A COMIPENDIUM OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, FROM SIR JOHN MANDEV7ILLE TO WILLIAM COWPER. CONSISTING OF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF TILE AUTHORS, SELECTIONS FROM TZEIl WORKS, WITH NOTES, EXPLANATORY, ILLUSTRATIVE, AND DIRECTING TO THE BEST EDITIONS AND TO VARIOUS CRITICIS MS. DESIGNED AS A TEXT-BOOK FOR THE HIGHEST CLASSES IN SCHOOLS AND FOR JUNIOR CLASSES IN COLLEGES, AS WELL AS FOR PRIVATE READING. BY CHARLES D. CLEVELAND. TEREOTYPE EDITION. PHILADELPHIA: E. C. & J. BIDDLE & CO., No. 508 MIINOR ST. 1860. Entered according to act of Congress, in tile year IG,8. by CHARLES D. CLEVELAND, In the Clerk's Oflice of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania CLEVELAND'S SERIES OF COMPENDIUMS OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN LITERATURE CONSISTS OF COMPENDIUc M OF ENGLISI-I LITERATURE. 762 pp, large 12mo. Comprising English authors from the 14th to the 1Sth century inclusive ENGLISH LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 778 pp., larcge I2nso. Comprising living English authors, and those who have died in the 19th century. COMPENrDIUM OF A.ETRICAN LITERATURE. Comprising American authors from the earliest periad of American literature to the present time. ST1'SEOTYPED BY 1. JOHNSON AND c0. PHtILADELPHIJA. COLLINS, PRINTER. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. THE following work is, perhaps, as much the offspring of necessity, as of a love for the subject. In 1834, very soon aftier I opened my School for Young Ladies in this city, I felt greatly the want of a book to give my first or "finishing' -lass a knowledge of the best British Poets and Prose writers, arranged ini a chronological order, to show the progress of the English language, with short accounts of the authors and of their works, and such notes as would direct the reader to the best editions of the writers, to the various criticisms upon them, and to other books upon kindred subjects which might be read with profit. But such a work I could not find. Accordingly, in 183S, I printed, solely for the use of my pupils, a small syllabus of the names of most of the British authors, with the dates of their birth and death, arranged under the different sovereigns. From this syllabus I delivered a series of lectures, from time to time, until I had gone through the reign of Elizabeth, when I determzined, about four years ago, to prepare, as soon as I could, a work like the present. But numerous avocations have, until now, prevented mne from completing my design. I have felt it to be a duty to myself to give this brief history of my book, lest it should be supposed that the hint of it was taken from Chambers's " Cyclopedia of English Literature," recently reprinted in this country. On tlle contrary, it is apparent, that, years before that worlk was published, I had matured the plan of this, and had gathered materials for it. Besides, the " Cyclopedia," excellent as it is, is on a different plan, and far too voluminous for the object for which the "Compendium" is intended: yet the two, so far from conflicting with each other, may be mutual aids; for I should hope that mlly own work would give the reader a greater longing to extend his inquiries into the same most interesting subject —one so rich in every thing that can refine the taste, enlarge the understanding, and implrove the heart. In making selections for my work, I have not been prevented from inserting many pieces because they had previously been selected by others; for I did not deem myself to be wiser, or to possess a better taste, than hundreds who have gleaned from the same rich field. Hence, while much, to the generality of readers, will be new, some extracts may also be found that will be familiar. But, like old friends, their re-appearance, I hope, will be hailed with pleasure. Besides, I have constantly endeavored to bear in mind a truth, which even those engaged in education may somietimes forget, that what is well known to us, must be new to every successive generation; and, therefore, that