'd my ſpirit into flame;
The
pomp
of fiction I diſclaim,
Fair Truth! be thou
my
Reveal in ſplendour deeds obſcure,
Abaſe the proud, exalt the poor.
“ I ſing the men who left their home,
Amidſt barbarian hordes to roam,
Who land and ocean croff'd,
Led by a load-ſtar, mark'd on high
By Faith's unſeen, all-ſeeing eye, -
To ſeek and ſave the loft ;
Where'er the curſe on Adam ſpread,
To call his offſpring from the dead.
“Strong in the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the croſs, deſpiſed the ſhame:
And, like their Master here,
Wreſtled with danger, pain, diſtreſs,
Hunger, and cold, and nakedneſs,
And
every
form of fear;
To feel his love their only joy,
To tell that love their ſole employ.
“ O Thou, who waſt in Bethlehem born,
The Man of ſorrows and of ſcorn,
Jeſus, the finner's friend!
-O Thou, enthroned in filial right,
Above all creature-power and might;
Whoſe kingdom ſhall extend,
Till earth, like heaven, thy name ſhall fill,
And men, like angels, do thy will ;-
James Montgomery.
315
66 Thou whom I love, but cannot ſee,
My Lord, my God! look down on me!
My low affections raiſe;
The ſpirit of liberty impart,
Enlarge my ſoul, inflame my heart,
And, while I ſpread thy praiſe,
Shine on my path, in mercy ſhine,
Proſper my work, and make it thine."
LEIGH HUNT.
Few names fall more pleaſantly on the ear, or
linger more lovingly in the memory, than his who
wrote “ The Story of Rimini.” As eſſayiſt; as a
pleaſant goſſipper on things in general; as a link
between the preſent and the paſt; as a generous,
loving, and large-hearted man; as a poet, as a
a ,
dramatiſt, as a noveliſt—but more eſpecially as a
friend, is his name dear to us all. For from the
kindlineſs of his heart, from the happy converſa-
tional-like ſtyle of his narrative, he ſeems to all his
readers as a friend fitting by their hearths, and
converſing with them on the ſubject in hand.
You can imagine his bright, joyous eye looking
into
your face as he tells ſome pleaſant ſtory, and
you ſee the ſparkle which lights it up as he narrates
ſome generous or noble action ; you hear his wel-
come voice as he lovingly repeats fome lines from
one of his many favourite poets ; and in fancy you
claſp his warm, honeſt hand while you thank him
for his viſit, and heartily deſire him to repeat it on
the earlieſt poſſible opportunity. He may
be
pro-
>

HO
PICATOR
OLD COURT
SULLS
EXAMINERY
LEIGH HUNT.
1
1
Leigh Hunt.
317
perly ſtyled the moſt ſocial of all our writers,
not even excepting Mr. Dickens. The author is
never predominant over the man. He is the kind
friend, the ſociable viſitor, the pleaſant goſlipper,
the drawing-room ornament, the companion never
obtruſive and never unwelcome. At the time of his
death, in his ſeventy-fifth year, his pages are as plea-
,
ſant, his talk as intereſting, his ſenſibility as warm, his
ſocial ſympathies as great, and his love of man as
large and broad—if not broader and larger-than
in the warm and enthuſiaſtic period of his poetic
youth.
From his pleaſant Autobiography we gather
the following facts of Leigh Hunt's life. He was
born at Southgate, in the year 1784. His parents
had been driven from America at the Revolution
on account of their loyalty. At the time of the
poet's birth, his father, the Rev. J. Hunt, was
tutor to Mr. Leigh, nephew of the Duke of
Chandos. His mother was the daughter of Ste-
phen Shewell, a merchant of Philadelphia, and
the poet ſpeaks in admiration of her character, and
is one more witneſs to the influence of mothers on
the future career of their ſons. He was an early
inquirer, and was in ſome reſpects a precocious
child. At ſeven he was admitted into Chriſt's
Hoſpital, of which inſtitution he gives an admi-
rable account, and is himſelf one more eminent
318
Leigh Hunt.
example to be added to the long liſt of illuſtrious
men whom the school has produced, and by whom
it has been rendered famous. He remained at
ſchool until his fifteenth year, by which time he
had become well grounded in the claſſics, and had
proved himſelf an omnivorous reader of Engliſh
literature, being eſpecially familiar with the poets.
At fixteen he publiſhed a volume of verſes. This
is his own account of that moſt delicious act-
the publication of our firſt book: “For ſome time
after I left ſchool, I did nothing but viſit my ſchool-
fellows, haunt the book-ſtalls, and write verſes.
My father collected the verſes, and publiſhed
them with a large liſt of ſubſcribers, numbers of
whom belonged to his old congregations. I was
as proud perhaps of the book at that time as I am
aſhamed of it now. The French Revolution,
though the worſt portion of it was over, had not
yet ſhaken up and reinvigorated the ſources of
thought all over Europe. At leaſt I was not old
enough, perhaps was not able, to get out of the
trammels of the regular imitative poetry, or verſi-
fication rather, which was taught in the ſchools.
My book was a heap of imitations, all but abſolutely
worthleſs. But abſurd as it was, it did me a ſerious
miſchief; for it made me ſuppoſe that I had
attained an end inſtead of not having reached even a
commencement; and thus caused me to waſte in
Leigh Hunt,
319
imitation a good many years which I ought to have
devoted to the ſtudy of the poetical art and of
nature." We venture to ſay that theſe words
might be applied to almoſt every firſt volume of
verſe publiſhed.
He now entered a lawyer's office, in which he
ſpent but little time. He liked not the law nor the
law's ways. Parchment was an abomination in his
eyes, unleſs it contained ſome old poem engroſſed
thereon, inſtead of an agreement between John
Smith and John Jones. To him the office was the
gloomieſt of all darkneſs palpable,” and his ima-
gination was ever bearing him to the gardens of the
Heſperides, or the Bower of Bliſs, which the poets
have created for the delight and recreation of all
ſuch. He uſed to write theatrical criticiſms for the
News, and firſt gave evidence of that nice diſcri-
mination, that purity of taſte, and ſtrict honeſty of
praiſe or cenſure, which afterwards gave to his
notices of the theatres ſuch a remarkable influence.
He did not remain long at the law; and, in 1805,
received a government office, which foon proved as
irkſome to his freedom-loving mind as the law.
He reſigned his poſt, and in 1808 he and his bro-
ther John eſtabliſhed the now well-known and
famous newſpaper, “The Examiner.”
. Leigh
Hunt was now in his proper element. He belonged
to the liberal intereſt, and was an enthuſiaſt for
320
Leigh Hunt.
I
+
reform when it was dangerous to be ſo. He wrote
as freely as he thought, and the eyes of Sir Vicary
Gibbs, the Attorney-General, were ſoon fixed upon
the paper, and it ſoon enjoyed the honour of a
government proſecution. Twice did the public pro-
ſecutor aſſail the paper, and twice did he fail. This
only ſerved to increaſe his zeſt, and an occaſion was
ſoon found to bring the independent organ and its
writers within the province of his office. The
Prince Regent had juſt betrayed his old friends ;
and his old enemies were in ecſtacies at his conduct.