all books of selections designed for them, should contain a poition of such pieces as all of any pretensions to taste have united to admllire. Milton's "Invocation to Light,:' ope's " Messiahl," Goldsrmith's' "YVillage Pastor," and Gray's "Elegy" are illustrations of my meaning. But if any one should miss some favorite piece, let him reflect that I could not put in every thing, and be assured that often, very often I have felt no little pain in being compelled, from my narrow limits, to reject pieces of acknowledged beauty and merit. Let him but propose to himself, too, the task of bringing the beauties of English Literature into a duolecimo of seveul hundred pages, and I am sure he will be little inclined to censure my deficiencies. I say not this to deprecate criticism.- On the contrary, I invite it, and shall be glad to have all the faults in the worlrk —both of omission and commission-faithfully pointed out. 3 4 PREFACE. In the preparation and execution of this work, I trust I have not been un mindful of the great, the solemn responsibility that rests upon him who is preparing a book which may form the taste, direct the judgment, and mould the opinions of thousands of the rising generation; and I hope and pray that it may contain not one line, original or selected, which can have the least injurious effect upon a single mind; not one line which, "dying, I might wish to blot;" —but that, on the contrary, it may render good service to the cause of sound education; may exert, wherever read, a wholesome moral influence; and impress upon the minds of the young, principles essential to their well-being and happiness for time and for eternity-principles in harmony Nwith everlasting truth. CHARLES D. CLEVELAND. PHILADELPHIA, November 2, 1847. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. THOUGH it is but ten months since the first edition of fifteen hundred copies of the "Compendium" was published, it is now exhausted. For the great favor with which it has been received, I am truly grateful, and have felt that I could return my thanks in no way more suitable than by endeavoring to make the second edition (now to be in a permanent form) as much better as my experience in the use of the first edition, further reading and research, and the suggestions of many literary friends would enable me to do. Accordingly, the present stereotyped edition will be found to be considerably enlarged, and I would hope materially improved. To state all the additions, however, would be impracticable in the limits of a preface. I must therefore confine myself to the most important. First. There are hi this edition, numerically, seventy-six more pagcs than in the first; but owing to a trifling enlargement of the page, and to the notes being printed in a smaller type, there are, at least, one hundred and fifty more pages of the same size and type as the first edition. Yet for all this, no advance in the price is contemplated by the publishers. Second. Thirty-five new authors have been added; they are the following:Johll Gower, James I. of Scotland, John Still, Queen Elizabeth, Sir Thomas OveLbury, Francis Beaumont, Lady Elizabeth Carey, John Fletcher, John Donne, Michael Drayton, George Herbert, Gervase Markham, William Habington, Richard Lovelace, Catherine Philips, Sir William Davenant, Margaret Duchess of Newcastle, Edward Hyde Earl of Clarendon, Owen Felltharm, Robert Leighton, Anne Killegrew, Henry Vaughan, Anne Finch, Esther Vanhomrigh, George Sewell, John Arbuthnot, Elizabeth Rowe, Thomas Yalden, Elizabeth Tollet, Lady Montagu, Catherine Talbot, Thomas Chatterton, Tobias Smollet, M3rs. Greville, William Pitt Earl of Chatham. Third. Many new selections will be found from the prose writings of the poets given in the first edition-from Chaucer, Wyatt, Southwell, Spenser, Sandys, Gay, Gray, Cowper, and Sir William Jones. These, with the prose selections from other poets opreviously given, will fully substantiate the remark of Sir Egerton Brydges, that our best poets will be found tro have elqually excelled in prose. PREFAkCE. 