At the annual dinner of the Iriſh on St. Patrick's
Day, 1812, the Prince of Wales was not preſent,
and the toaſt which once was hailed with all the
enthuſiaſm of Iriſh applauſe, was now received with
hiſſes. Of courſe, “ The Examiner” had an article
on the ſubject, and on this article the Attorney-
General was down at once. The writer had quoted
a paſſage from the loyaliſt paper, “ The Poſt,” in
which the Prince was deſignated an “Adonis in
lovelineſs;" the commentator added that he was a
corpulent man of fifty.” For this he and his
brother were tried for libel, found guilty, fined a
thouſand pounds, and ſentenced to two years' im-
priſonment. So careful was the paternal govern-
ment of that day of the intereſts and welfare of their
children !
Leigh Hunt, however, could not be puniſhed.
CC
Leigh Hunt.
321
He was capable of turning a priſon into a fairy
bower; and he did it. The ſame ſpirit which
filled his "little dingy” lawyer's office with “vi-
ſions of wonder and delight,” was with him ſtill.
No words of ours can ſo truly ſhow the true nature
of the man as his own. Horſemonger-lane jail
was ſoon robbed of its gloom ; and it became a
cage in which a bird might find delight in ſinging.
He was unwell when he entered the priſon, and had
ſoon to be moved to the infirmary. He ſays,
“ Infirmary had, I confeſs, an awkward ſound, even
in my ears. I fancied a room ſhared with other
ſick perſons, not the leaſt fitted for companions;
but the good-natured doctor (his name was Dixon)
undeceived me. The infirmary was divided into
four wards, with as many ſmall rooms attached to
them. The two upper wards were occupied, but
the two on the floor had never been uſed : and one
of theſe, not very providently (for I had not yet
learned to think of money), I turned into a noble
I papered the walls with a trellis of roſes;
I had the ceiling coloured with clouds and ſky; the
barred windows I ſcreened with Venetian blinds ;
and when my book-caſes were ſet up with their
buſts, and flowers and a pianoforte made their
appearance, perhaps there was not a handſomer
room on that ſide the water. I took a pleaſure,
when a ſtranger knocked at the door, to ſee him
room.
Y
322
Leigh Hunt.
a
come in and ſtare about him. The ſurpriſe on
iſſuing from the Borough, and paſſing through the
avenues of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb
declared that there was no other ſuch room, except
in a fairy tale.
“But I poſſeſſed another ſurpriſe ; which was a
garden. There was a little yard outſide the room,
railed off from another belonging to the neighbour-
ing ward. This yard I ſhut in with green palings,
adorned it with a trellis, bordered it with a thick
bed of earth from a nurſery, and even contrived to
have a graſs-plot. The earth I filled with flowers
and
young trees.
There was an apple-tree, from
which we managed to get a pudding the ſecond
year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be
perfect. Thomas Moore, who came to ſee me with
Lord Byron, told me he had ſeen no ſuch heart's-
eaſe. I bought the Parnaſſo Italiano while in
priſon, and uſed often to think of a paſſage in it,
while looking at this miniature piece of horticul-
ture :
1
Mio picciol orto,
A me ſei vigna, e campo, e ſelva, e prato.'-BALDI.
My little garden,
To me thou’rt vineyard, field, and meadow, and wood.'
Here I wrote and read in fine weather, ſometimes
under an awning. In autumn my trelliſes were
Leigh Hunt,
323
hung with ſcarlet runners, which added to the
flowery inveſtment. I uſed to ſhut my eyes in my
arm-chair, and affect to think myſelf hundreds of
miles off.
“But my triumph was in iſſuing forth of a
morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the
large one belonging to the priſon. The latter was
only for vegetables; but it contained a cherry-tree,
which I ſaw twice in bloſſom. I parcelled out the
ground in my imagination into favourite diſtricts.
I made a point of dreſſing myſelf as if for a long
walk; and then, putting on my gloves, and taking
my book under my arm, ſtepped forth, requeſting
my
wife not to wait dinner if I was too late. My
eldeſt little boy, to whom Lamb addreſſed ſome
charming verſes on the occaſion, was my conſtant
companion, and we uſed to play all ſorts of juvenile
games together. It was, probably, in dreaming of
one of theſe games (but the words had a touching
effect on my ear), that he exclaimed one night in
his ſleep, 'No, I'm not loft; I'm found.' Neither
he nor I were very ſtrong at that time; but I have
lived to ſee him a man of forty; and wherever he
is found, a generous hand and a great underſtanding
will be found together.”
On the 3rd of February, 1815, Leigh Hunt left
his gilded cage, and was free. During his impriſon-
ment he wrote a poem called the “Deſcent of
Y 2
324
Leigh Hunt.
>
a
Liberty,” and part of “The Story of Rimini.”
The latter is indeed a beautiful poem. Mr. Howitt,
in his. “Homes and Haunts of the moſt eminent
Britiſh Poets,” thus deſcribes his firſt introduction
to the ſtory :—“Some thirty years ago, three
youths went forth, one fine ſummer's day, from the
quiet town of Manſfield; to enjoy a long luxurious
ramble in Sherwood foreſt. Their limbs were full
of youth-their hearts of the ardour of life—their
heads of dreams of beauty. The future lay before
them, full of brilliant but undefined achievements
in the land of poetry and romance. The world lay
around them, fair and muſical as a new paradiſe.
They traverſed long dales, dark with heather-
gazed from hill-tops over ſtill and immenſe land-
ſcapes—tracked the margins of the ſhining waters
that hurry over the clear gravel of that ancient
ground, and drank in the freſhneſs of the air, the
odours of the foreſt, the diſtant cry of the curlew,
and the muſic of a whole choir of larks high above
their heads. Beneath the hanging boughs of a
wood-ſide they threw themſelves down to lunch,
and from their pockets came forth, with other good
things, a book. It was a new book.
A hafty
peep into it had led them to believe that it would
blend well in the perufal with the ſpirit of the
region of Robin Hood and Maid Marian, and
with the more tragical tale of that Scottiſh queen
a
Leigh Hunt.
325
and diſtant towers of one of whoſe priſon-
houſes could be deſcried from their reſting-place,
clad as with the ſolemn ſpirit of a ſad antiquity.
The book was · The Story of Rimini.? ' The
author's name was to them little known; but they
were not of a temperament that needed names-
their ſouls were athirſt for poetry, and there they
found it. The reading of that day was an epoch
in their lives. There was a life, a freſhneſs, a
buoyant charm of ſubject and of ſtyle, that carried
them away from the ſombre heaths and waſtes
around them to the ſunſhine of Italy—to gay
cavalcades and fad palaces. Hours went on, the
ſun declined, the book and the ſtory cloſed, and up
roſe the three friends, drunk with beauty, and with
the ſentiment of a great forrow, and ſtrode home-
wards with the proud and happy feeling that
England was enriched with a new poet.” It was
under even more favourable auſpices that we read
the “Story of Rimini.” We were wandering with
our own dear love, and had in one of the lovelieſt
and moſt retired of rural ſcenes taken a boat, and,
after rowing a ſhort time over the placid waters of
a pool ſurrounded by noble oak, queenly birch,
and “ feathery” poplar trees, whoſe over-hanging
boughs kiſſed the bright water-lilies in the pool,
we reſted and drew out our book. Never were
there a more fitting time and place to enjoy it. It
the
gray
326
Leigh Hunt.