5 Fourth. Many more specimens of the English female mind will be found in this edition. The reader, however, must bear in mind that the most distinguished female writers of England have been during the present century, into which it was not my purpose to enter. Fifth. This edition will be found to be enriched also with many more specimens of epistolary correspondence-not only the most interesting portions of an author's writings, as they show us more plainly the workings of his heart; but the most permanently valuable, serving as models in that branch of literature with which every one must, more or less, be practically conversant. The letters of Wyatt, Temple, Gay, Gray, Pope, Montagu, Jones, and Cowper, will, I am sure, be considered as adding much to the value of the "Compendium." The changes that have been made in a few of the authors were not made without substantial reasons, which I think it proper concisely to state.-MoRiE. The previous account of the Utopia was too meagre to give a correct idea of it; and there were some points in the author's life that deserved to be brought out, to do justice to. his character.- MARLow. The beautiful song, "The Passionate Shepherd to his Love," is now printed as found in Sir Egerton Brydges's elegant edition of Sir Walter Raleigh's Poems, which I took the pains to procure, though but one hundred copies of it were printed. It is now, doubtless, correct; and who will not be struck with its superior beauty? —SOUTHWELL. One of his poems I had to omit, to make room for some of his equally charming prose. —ENGIisH MINsTRxELSY. The changing of the ballad of the "Demon Lover," for the longer and far richer one of " Sir Patrick Spens," every one must deem an improvement.-TTRANsLATION OF TnE BIBLE. The account of the most important versions of the Bible is now given, chronologically arranged, with some additional remarks on the value of our present version.-SHA KsPEARE. " Othello's Defence," being more common, is left out for two choice extracts that are less known. -SIR VWALTER RALEIGH. More change has been made in this author than in any other, as I was able to procure a copy-of Sir E. Brydges's edition of h's works. "The Nymph's Reply" is now printed correctly, and every one must see its greater beauty. The "Soul's Errand" is given to him for reasons stated in the note under the piece. —BEN JoNsoN. An additional piece of poetry and of prose. —Gorase SxNDvs. An extract from the Preface to his travels. —CRASHaw. A portion of his spirited version of the twenty-third Psalm.-JEiREYM y TAYLOR. Instead of the " Ephesian Woman," will be found those most instructive remarks, "What is Life " —MILTON. Considerable change will be found in this author. I was very desirous to give one of his poetical pieces entire, and selected his "Lycidas," which, of all his minor pieces, ranks next in merit to "Comus." Thlis obliged me to throw out the extracts from " LAllegro," and "II Penseroso,"' and two extracts from "1 Paradise Lost." I regretted the loss of these the less, as they are more generally known. I also added two extracts from' "Paradise Regained," and another of his exquisite " Sonnets." The extracts, also, from Dr. Symmons's and from Sir E. Brydges's Life of this " greatest of great men," will be deemed choice additions.-AN lEw MARVELL. His "Song of the Emigrants" is now printed from the best edition of his works: the alterations, though trifling in number, are certainly for the better. —SAMUEL BUTLER. This was one author firom whom I thought I could take two pages, without much los. —WAL-roT. The additions from this author will, I am sure, be considered an improvement. DrETEN. Instead of the " Character of Shaftesbury," the reader will finld the beautiful " Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killegrew," and an addttional extract from his prose works: his remarks on Spenser and Mliltor I hI-ave left out, as they are hardly nworthy of his genius. Al)uIsoN. To the exlju 6i PREFACE. tracts from this author I have added two papers on Sir Roger de Coverley, arndl a portion of his poetical Epistle to Lord Halifax. I left out the two hymns, beginning, " When all thy mercies, 0 my God," and, "How are thy servants blest, 0 Lord," because it is very doubtful whether lie wrote them. Addison introduces them in the Spectator, as if they were the production of another; and the editor of Andrew Marvell's works, Edward Thompson, makes it appear very probable that they were written by his author, as they were found among his manuscripts in his hand-writing, with some variations.GAY. His letter on the "Village Lovers" is a gem.