On our
was evening, and the laſt rays of the ſetting ſun
were lingering as in love on the topmoſt leaves of
the trees; the birds had retired to their homes;
there was no breeze to diſturb the foliage, to bend
the graſs, or make a ripple on the pool.
right was a group of magnificent rhododendrons,
whoſe flood of bloom hid the ſhrubs which bore
them. There we read the poem, and there we
realiſed all its beauty, all its pathos, all its wonderful
power of word-painting. It is impoſible to deſcribe
the feelings with which we read the fad and ſolemn
tale. The memory of it is ſtill freſh and beautiful
to us; and the muſic of the poetry ſtill rings in
Here is the garden which poor Franceſca
loved.
our ears.
“She loved the place to which ſhe went-
A er, a neſt, in which her grief had fpent
Its calmeſt time: and as it was her laſt
As well as ſweeteſt, and the fate comes faſt
That is to fill it with a dreadful cry,
And make its walls ghaſtly to paſſers by,
I'll hold the gentle reader for a ſpace,
Ling’ring with piteous wonder in the place.
" A noble range
it
was,
of many a rood,
Wall’d and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A ſmall ſweet houſe o'erlook'd it from a neft
Of pines:-all wood and garden was the reſt,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert :—and it had
A winding ſtream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a ſwan, the creature born
To be the only graceful Mape of ſcorn.
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight :
Rofes in heaps were there, both red and white,
Leigh Hunt.
327
fun
:s of
nes;
end
our
ins,
ore
we
ful
be
nin
a
ful
in
>
1
ca
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick cluſters from light boughs; in ſhort,
All the ſweet cups to which the bees reſort,
With plots of graſs, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jeſſamine,
And orange, whoſe warm leaves ſo finely fuit,
And look as if they ſhade a golden fruit;
And midſt the flow’rs, turf'd round beneath a ſhade
Of darkſome pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their ſhafts you ſaw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmer'd with ſhow'ring light.
So now you ſtood to think what odours beſt
Made the air happy in that lovely neſt;
And now you went beſide the flowers, with eyes
Earneſt as bees, reſtleſs as butterflies;
And then turn’d off into a ſhadier walk,
Cloſe and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And then purſued the ſtream, and as you trod,
Onward and onward o'er the velvet ſod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and ſweet,
And a new ſenſe in your ſoft-lighting feet.
At laſt you entered ſhades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-view'd,
Through which the diſtant palace now and then
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees,--which reaching round about,
In ſhady bleſſing ſtretch'd their old arms out;
With ſpots of many openings, and with nooks,
To lie and read in, ſloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you ſtartled the flim deer,
Retreating lightly, with a lovely fear.
And all about the birds kept leafy houſe,
And ſung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely ſky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through ;
And here and there, in every part, were ſeats,
Some in the open walks, ſome in retreats, –
With bowering leaves o’erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half ſweetly and half awfully,-
Places of neſtling green, for poets made,
Where, when the ſunſhine ſtruck a yellow ſhade,
!
1
328
Leigh Hunt.
а
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping ſight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
“ But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way,
And form’d of both, the lovelieſt portion lay,–
A ſpot that ſtruck you like enchanted ground:-
It was a ſhallow dell, ſet in a mound
Of ſloping orchards,-fig and almond trees,
Cherry, and pine, with ſome few cypreſſes:
Down by whoſe roots, deſcending darkly ſtill,
(You ſaw it not, but heard) there gulh'd a rill,
Whoſe low ſweet talking ſeem'd as if it ſaid
Something eternal to that happy ſhade.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers,
Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron bowers ;
And in the middle of thoſe golden trees,
Half ſeen amidſt the globy oranges,
Lurk'd a rare ſummer-houſe,- lovely fight,
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves ſprinkled, – but no more, —
And a young bay-tree either ſide the door.”
—а
From the time of his liberation to the preſent,
the life of Leigh Hunt has been employed in adding
to the delight and enjoyment of the world. His
Autobiography contains admirable deſcriptions of
his viſit to Italy; of Lord Byron, Shelley, Charles
Lamb, Keats, Campbell, and others of his illuſtrious
contemporaries. He has written many, many
volumes; and there is no reader but wiſhes their
number increaſed. His “ Indicator,” his “Seer,"
his “ Town,” his " Men, Women, and Books,” his
" Table Talk,” his Imagination and Fancy,”
his “ Wit and Humour,” his “ Jar of Honey
from Mount Hybla,” his “Sir Ralph Eſher,” are
CC
>
Leigh Hunt.
329
a
alike monuments of induſtry, of taſte, and geniality,
and genius. Of his poems, beſides “ The Story of
Rimini,” his “Palfrey” is a fine, merrily tripping
a
tale moſt pleaſantly told; his “
Captain Sword
and Captain Pen” is full of power and pathos ;
of vivid deſcription and terrible ſcene-painting; of
noble ſentiment and glorious aſpirations; his drama,
“ A Legend of Florence,” was ſucceſsful on the
ſtage, and is ſucceſsful in the cloſet. A better com-
panion for a ſummer day's ramble than the pocket
edition of Leigh Hunt's poems we cannot conceive.
It has often been our companion on ſuch pleaſant
occaſions, and we have never wearied of it. Of the
ſhorter pieces we may particularly inſtance “Hero
and Leander,” “Mahmoud,” the “Panther,"
“Reflections on a Dead Body," and the three with
which we ſhall enrich theſe pages.
The firſt is
addreſſed to the fon who was with him in priſon,
and of whom he ſpeaks ſo touchingly in the paſſage
which we have before quoted. The verſes are ex-
quiſitely pathetic :-
" TO T. L. H.,
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
· Sleep breathes at laſt from out thee,
My little patient boy ;
And balmy reſt about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I ſit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almoſt with, with ſudden ſhrink,
That I had leſs to praiſe.
>
330
Leigh Hunt.
dear ones,
“ Thy ſidelong pillow'd meekneſs,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakneſs,
Of fancied faults afraid ;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
Theſe, theſe are things that may
demand
Dread memories for years.
" Sorrows I've had, ſevere ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midit my
Have waſted with my brow;
But when thy fingers preſs
And pat my ſtooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleneſs,-
The tears are in their bed.
“ Ah, firſt-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy ſiſter, father too;
My light where'er I go,
My bird when priſon-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion,-no,
My prayers ſhall hold thee round.
“ To ſay ' He has departed
His voice'_ his face '-is gone;
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we muſt bear on;
Ah, I could not endure
To whiſper of ſuch woe,
Unleſs I felt this ſleep enſure
That it will not be fo.
“ Yes, ſtill he's fix'd and ſleeping!
This filence too the while
Its very huſh and creeping
Seem whiſpering us a ſmile :
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Seraphim,
Who ſay, 'We've finiſhed here !'"
6
Leigh Hunt.
331
In a very different vein, but not a whit leſs
admirable
poem,
is-
6. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
" King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal ſport,
And one day, as his lions fought, ſat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And ’mongſt them ſat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he
figh'd;
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to ſee that crowning ſhow,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beaſts below.
Romp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with
their paws;
With wallowing might and ſtifled roar they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit with fand and mane was in a thunderous ſmother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whiſking through the air ;
Said Francis then, Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.'
“ De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame,
With ſmiling lips and ſharp bright eyes, which always ſeemed the
fame :
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be,
He ſurely will do wondrous things to ſhow his love of me;
Kings, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occaſion is divine,
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
“ She dropp'd her glove to prove his love, then look'd at him
and ſmiled;
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild ;
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain’d his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
• By God!' ſaid Francis, rightly done !' and he roſe from where
6
he ſat ;
No love,' quoth he, 'but vanity, ſets love a talk like that.
Our next piece is one very characteriſtic of
Leigh Hunt; it is a poem which, we doubt not,
he found much pleaſure in writing; as, we doubt
not, every one will find much pleaſure in reading it.
332
Leigh Hunt.
It is a fine corollary to the text, “If thou doft
not love thy brother whom thou haſt ſeen, how
can'ſt thou love God whom thou haſt not ſeen?”
This nobly Chriſtian ſentiment will have prepared
the way for-
" ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
“ Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increaſe)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And ſaw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold :-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the preſence in the room he ſaid,
• What writeſt thou ?'—The viſion raiſed its head,
And with a look made of all ſweet accord,
Anſwer'd, “The names of thoſe who love the Lord.'
* And is mine one ? ' ſaid Abou. Nay, not ſo,'
Replied the angel. Abou ſpoke more low,
But cheerly ſtill; and ſaid, ' I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'
The angel wrote and vaniſh’d. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And ſhow'd the names whom love of God had blend,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the reſt."
6
6
6
While we write, this noble literary veteran
is from week to week, in the pages of the
Spectator,” delighting all readers with his pleaſant,
chatty papers on men and things. His writings
at ſeventy-five have all the freſhneſs, the genial
light-heartedneſs, the buoyancy, the faith in human
goodneſs and in human progreſs, of his writings
of twenty-five. This is beautiful to witneſs; it
ſeems as if the Maker of all things had ſtamped
Leigh Hunt.
333
That He may
his mind with the ſeal of bleſſedneſs, and given
him perennial youth as a dower.
continue to bleſs him with years of health, and
happineſs, and the power to cheer the world with
his graceful and genial pen, is the prayer of the
preſent writer, and, he truſts, the prayer of all
whº know the works of Leigh Hunt, the moſt
blitheſome Priſon bird that ever warbled in a cage.
The chapter on Leigh Hunt was written in the
beginning of the year in which he died. I do not
feel that it is neceſſary to change a word then
written. This good and generous man died on the
28th of Auguſt, 1859. “Juſt two months,” ſays
his ſon Thornton, “ before completing his ſeventy-
fifth
year he quietly funk to reſt.” He died as we
ſhould like to ſee thoſe we love die—ſerenely,
hopefully, confidingly, and leaving behind him a
memory bright and freſh as are the fields and
flowers in ſpring.
His books are dear to all
readers; and, in the cordial and admiring words of
his friend Mr. Carlyle, they are “ the image of a
gifted, gentle, patient, and valiant human ſoul, as
it buffets its way through the billows of time, and
will not drown, though often in danger; cannot be
drowned, but conquers and leaves a track of radi-
ance behind him.” A track that will widen and
deepen as time advances.
THOMAS COOPER
AND THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES.
The true,
At all times of criſes, men of power,
of genius,
or talent, are ſure to come to the top, and become,
by the mere neceſſities of the caſe, the leaders of
men.
The weak, noiſy, and time-ſerving will riſe
from their very lightneſs; and when at the top
will ſoon burſt like the bubbles that they are, and
be ſeen and heard of no more for ever.
ſtrong men will paſs through and ſurvive the per-
haps temporary excitement which was the immediate
cauſe of bringing them out, by the worth which
raiſed them above their fellows. Theſe are always
the few; the many are the cyphers, and theſe the
figures which give them value and effect. Of all
fights, the ſaddeſt in the world is a nation without
a ruler; a crowd without a leader ; a mob without
a head to guide and control it. We ſaid the
ſaddeſt; perhaps there is one ftill fadder; the ſame
nation with a falſe ruler, the ſame crowd with a
falſe leader, the ſame mob with a falſe guide. The
Thomas Cooper.
335.
hiſtory of all lands affords examples of all theſe
caſes; our own times have witneſſed them, and our
own country would afford inſtances innumerable.
At ſuch times, how glorious does the true, wife,
honeſt, brave, and unſelfiſh man appear ! His
voice brings order where before was chaos; his
counſel gives confidence where before was only
diſtruſt; his preſence gives joy and hope where
before all was forrow and deſpair. Let the world
ever thank God for, and ever duly honour, its
great men!
Perhaps no period of great excitement, no time
in which the hopes, fears, deſires, and paſſions of
men were thoroughly called into play, was ever
more barren of truly wiſe and great men, than the
epoch of Engliſh hiſtory known as the Chartiſt
agitation. What Carlyle would call mere • wind-
bags,” and noiſy “falfities,” and hollow “ſhams,"
were produced in abundance. But of all the men
who then “defied the tyrant,” and offered them-
ſelves as “martyrs on the ſhrine of liberty,” and
who were, on the platform, ſo loud and frothy in
their denunciation of the “millocrats,” the “bu-
reaucrats,” the “moneyocrats,” the “ ariſtocrats,"
and the “oligarchs,” and who fo magnanimouſly
offered themſelves as willing ſacrifices for the cauſe
of the “unwaſhed,”—how many are there now
whoſe names are treaſured by the people, and held
336
Thomas Cooper.
as facred in their memories, as thoſe of men who
with ſingleneſs of purpoſe ſerved the cauſe, and not
themſelves? Of the officers of the “old guards,”
how
many
will this generation bequeath the
remembrance of to the gratitude and honour of its
children? Alas, how many deſerved ſuch remem-
brance! You might tell them on your fingers, and
not exhauſt your digits. Among the few, however,
who will have a place in the memory, and praiſe,
and honour of the future; among the few whoſe
names are a glory to the Chartiſt cauſe; among
the few who, firſt being known as Chartiſt leaders,
afterwards built themſelves a name which we ſhall
“not willingly let die;" among theſe few, and
chiefeſt among them, muſt we place the name of
Thomas Cooper, the author of our laſt Priſon
Book, the “Purgatory of Suicides.”
Thomas Cooper was born in Leiceſter, on the
20th of March, 1805. His father died while he
was quite an infant, and he was thus left to the
care of his mother. She was in every way equal to
her taſk; for Cooper, like every other remarkable
man which the world has poſſeſſed, was fortunate
in his mother. She was capable of any
ſacrifice to
ſerve her child; and ſhe had to endure much in order
to ſpare him. Soon after his father's death, they
removed to Gainſborough in Lincolnſhire, and the
ſtruggle of life for the poor widow and her ſon was
Thomas Cooper.
337
a bitter one. With that deep abiding power of
love and ſelf-denial, which are the almoſt univerſal
poffeffion of women, and eſpecially of mothers,
The frequently went without food herſelf for the
fake of her child. The poor lad had often to go
without ſhoes and ſtockings, and he ſuffered ſeverely
from privation and fickneſs. His mother taught
him to read ; and he, like all men who have ever
!
diſtinguiſhed themſelves, was early ſeized with a
paſſion for reading. It was not an eaſy thing to
ſatisfy that paſſion in Cooper's circumſtances. Here
again his mother's noble love ſerved the poor
ſtudent. Meal after meal did that glorious woman
deprive herſelf of, in order that her boy might
have the means to procure books. Like ſo many
others who have achieved a name and fame in this
world, Cooper can indeed ſay, “ All that I have,
all that I am, I owe to my mother.”
,
”
In the courſe of his long defence at Stafford,
Cooper thus admirably narrated the difficulties
under which he made his purſuit of knowledge:
“At fifteen
age,
after
many promiſes of
patronage had been broken, my poor mother was
compelled to ſend me to the ſtall to learn the
humble trade and craft of a fhoemaker. I plied
the awl and bent over the laſt till I was three-and-
twenty years of age; and if I can look on any
period of my life with unmingled pride and plea-
years of
Z
338
Thomas Cooper.