-SWIFT. His satire on "Transubstantiation" is omitted for two reasons: the subject is too sacred for such a weapon, and the doctrine too absurd for refutation. Instead of this, the reader will find a still more humorous piece,-that on " Partridge's Death."-PoPE. The extracts from the "Essay on Criticisel," tlhe "Essay on Man," and his "Letter to Steele,j" additional; and the extracts fromn the "Raple of the Lock" better arranged.-TEosisoN. " The Loves of the Birds," "A Summer Scene," "A Thunder-Shower,"' "The Springs of Rivers," and "A Mfan perishing in the Snows of Winter," additional.-BoLINGsroroE. " The Use of History," additional.-GRAY. His " Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College," the exquisitely beautiful " Song," and the four " Letters," additional. — GOLDSMITH. The " Scenery of the Alps," and the " History of a Poet's Gar den," takle the place of "Alcander and Septimius," a rather unnatural story. — BLACKSTOSE. His remarks on "The Origin and Right of Property," omitted, as altogether too dry.-JoINsoN. " Gayety and Good-Humor," "The Conversation of Authors," " Books and Tradition," " Prevention of Evil Habits," and "' Parallel between Pope and Dryden," additional.-LowTaI. His " Remarks on the Sublimity of the Prophet Isaiah," who will not value?-SJoNEs. His beautiful letter on "Milton's Residence," additional. —BURiE. "John Howard," " Sir Joshua Reynolds," " Rights of lMan," " Noisy Politicians," all additional.-JuNIius. This author had rather nmLore than his share before: I therefore omitted two letters of less importancae.-CowPrE. "The Wounded Spirit Healed," "The Guilt of making Man Property," "The Diverting History of John Gilpin," and five letters,-" Cowper's Amusements," "' Writing upon Any Thing," "An Epistle in Rhyme," "Expects Lady Hesketh, &c.," " Translation of Homer, &c.," all additional. Such are the most important additions and alterations which have been made in the second edition. But there is hardly an author that remails precisely as before. In alltmost every one, some additional notes will be found, andl the number of verbal alterations is very great. This is owing to the fact that the second proof of this edition I have read very carefully with a most experienced. and critical proof-readcer, by the best original edition of each author. One would be surprised to see how many errors have crept into thle various reprints. To give but two specimens: the fourth line of the "Emigrants," of Marvell, reads in the common editions, "The listening winds received their song." It should be "this song;" and then the song follows, and not in verses as usually printed. The last line but one of Cowper's eulogy on Johlt Bunyan usually reads, "And not with curses on his heart:" it should beAnd not with curses on his art, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. Numerous cases of a similar character rnight be cited; but I have already said quite enough of my own efforts to improve this edition: the Publishers, it will be seen, have done their part in a style of unusual beauty; so that, I believe, scarcely any book has been offered to the public at so moderate a pice, if' the amount of reading nmatter and the style of mechanical execution be takenl into view PltILAI)ELPFItA, Setten)sber 2, 1848. C. D C. ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. ADDrISO, JOSEPH 374 COWLET, ABRAHAM. 225 AKENSIDE, MAR. 578 COWPER, WILLIAM 734 ARBUTHNOT, JOHN.. 419 CRASHAW, RICHARD. 