ſure, it is on that period of it which I paſſed in
this ſedentary employment. My young enthuſiaſm
found a vent in the compoſition of poetry for ſome
time after I was thus placed at an occupation which
only employed the hands without filling the mind;
i
but the peruſal of a memoir of Samuel Lee, Pro-
feſſor of Hebrew in the Univerſity of Cambridge,
an example of genius and perſeverance triumphing
over all the difficulties of lowly birth, ſoon animated
me to encounter the labour of acquiring languages,
together with the mathematics. It would ill become
me to take up the time of the court with a recital
of the particulars of my labour. Suffice it to ſay,
that I formed a reſolution to acquire, in a given
time, the elements of Latin and Greek, and of
Geometry and Algebra ; and to commit the whole
Paradiſe Loſt' to, memory, together with the
ſeven beſt plays of Shakſpeare. My reſolve was
executed in ſome reſpects, but failed in others. I
committed to memory three books of Milton and
the whole of 'Hamlet,' and theſe treaſures I ſtill
retain. I went through a courſe of Geometry, and
learnt ſomething of Algebra. And, in addition to
the Latin and Greek, I maſtered the elements of
Hebrew and French. To theſe philological acquire-
ments, I have, in ſucceeding periods of my life,
,
added ſome knowledge of the Italian, German, and
other tongues, but leſs perfectly than my earlier
Thomas Cooper.
339
ſtudies. During the youthful period in which I
was thus eagerly ſtriving after elementary know-
ledge, I had to contend with want and deprivation;
ſometimes in a ſevere degree. I could not earn
more than ten ſhillings a-week at my trade ; and
my poor mother, who began to advance in years,
was often too much enfeebled to work. We were
thus compelled to ſhare a ſcanty pittance, barely
ſufficient to keep us in exiſtence. Yet I look back
to that time with pride and pleaſure. In the
ſummer mornings I uſed to riſe at three, or earlier,
and walk miles among the woods and over the hills,
reading every inch of the way, and returning to my
labour at the hour of ſix--not quitting my ſtall, till
nine or ten in the evening found me ſo far wearied
with exertion that I frequently ſwooned off my
feat.
In the winter, becauſe poverty prevented my enjoy-
ment of a fire, I uſed to place a ſtool upon a ſtand
to reſt my book, and a lamp upon it; and; with a
bit of old rug under my feet, and my mother's old
red cloak under my ſhoulders, I uſed to keep up a
gentle kind of motion, ſo as to keep off cold and
ſleep at the ſame time. In this mode I uſed to
paſs the winter hours, from nine or ten till twelve
at night, and from three or four to ſeven in the
morning, my mind being too enfevered after learn-
ing to permit my ſleeping long, even if I had
remained in bed. During thoſe laborious hours,
a
z 2
340
Thomas Cooper.
CC
in addition to my purſuits in languages, I read
over the productions of ſome of the moſt coloſſal
intellects my country has ever produced, ſuch as
Hooker and Cudworth, and Stillingfleet, and War-
burton. Oh! thoſe were happy hours, and I'am
proud of them !"
Cooper worked at ſhoe-making until he was
twenty-three years of age, and then he opened a
ſchool, which was highly ſucceſsful. Seven years
afterwards he removed from Gainſborough to
Lincoln, in which city he alſo opened a ſchool, and
ſubſequently became a reporter for the “ Stamford
Mercury.” He next removed to Stamford, and,
beſides reporting, he aſſiſted in the editorial depart-
ment of the
paper.
He received an excellent ſalary
while on the “Mercury,” but his reſtleſs mind was
not ſatisfied, and he, like others, muſt needs try
London. He did not ſucceed in London, and had
to ſtruggle there with great difficulties and many
privations. He went through the miſeries which
are too frequently aſſociated with literature when a
man is entirely dependent upon chance employment
for his bread. After a time he was offered a fitua-
tion as reporter on the “ Leiceſter Mercury,” which
he gladly accepted. This was the turning point in
Cooper's life.
In his capacity of reporter he had to attend a
Ch artiſt lecture by John Maſon, at Newcaſtle.
a
Thomas Cooper.
341
From this time Mr. Cooper became a Chartiſt.
He brought to politics all the enthuſiaſm, all the
earneſtneſs, all the poetry of his nature. He
entered into it with all his might. He ſettled at
Leiceſter, and there he opened a coffee and
periodical ſhop for the ſale of Chartiſt publications.
He ſoon obtained the lead of the Leiceſter Chartiſts,
who, from holding their meetings in the Shakſpeare
Rooms, were called “ The Shakſpearian Brigade of
Leiceſter Chartiſts,” and Mr. Cooper was acknow-
ledged as their General, and as ſuch ſigned all
their placards and addreſſes. Theſe were troublous
times, and the General had a ſtormy diviſion to
command.
The years 1841 and 1842 will long be remem
bered as years of trouble and ſuffering to the work-
ing claſſes, and as years of fear and danger to the
middle and higher claſſes in England. Trade was
in a moſt fearful condition, and want ſtared thouſands
in the face. In every large town bands of unem-
ployed perſons perambulated the ſtreets ſeeking
food, which either the fears or charity of the ſhop-
keepers ſupplied. Bands of Chartiſts were enrolled,
and political agitation was added to the calamities of
the time. Open-air and torch-light meetings were
held, at which the moſt violent and exciting ſpeeches
were made. Phyſical force and an appeal to arms
were the common topics of many of theſe addreſſes. .
342
Thomas Cooper.
any moment.
Large numbers provided themſelves with arms for
the day of trial; and open reſiſtance to the Govern-
ment of the day was the doctrine often inculcated.
Proceſſions of miles in length were formed; and,
with banners flying and muſic playing, the ſuffering
and enraged multitudes marched to their places of
meeting. Some of theſe banners bore the moſt
terrible and threatening inſcriptions. Riots were
frequent, and the police and military were con-
ſtantly on the alert, and ready to be called out at
Men's paſſions were excited to the
utmoſt. The worſt reſults were anticipated. The
thouſands on thouſands of artizans and mechanics
who were out of employ ſwelled the ranks of the
politicians; and to the excitement of intenſe parti-
zanſhip was added the reckleſs deſpair and daring
of intenſe phyſical ſuffering, and often of actual
want. Everywhere there exiſted a combuſtible
material, which only needed a ſpark to ſet it in a
blaze. In the midſt of this diſorder and affliction
the famous Mancheſter Conference was held.
Mr. Cooper was on his way to this Conference,
when, on the 15th of Auguſt, 1842, he delivered
one of his fierceſt ſpeeches to the colliers in the
Staffordſhire Potteries, who were then on ſtrike.
The reſults were moſt diſaſtrous. To uſe his own
words,
“Without either purpoſing, aiding and
abetting, or even knowing of an outbreak till it had
Thomas Cooper.
343
a
a
occurred, I regret to add that my addreſs was fol-
lowed by the demolition and burning of ſeveral
houſes, and by other acts of violence.” He and
others were arreſted, and were tried for arſon.
Cooper proved an alibi, and the verdict on this
charge was in his favour. For his connection
.
with the Mancheſter Conference, he, together with
William Ellis, John Richards, and Joſeph Capper,
was, after being out on bail, tried at the Stafford
March Aſlizes in 1843, on the charge of “ ſeditious
conſpiracy.” Mr. Gammage ſays, “There never
was ſuch a trial for a like offence in modern times.
Cooper croſs-examined the witneſſes at ſuch a
length as to put all the officers of the court in a
rage, which they could not conceal. It mattered
little whether the queſtions put were of importance,
ſo that they took up the time of the court, and
gave annoyance to his proſecutors. When the
evidence had been gone through, he addreſſed the
jury for ten hours.
The trial laſted altogether ten
days, and it threw the whole aſſize buſineſs for
Staffordſhire, Shropſhire, and Herefordſhire, into a
ſtate of confuſion. As expected, the jury returned
a verdict for the Crown, and the defendant was
ordered to appear at the Court of Queen's Bench
to receive ſentence, when he inflicted another ſpeech
of eight hours, in mitigation of ſentence, on his
angry auditors, and would have continued longer,
344
Thomas Cooper.
only for the judge expreſſing a determination to
conclude the trial that night. The reſult was, that
Cooper was ſentenced to two years' impriſonment,
the exact ſentence he had anticipated. This im-
priſonment was not without its fruits. One of its
reſults was the production of a magnificent poem,
entitled “The Purgatory of Suicides,” which a
large portion of the literary preſs declared to be
equal to any poetical work of modern times.” *
One anecdote of Cooper, as recorded by the
Hiſtorian of Chartiſm, is ſo characteriſtic of the
man, that we muſt, in juſtice to him, quote it here.
Mr. Gammage ſays, “At the Stafford aſſizes John
Richards was alſo tried, found guilty, and ſentenced
to twelve months'impriſonment; and Jeremy Yates,
of Hanley, underwent a ſimilar ſentence. We
cannot forbear to mention one fact to Cooper's
credit, with reference to the firſt of theſe two
perſons. He became devotedly attached to Richards
through this impriſonment; and, as the old man
was upwards of ſeventy years of age, and quite
feeble in body, and therefore unable to perform any
kind of labour, he allowed him a weekly ftipend,
which we believe is continued to this time (for we
have never heard of Richards’s death); and this
never was beſtowed grudgingly, but was often
*
Gammage's “ Hiſtory of Chartiſm,” pp. 257, 258.
Thomas Cooper.
345
accompanied by a hearty wiſh for many years of
life to the receiver.” *
Such is the man, and ſuch has been the life of
him who wrote our laſt Priſon Book.
Mr. Cooper
was educated religiouſly; and, although for ſome
portion of his life he became a free-thinker, and
was connected with the moſt extreme ſchool of
Engliſh ſceptics, although he even populariſed
Strauſs, and interpreted the German's mythical
theory of myths for the people, he has at length
returned to the ſweet “dreams of his youth,” and
is now an eloquent, earneſt, and powerful teacher
of the Chriſtian religion. His great work was
written in priſon; written while the author was
ſmarting, “all his wounds being green,” under the
ſentence which he felt was an injuſtice and a tyranny.
We need not wonder that he is bitter, fierce, occa-
ſionally ſavage. Is it in the nature of man, under
ſuch circumſtances, to be other?
Writing in 1854, Mr. Cooper ſays :-_“I make
.6
no doubt but that many will be diſpoſed ſtill to
think and ſay, that however far I might be from
intending to excite to violence, fince violence fol-
lowed
my addreſs, it is but juſt that I have ſuffered for
it. I beg to ſay, however, that I hold a very con-
trary opinion. If an Engliſhman excites his wronged
*
Gammage's "Hiſtory of Chartiſm,” p. 258.
346
Thomas Cooper.
wrongs them.
fellow-countrymen to a legal and conſtitutional
courſe (and Lord Chief Juſtice Tindal told the
Stafford jury that now the old Combination Act
was aboliſhed, it was perfectly legal and conſtitu-
tional for men to agree to ceaſe labour until the
People's Charter became law), it ſurely is not the
perſon who ſo excites them that ought to be held
reſponſible for the violence they may commit under
an enraged ſenſe of wrong, but the Government who
them. I I appeal to Engliſhmen of all ſhades
of politics whether this is not the judgment we paſs
on all the fortunate revolutions that have occurred
in our hiſtory.
“Yet Sir William Follett, who again uſed his
decaying ſtrength, the hour before judgment was
paſſed upon us in the Bench, pointed to me with
an auſtere look, and ſaid, “This man is the chief
author of the violence that occurred, and I conjure
your lordſhips to paſs a ſevere ſentence on the
priſoner Cooper.'
“Scarcely three years have paſſed, and the great
lawyer is no more. He wronged me, but I think
of him with no vindictive feeling, for my impriſon-
ment has opened to me a nobler ſource of ſatisfac-
tion than he could ever derive from all his honours.
He amaſſed wealth, but the • Times,' alluding to the
' frequent unhappy diſappointments’occaſioned by
Sir William Follett's non-attendance on caſes he
Thomas Cooper.
347
C
Tutione
old on
ondi
nilitu
til the
17014 cm
De her.
turch
hade
were
ccurre
men.
led
undertook to plead, ſays-So often did they
occur, that ſolicitors and clients, in the agony of
diſaſter and defeat, were in the habit of ſaying that
Sir William often took briefs when he muſt have
known that he could not attend in court: and as
barriſters never return fees, the ſuitor ſometimes
found that he loſt his money and miſſed his advo-
cate at a moment when he could badly ſpare either.'
I am poor, and have been plunged into more than
two hundred pounds' debt by the perſecution of
my enemies; but I have the conſolation to know
that my courſe was dictated by heartfelt zeal to
relieve the ſufferings and oppreſſions of my
fellow-
He was entombed with pomp, and a hoſt
of great titled ones, of every ſhade of party,
attended the laying of his clay in the
they purpose now to erect a monument to his
memory. Let them build it: the ſelf-educated
ſhoemaker has also reared his ;—and, deſpite its
imperfections, he has a calm confidence that, though
the product of poverty, and ſuffering, and wrong,
,
it will outlaſt the poſthumous ſtone block that may
be erected to perpetuate the inemory of the titled
lawyer.”
Among the firſt to acknowledge the merits of
the “ Purgatory of Suicides,” was that generous
and warm-hearted critic, William Howitt. From
his article in the « Eclectic Review” we extract
“
nt 1
grave; and
de
e che
conjur
on ti
a
gren
thin
prilor
atista
noun
tor
ed
tes.
348
Thomas Cooper.
the following paſſage :
:-“ We have here a genuine
poem, ſpringing out of the ſpirit of the times, and
indeed out of the heart and experience of one who
has wreſtled with and ſuffered for it. It is no
other than a poem in ten books by a Chartiſt, and
who boldly ſets his name, and his profeſſion of
Chartiſm, on the title-page. It is that of a ſoul
full of thought, full of burning zeal for liberty,
and with a temperament that muſt and will into
action. The man is all bone and finew. He is
one of thoſe "Terræ filii,' that England, more
than all the other nations of the earth put together,
produces. One of the ſame claſs as Burns, Ebenezer
Elliot, Fox, the Norwich weaver-boy, to ſay nothing
of the Arkwrights, Smeatons, Brindleys, Chantreys,
and the like, all riſing out of the labour-claſs into
the claſs of the thinkers and builders-up of Engliſh
greatneſs. What is moreover ſingular, is, that he is
another of the ſhoemaker craft- that craft which has
produced ſuch a hoſt of men of talent—as Hans
Sachs, George Fox, Drew, Gifford of the Quar-
terly,' and others. « Till three-and-twenty,' he
ſays of himſelf, he bent over the laſt and the awl,
ſtruggling againſt weak health and deprivation, to
acquire a knowledge of languages,—and his expe-
rience in after life was, at firſt, limited to the humble
ſphere of a ſchoolmaſter, and never enlarged beyond
that of a laborious worker on a newſpaper.'”