192 ASCHAM, ROGER 74 DANIEL, SAMUEL. 155 BACON, FRANCIS 159 DAVENANT, WILLIAM. 231 BARBOUR, JOHN.. 25 Dr FOE, DANIEL. 410 BARCLAY, ROBERT 324 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP o. 99 BARROW, IsAAC 278 DODSLEY, RBERT.. 549 BAXTER, RICHARD.. 332 DONNE, JOHN.. 165 BEAUMIONT, FRANCIS 143 DIRAYTON, MICHAEL. 169 BE NTLEY, RICHARD.. 429 DRurmMOND, WILLIAM. 190 BERKELEY, GEORGE 510 DRYDEN, JOIN. 346 BIBLE, TRANSLATIONS OF 118 DUNBAR, WILLIAM.. 44 BLACKSTONE, WILLIAM. 645 1ELIZABEITH, QUEEN 117 LAIR,xRoBERT... 465 FALCONER, WILLIAM 562 BOLINnBROKE, LORD 494 FELLTLAMT, OWEN.. 288 BOOTH, BARTON. 418 FINCCH, ANNE.. 396 BoYLE, ROBERT 328 FLETCHER, GIL. 158 BROWNE, THOIMAS 298 FLETCHER, JOHN. 143 BUNYAN, JOHn N.. 317 FLETCHER, PHINEAS 195 BURKE, EDMt... 712 FULLER, THOMAS. 207 BURNS, ROBERT... 700 GAY, JOHN. 414 BUTLER, JOSEPH... 504 GIBBON, EDWARD 6 88 BUTLER, SAMEL.. 292 GOLDSITHa, OLIVER 618 BYRnoI, JOHN.. 538 GOWER, JOHN. 34 CAREW, TioAS.. 177 GRAY, THOMA... 585 CAREY, ELIZABETH 154 GREVILE,as. MRS. 672 CAXTON) WILLIAM... 42 Go, HENRY.. 424 C ATHAM, EARL OF.. 639 HABINTON, WILIA. 197 CHATTERTON, THOMAS 570 HALE, MATTHEWV. C 274 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY.. 26 HAL, JOSE.. 199 CHEKE, JOI[HN. 68 HAWKESWORTH, JOHN.. 609 CHILLIanWORTH, WTILLIAM. 182 HERBERT, GEORGE.. 175 CLARENDON, EARL OF. 269 IHERRICK, RonERT r 213 COLLINS, WTILLIAM. 16 H EYwoor, ooIN O. 70 8 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. HOOKER, RICHARD. 104 RoBERTSON, WILLIA3M. 684 HoWARD, HENRY... 60 RowE, ELIZABETH. a. 422 HIrUE, DAVID... 635 RUSSELL, RACHEL.. 400 HYDiE, EDWARD... 269 SACVKILLE, THOM1AS. 121 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.. 38 ST. JOHN, HENnY.. 494 JOHNSON, SAMUEL... 647 SANDYS, GEORGE... 180 JONES, WILLIAI M... 95 SEWELL, GEORGE.. 401 JONSON, BEN.... 172 SHAKrSPEARE, WILLIAM.. 127 JUNIUS, LETTERS OF.. 723 SHENSTONE, WILLIAM.. 546 KILLEGREW, ANNE... 312 SHERLOCK, THOMAS.. 529 KING, WILLIAM... 541 SIDNEY, PHILIP.. 80 LATIMER, HUGH... 65 SMOLLET, TOBIAS... 606 LEIGHTON, ROBERT. e 309 SOMrERVILLE, WILLIAM' 431 LOCE, JON.... 356 SPENSER, EDMUND. e. 93 LOVELACE, RICHRD.. 205 SOUTH, ROBERT.. 362 LOWTH, ROBERT... 673 SOUTHWELL, ROBERT.. 88 MANDEVILLE, JOHN.. 17 STEELE, RICHARD.. 402 -MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEW- STILL, JOHN... 73 CASTLE.... 236 SURREY, EARL OF. 60 MARKHAXr, GERVASE.. 179 SWIFT, JONATHAN.. 433 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPrHER. 87 TALBOT, CATHERINE. 566 MARVELL, ANDREW.. 282 TAYLOR, JEREMY... 218 MII)DLETON, CONYERS.. 489 TEMPLE, WILLIAB.. 342 [MILTON, JOHN 239 THOMSON, JArES... 468 MINSTRELSY, ENGLISH.. 109 TICKELL, THOrAS.. 427 MONTAGU, LADY MARY. 532 TILLOTSON, J OI1N... 336 MORE, THOXAS... 47 TOLLET, ELIZABETH.. 515 NEWCASTLE, DUCHESS OF. 236 TYNDALE, WILLIAx.. 53 OVERBURY, THOMAS.. 125 VAUGHAN, HENRY.. 339 PARNELL, TnIOAS 366 VANIuOMRIGH, ESTrHER. 399 PENN, WILLIAx... 369 WALLER, E~DMUND5.. 314 PHILIPS, CATHERINE.. 216 WALTON, IsaAC... 302 PITT, WVTILLIA... 639 WARTON, THOmAS.. 680 POPE, ALEXNDER.. 450 WATTS, ISAAC. 479 PRIOR, MATTHEW. 398 WICLIF, JOHN... 21 QUARLES, FRANCIS.. 186 WYATT, THOMAS.. 55 RALEIGH, WALTER.. 146 YALDEN, THOMAS. 446 IrCHARDSON, SAMtUEL 525 YOUNG, ED)WAR).. 555 CONTENTS. iIR JOHN MANDEVILLE -..... 17 WILLIAM TYNDALE.....5 From the Prologue.................. 18 Various Translations of the Bible. 53 The Chinese......................... 19 His Death... 54 Spherical Form of the Earth......... 20 Tyndale's Version, Luke x. 25. 54 JOHN WICLIF....................... 21 SIR THOMAS WYATT............... 55 Gratitude due the Reformer (note)-. 22 The Lover complaineth of the unkindWordsworth's Lines on Wiclif (note).. 22 ness of his Love................. 56 Wiclif's Apology —-............... 23 Hle prayeth not to be Disdained, &c. 57 All-sufficiency of the Scriptures. 23 Description of One he would love * 57 Papal Opposition to Wiclif, (note) *... 23 Of the Mlean and Sure Estate... 58 Specimen of his Translation of the Of his Return from Spain............ 58 Bible....... —............ 