6
a
a
Thomas Cooper.
349
>
.
We think that the “Purgatory of Suicides” will
never be a popular poem. It has power, paſſages
.
of great beauty, and ſweet, touching, and gentle
humanity ; but as a whole it fails to intereſt or
entrance. There is much poetry—true, genuine
poetry in the work; but its ſubject is fadly againſt
it. A purgatorial conclave of the ſpirits of thoſe
“noble fools,” who ſhunned the “ills of life” by
flying to “others that they knew not of,” and
there diſcourſing upon “fate, free-will, foreknow-
ledge abſolute;" on government, juſtice, freedom,
tyranny, &c., is not a very pleaſing ſubject for
contemplation. To read the
To read the poem through is not
an eaſy taſk ; and we confeſs to having been ſome-
what tired of the inceſſant debate among the
bodileſs ſpeakers. The work is admirably done;
the talk is in good Spenſerian verſe ; but there is
fadly too much of it. We wiſh the ſpeakers were
not quite ſo gifted of the gab; had not quite ſuch
loud voices; and did not, as a whole, rave quite
ſo much. Nearly all of theſe “perturbed ſpirits ”
ſpeak rather too much in King Cambyſes’ vein,
and we too often fancy that we are reading ſome
of Mr. Cooper's delivered and undelivered Chartiſt
ſpeeches “done into rhyme.”
Still, with many ſhortcomings, the poem is a
wonderful production. The Rev. Charles Kingſley,
in an able article on “ Burns and his School,” thus
>
a
350
Thomas Cooper.
ſpeaks of the “Purgatory of Suicides.” After
noticing the works of Ebenezer Elliot, he fays---
“Rather belonging to the ſame ſchool, than to that
of Burns, though never degrading itſelf by Elliot's
ferocity, is that extraordinary poem, ‘The Pur-
gatory of Suicides,' by Thomas Cooper. As he
is ſtill in the prime of life, * and capable of doing
more and better than he yet has done, we will
not comment on it as freely as we have done on
Elliot, except to regret a ſimilar want of ſoftneſs
and ſweetneſs, and alſo of a clearneſs of logical
connection of thought, in which Elliot ſeldom fails,
except when curſing. The imagination is hardly
as vivid as Elliot's, though fancy and invention,
the poliſh, the ſtyle, and the indication of profound
thought on all ſubjects within the poet's reach, are
ſuperior in every way to thoſe of the Corn-Law
Rhymer; and when we conſider that the man who
wrote it had to gather his large ſtore of claſſic
and hiſtoric anecdote while earning his living, firſt
as a ſhoemaker, and then as a Weſleyan country
preacher, we can only praiſe and excuſe, and hope
that the day may come when talents of ſo high
an order will find ſome healthier channel for their
energies than that in which they now are flowing.”+
* This was written in 1852, when Mr. Cooper was in his 48th
year; he is now in his 57th.
t • Miſcellanies,” by the Rev. C. Kingſley, i. pp. 382. 3.
Thomas Cooper.
351
Mr. Kingſley muſt have rejoiced in learning that
thoſe talents have found a “healthier channel for
their energies,” and that the author of my lateſt
Priſon Book is now engaged in better work than
populariſing Strauſs.
As we have ſaid, paſſages of great beauty are
there; and ſweet poetic pathos, and rich outburſts
of fiery indignation againſt wrong and oppreſſion of
any and every kind, are there. We love better
to praiſe what is praiſeworthy, than to blame what is
blamable in ſuch a work. The introductory ſtanzas
to each of the ten books, except perhaps the firſt,
are moſtly beautiful. Where Mr. Cooper ſpeaks
himſelf, and keeps his ſuicidal ſpirits filent, he
ſpeaks well. We read him with pleaſure, for we
ſee into the kind poetic foul of the man ; and find
him a genuine ſon of earth, with human feelings,
human love, ay, and human hate too, for a man
ſhould hate all that deſerves hate. It is in theſe
moods that Mr. Cooper's poetry comes out the
brighteſt; and the lovableneſs of his nature appears
in its faireſt aſpect. Take the following paſſage,
which is the opening of the third book, and read it
with a knowledge of the man's life, and the place in
which he wrote it, and allow for the fierceneſs of
ſtanzas five and fix, and we think that you will
agree
with us that it is moſt beautiful, and full of
a touching and tender pathos.
a
352
Thomas Cooper.
I
Hail, glorious Sun! All hail the captive's friend !
Giver of pureſt joys, where Sorrow fain
Would enter and abide, and, traitorous, lend
Her power to aggravate the tyrant's chain :
Great Exorciſt, that bringeſt up the train
Of childhood's joyaunce, and youth's dazzling dreams
From the heart's fepulchre, until, again,
I live in ecſtaſy, ʼmid woods, and ſtreams,
And golden flowers that laugh while kiſſed by thy bright beams.
2
Ay, once more, mirrored in the ſilver Trent,
Thy noon-tide majeſty I think I view
With boyiſh wonder; or, till drowſed and ſpent
With eagerneſs, peer up the vaulted blue
With ſhaded eyes, watching the lark purſue
Her dizzy flight; then, on a fragrant bed
Of meadow ſweets, ſtill ſprent with morning dew,
Dream how the heavenly chambers overhead
With ſteps of grace and joy the holy angels tread.
3
" Of voices ſweet, and harps with golden wires
Touched by the fingers of the ſeraph throng;
Of radiant viſion which the cherub choirs
Witneſs, with jubilee of rapturous ſong,
And without wearineſs their joy prolong,
I lie and dream, till, with a ſtart, I wake,
Thinking my mother's home is ſtill among
Earth's children, and her yearning heart will ache,
If, for thoſe angel joys, her ſmile I ſhould forſake.
4
"O heart, now cold in the devouring grare,
And torn no more by ſcorn and ſuffering,
How fondly didſt thou to thy darling cleave !
Although thy tyrants but a worthleſs thing
Eſteemed him. Rankled, deep, oppreſſion's ſting
In thy receſſes ; ftill, in hardihood
Of conſcious right, ſtern challenge thou didſt Aling
Back at thy foemen and their hireling brood;
And beat unto old age with free and youthful blood !
Thomas Cooper.
353
>
5
“ Mother, thy wrongs, the common wrongs of all
To labour doomed by proud and ſelfiſh drones,
Enduringly have fixed the burning gall
Deep in my veins-ay, in my very bones.
I hate ye, things with ſurplices and crowns !
Serpents that poiſon, tigers that devour
Poor human kind, and fill the earth with groans,
Through every clime! God ſend ye were no more !
Ye'd have a merry requiem from ſhore to ſhore !
6
“ Taxes for king and prieſt a knave was wont
To filch from my poor widowed mother's toil ;
And while the prowling jackall held his hunt,
He battened on the offals of the ſpoil,
And mocked the sufferers! How my blood did boil
When lately I beheld a gilded ſtone
Raiſed to the memory of this vermin vile,
And pious charity aſcribed thereon
To him who gray beneath the Poor's grim curſe had grown!
7
“ I laid my aged mother near the duſt
Of her oppreſſor; but no gilded verſe
Tells how ſhe toiled to win her child a cruſt,
And, faſting, ſtill toiled on: no rhymes rehearſe
How tenderly ſhe ſtrove to be the nurſe
Of truth and nobleneſs in her loved boy,
'Spite of his rags-
O Sun! thou doſt amerce
My withered heart, for the poor fleeting joy
With which thy beams began my ſadneſs to deſtroy."
Or take theſe, the opening ſtanzas of book the
fourth; to us they are very beautiful. .
I
" Welcome, ſweet Robin! welcome, cheerful one!
Why doſt thou Night the merry fields of corn,
The ſounds of human joy, the plenty ſtrown
From Autumn's teeming lap; and, at gray morn,
A A
354
Thomas Cooper.
Ere the Sun wakes, fing to the things of ſcorn
And infamy and want and ſadneſs, whom
Their ſtronger fellow-criminals have torn
From freedom and the gladſome light of home,
To quench the nobler ſpark within, in dungeon'd gloom?
2
“ Why doſt thou chooſe, throughout the livelong day,
A priſon-rampart for thy perch, and ſing
As thou wouldſt rend thy fragile throat? Away,
My little friend, away, upon light wing,
A while ! Me it will cheer, imagining
Till thou reviſit this my drear ſojourn,
How, on the margent of ſome ſilver ſpring
Mantled with golden lilies, thou doſt turn
Thy pretty head awry, fo meaningly, and yearn,
>
3
“ From out that beaming look, to know what thoughts
Within the barb-leaved hart's-tongue dwell-
The purple eye petalled with ſnow, that floats
So gracefully. Doſt think the damoſel,
Young Hope, kirtled with Chaſtity, there fell
Into the ſtream, and grew a flower fo fair ?
Ah! ſtill thou linger'ſt, while I, dreaming, tell
Of pleaſures I would reap, if free I were,
Like thee, to breathe ſweet Freedom's balmy air.
4
Away !—for this is not a clime for thee-
Sweet childhood's ſacred one! The hawthorns bend
With ruddy fruitage : tiny troops, with glee
Plundering the inellow wealth, a ſhout will ſend
Aloft, if they behold their feathered friend,
Loved 'Robin Redbreaſt,' mingle with their joy!
Did they not watch thy tenderlings, and wend
With eager ſteps, when ſchool was o'er, a coy
And wiſtful peep to take-leſt ſome rude ruffian boy,
5
“ With facrilegious heart and hand, ſhould rob
Thy neſt as heathenly as if · Heaven's bird'
Thomas Cooper.
355
Were not more ſacred than the vulgar mob
Of pies and crows ? Flee,- loved one !-thou haſt heard
This diſſonance of bolts and bars that gird
Old England's modern llaves, until thy ſenſe
Of freedom's muſic will be ſepulchred.
Hie where young hearts guſh taintleſs joy intenſe,
And, 'mid their rapture, pour thy heart's mellifluence !
6
“ Still linger'ſt thou upon that dreary wall
Which bars, ſo enviouſly, my view of grove
And ſtream and hill, as if it were death's pall ?
O leave this tyrant-hold, and, joyous, rove-
Loved bird of home-Bird of our father's love-
Where the thatched cottage, clad with virgin roſe
And ſweet-brier and roſemary, thickly wove
Among vine-leaves, with nectared garland woos
The amorous bees that, ſungful, do their love-ſweets ſpouſe.
ܪ
7
“ Haſten, dear Robin !—for the aged dame
Calls thee to gather up the honeyed crumb
She ſcatters at her door ; and at thy name,
The youngſters crowd to ſee their favourite come.
Fear not Grimalkin! The doth ſing 'three-thrum,'
With happy, half-ſhut eyes, upon the warm
Soft cuſhion in the corner-chair : deaf, dumb,
And toothleſs lies old Growler :-fear no harm,
Loved Robin !-thou ſhalt banquet hold without alarm."
6
We dare not omit the following noble outburſt
of poetic rapture in honour of Liberty.
“O! not by changeling, tyrant, tool, or knave,
Thy march, bleſt Liberty, can now be ſtayed !
The wand of Guttemburg—behold it wave !
The ſpell is burſt! the dark enchantments fade
Of wrinkled ignorance ! 'Twas the betrayed
Thy firſt-born children, and ſo oft threw down
The mounds of Freedom. Lo! the Book its aid
Hath brought ! the feudal ſerf—though ſtill a clown,
Doth read ;-—and where his fires gave homage, pays—a frown.
356
Thomas Cooper.
« The finewy artizan,—the weaver lean,-
The ſhrunken ſtockinger,—the miner ſwarth,—
Read, think, and feel ; and in their eyes the ſheen
Of burning thoughts betokens thy young birth
Within their ſouls, blythe Liberty! That earth
Would thus be kindled from the humble ſpark,
Ye caught from him of Mentz, and ſcattered forth,
Fauſt,-Koſter,—Caxton !—not the clerk,'
Himſelf could propheſy in your own mid-age dark !
“ And yet, O Liberty! theſe humble toilers,
The true foundation for thy reign begun,-
Ay, and while throne-craft decks man's murderous ſpoilers,
While feverous power mocks the weary ſun,
With ſteed-throned effigies of Wellington,
And columned piles to Nelſon,-Labour's child
Turns from their haughty forms to muſe upon
The page by their blood-chronicle defiled ;-
Then, bending o'er his toil, weighs well the record wild.
Ay, they are thinking,-at the frame and loom,
At bench, and forge, and in the bowelled mine ;
And when the ſcanty hour of reſt is come,
Again they read,- to think and to divine,
How it hath come to paſs, that toil muſt pine
While noth doth revel ;-how the game of blood
Hath ſerved their tyrants ; how the ſcheme malign
Of prieſts hath cruſhed them; and reſolve doth bud,
To band—and to bring back the primal brotherhood.
“ What though awhile the braggart-tongued poltroon,
Falſe demagogue, or hireling baſe, impede
The union they affect to aid ? Right ſoon
Deep thought to ſuch conſpiracy'shall lead,
As will reſult in a ſucceſsful deed-
Not forceful, but fraternal: for the paſt
Hath warned the Million that they muſt ſucceed
By will and not by war. Yet to hold faſt
Men's rage when they are ſtarving—'tis a ſtruggle vaſt!
“ A ſtruggle that were vain unleſs the Book
Had kindled light within the toiler's ſoul,
And taught him, though 'tis difficult to brook
Contempt and hunger,-yet he muſt control
;
6
Thomas Cooper.
357
Revenge, or it will leave him more in thrall.
The pike,—the brand, -the blaze,-his leſſon faith,
Would leave old England as they have left Gaul-
Bondaged to fceptred cunning. Thus their wrath
The Million quell, but look for right with firmeſt faith.”
We could ſelect other paſſages from the “Purga-
tory of Suicides,” to juſtify both our praiſe and our
cenſure; but enough has been ſaid to ſhow the
nature and character of the work; and enough, we
truſt, to prove that among the remarkable books
of our time muſt be placed the “Purgatory of
Suicides ;” and among the remarkable men of this
age muſt be claſſed Thomas Cooper, the Chartiſt.
THE END
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
;

BOUND
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
JUN
1934
3 9015 00529 9
UNIV. OF MICH.
MODADY.