24 Prose......................... 58 Letter to his Son.................... 58 JOHN BARBOUR..... Ad25 Apostrophe to Freedom.............. 25 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 60 Paraphrase of the same, (note)....... 26 Prisoner in Windsor. -....-.. 61 Dr. Nott's Comparison between Surrey GEOFFREY CHAUCER............... 26 and Wyatt, (note)............... 61 Boccacio's Decameron, (note)......... 27 The Frailty of Beauty........... - 63 Prologue to Canterbury Tales..... 28 In Praise of his Lady-love........... 63 Influence on the Reformation, (note). 28 Description of Spring................. 64 The Knight and Squire.............. 29 A happy Life, and the Means to attain 64 The Clerk.......................... 30 it.-............................. 64 The Wife........-.. 30 The Parson........................ 31 HUGH LATIMER............~....... 65 Troilus and Creseida................. 32 His Martyrdom............... 65 Romaunt of the Rose................ 32 A Yeoman of Henry VII.'s Time..... 65 The House of Fame................. 32 Examined before the Bishops........ 66 Eagle's Flight with the Poet......... 33 Cause and Effect..................... 67 Pope's Imitation, (note)............. 33 The Plower and the Leaf..-.. 33 SIR JOHN CIIEKE................... 68 Prose —Upon Itiches..e...... 33 Lines from Milton, (note)............ 68 The New and the Old Religion conJOHN GOWER —-............... 34 trasted.. - 69 Confessio Amantis.................. 34 Story of Florent..................... 35 JOHN HEYWOOD............... 70 The Drama........................ 70 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND............ 38 Miracle Plays....................... 70 The King's Quair.................... 38 Moral Plays..70 On his Beloved...................... 39 Writers of Elizabeth's Reign, (note). ~ 70 Interludes.......................... 7 WILLIAM CAXTON.................. 42 From the Four P's................... 71 Discovery of the Art of Printing, (note) 42 Palmer and Pilgrim, (note). - - - 71 Origin of the Name of Albion........ 43 JOHN STILL......................... 7? WILLIAM DUNBAR................. 44 Gammer GCurton's Needle * ——. 73 The Thistle and the Rose - - -............ — 45 - Extract from. *- 74 Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins...... 45. No Treasure without Gladness....... 46 ROGER ASCHAM.................... 74 From the Toxophilus............... 75 SIR THOMAS MOE.. 47 In Praise of the Goose............... 76 Interview with Erasmus...- 47 Apology for Writing in English.......... 77 The Utopia, account of.~.. 48 Intermixture of Study and Exercise- - 8 His other Works...- - 50 Consequences of Neglected Education 78 Queen Margaret's Speech on giving. Dangers of Foreign Travel........... 79 up her Son to the " Protector" -. 50 His Marriages...................... 51 IR PHILIP SIDNEY.... —-..- -. His Letter to his Wife. - 52 The Arcad.ia. * * *- *- -.. 81 10 CONTENTS. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. Description of Arcadia............... 81 Prose Writings.. - -. - 126 Pamela and Philoclea.............. 81 A Fair and Happy Milkmaid... -- 126 Description of a Stag-hunt......... 82 Hlis Defence of Poesy................ 83 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE............ 127 Character of the Poet............... 83 Chronological List of his Plays-. -- -- - 128 Philosopher, Historian, and Poet, corn- Ben Jonson's Encomium............ 129 pared.......................... 84 Dryden's Encomium -. -- 129 In Praise of Poesy.................. 85 From the "Merchant of Venice,"-the Poetry-Sonnet to Sleep............. 87 Three Caskets........ -- -- 130 The Seven Ages..................... 134 CURISTOPIIER MARLOWE. -- - -. 87 Clarence's Dream................... 135.A Passionate Shepherd to his Love.. 87 Fall of Cardinal Wolsey............. 137 Queen Mab and the Fairies.......... 139 ROBERT SOUTHWELL............... 88 Life and Death weighed. -- -- -- —.- - - 140 The Power of Truth, Bryant, (note).. 89 Mercy........ —-.-. —. ——. -~ —-. 141 Times go by Turns.................- 89 Fame to be kept bright by Activity. ~ 141 Scorn not the Least- —. —-.-.. — -. 90 The Commonwealth of Bees.......... 142 Content and Rich................... 90 Prose-Mary Magdalen's Tears.- - * 91 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER-........ 143 Life hath no Unmeddled Joy......... 92 Address to Melancholy.............. 143 The Life of Man.- -........ ** — 144 EDMUND SPENSER.................. 93 Morning............................ 144 Remarks on the "Faerie Queene".... 94 Exhortation to Early Rising...... 144 The Knight and the Lady. - - - - - - - 95 The Shepherd's Evening. - * - - 145 Una followed by the Lion............ 97 Description of Prince Arthur - - -. — - 99 SIR WALTER RALEIGH............. 146 Belphoebe. - * * - - - -. - 100 The Fall of mighty Empires-The Folly The Care of Angels over Men.- - - - 102 of Ambition-The Power of Death 147 The Seasons *......... - - -. 102 Hils various Prose Works.. -- -- - 148 Criticisms of Mackintosh, Iazlitt, and Poetry..................... - -- 149 Campbell, (notes)............... 103 A Description of the Country's RecreaProse Works......... 103 tions 149 The Irish Bards..................... 104 Sir Egerton Brydges's Opinion of him as a Poet, (note)................. 149 ['ICHARD HOOKER................. 104 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd. 1550 His Ecclesiastical Polity- - -. - - 105 A Vision upon the Faerie Queene- *.. 151 His Letter to the Archbishop......... 105 The Soul's Errand................... 151 The Necessity and Majesty of Law..- - - 106 His last Letter to his Wife.......... 153 Sudden Death not Desirable......... 107 The Excellency of the Psalms........ 108 LADY ELIZABETH CAREY.......... 154 On Forgiveness of Injuries........... 154 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY............. 109 Account of the Minstrels............ 109 SAMUEL DANIEL................... 155 Sir Patrlick Spens................... 109 His History of the Civil Wars........ 155 Chevy Chase.... 112 Equanimity........................ 156 The Two Corbies.................... 116 Richard the Second — * —--------—. 157 QUEEN ELIZABETH................ 117 GILES FLETCIER........ —------—. 158 Verses on her own Feelings - - - - - - - - -. 117 Redemption..............1 58 IIistorical Account of them, (note) - - - - 117 FRANCIS BACON......... 159 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.. - 118 Account of his various Works.- - 160 Coverdale's Bible.. 118 Diverse Objects of Men to gain KnowlMatthewe's Bible................... 118 ledge.. - - - - - - - - - - -. 161 Cranmer's, or the Great Bible... - 119 Preservation of Knowledge.......... 161 Taverner's Bible.................... 119 Pleasure of Knowledge.............. 162 Geneva Bible-. - -- * -- 119 Uses of Knowledge.................. 162 Bishops' Bible....................... 119 Studies. 163 Douay Bible-.............- 119 End of Knowledge.................. 164 King James's Bible................. 119 Immortality of Literary Fame....... 164 Account of the same................ 119 Influence of the Bible on the English JOHN DONNE............. * 165 Mind-........................... 120 The Farewell....................... 166 Mrs. Ellis's Remarks, (not) 121 Prose..167 Mrs.Ellis'sRemarks, (note)-..........121 Prose.............................. 167 The Psalms........ - 167 IHOMAS SACKVILLE. - - - 121 Christians to Preach by Example - 167 From the Ferrex and Porrex......... 122 God may be Worshipped anywhere ~ ~ 167 The Mirror of Magistrates............ 122 Greatest Cross to have no Cross...... 168 Allegorical Characters in. Eel - - - - 122 Anger.............................. 168 SIR THOMAS OVERBURY........... 125 MICIAEL DRAYTON................ 169 The Wife.. 126 Chorus of the Birds................. 169 CONTENTS.:11 MICHAEL DRAYTON. JOSEPH IIALL. The Parting.............. 170 His Meditations.-.- 201 Palace of the Fairies: Queen Mab's A Red-breast coming into his Chamber 202 Chariot, and her Journey........ 170 Hearing Music by Night........... 202 The Sight of a great Library..-.. 202 BEN JONSON. —-~ v v - --—.- 172 The Happy Man... 203 Cupid -.- - 172 Burns's Opinion of Happiness, (note) 203 Hymn to Cynthia..-.- - 173 Pleasure of Study and Contemplation 204 Prose Writings...................... 173 Directions for Writing well.......... 173 RICHARD. LOVELACE -.. -- -- *..- -.. - 205 Character of Lord Bacon............. 174 To Althea........................206 The Grasshopper —..-.-... —-- 200 GEORGE HERBERT.. —. —- 175 Concerning Detraction.............. 175 THOMAS FULLER................... 207 His Character as a Poet.- -.-.-.-.-.- 176 hIis various Works............. 207 Sunday............................. 176 Iiscellaneous Aphorisms —............ - 208 The Bosom Sin...................... 177 The Good Schoolmaster. - - - -...208 The Good Wife- - - -.- -.- - -..... 210 THOMAS CAREW.................... 177 The Good Sea-captain..... 210 Epitaph on the Lady Mary ~illiers.. 178 On Travelling - - a............. 211 Persuasions to Love.- -- - - 178 Of Memory...212 Pleasure........................... 178 ROBERT HERRICK......... 213 GERVASE IARHIIAM -.-........... 179 To Daffodils........................ 213 The Good Housewife................ 179 To Primroses *... -- m......... 213 To Blossoms * - *-.. -..........-. 214 GEORGE SANDYS................... 180 I-ow Heart's-ease first came......... 214 The Lamentation of David.- -- -- -- 180 The Captive Bee.................... 215 Fall of Ancient Empires............. 181 The Night-Piece, to Julia- *......- - 215 The Primrose.. —.-............... 216 WILLIAM CIIILLINGWORTIt........ 182 Upon a Child that Died- -- -—... — -- 216 The Necessity of an Unadulterated Epitaph upon a Child............... 216 Scripture....................... 183 Upon a Maid................ 216 Scripture alone the Rule of Faith- -. - 184 The Sin of Duelling................. 184 CATHERINE PHILIPS.........@ 216 Extract from Dr. Beecher's Sermon on Against Pleasure.................... - 217 the same, (note)................. 186 To my Antenor.... -.. as 217 FRANCIS QUARLES................. 186 JEREMY TAYLOR................... 218 Whither shall I fly?. - - - - - 186 On Prayer - - *-.. 219 The World.. - - ---- 187 On Toleration....................... 220 Mercy tempering Justice............ 188 On Content......................... 221 His Prose Works.. 188 Lines from Burns and Thomson, Extracts from the Enchiridion....... 188 (note).......................... 221 On Covetousness. 222 WILLIAM DRUMMOND.............. 190 Adversity.222 The Praise of a Solitary Life- - - -- - - - 190 Lines from Shakspeare, (note)........ 222 On Sleep............................ 191 The Miseries of a Man's Life. - 223 On Spring... 191 Dawn and Progress of Reason........ 223 To his Lute......................... 191 What is Life?... 223 To the Nightingale. - - *.- - - -- 192 ABRAHAMI COWLEY..- 225 RICHIIARD CRASIIAW............... 192 Gold ~... 226 Lines on a Prayer-Book. 103 The Grasshopper.................... 226 Yersion of Twenty-third Psalm....... 194 Hymn to.Light...........- * * - 227 His Prose Works. -. - - - - - -. 227 PHINEAS FLETCHER............... 195 On Myself....................... 227 Account of the Purple Island........ 195 The Pleasures of a Country Life.-.. 229 The Shepherd's Life- -............... 195 Character of Cromwell.............. 230 Envy.......................... 196 Decay of Human Greatness.......... 196 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT......... 231 Poet Laureate, what? (note) - - 231 WILLIAM HABINGTON............. 197 Gondibert, its story................. 232 To Castara......................... 198 Character and Love of Birtha. 233 The Yanity of Avarice............... 198 Song, " The Lark now leaves". - 235 JOSEPH HALL....... 199 MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWHis Satires......................... 199 CASTLE...................- 236 The Client and Lawyer — -. - -—.- —. 199 Mirth and Melancholy- - a -.. 6. --- 236 The Domestic Tutor................. 200 Mirthl................... 236 The Rustic wishing to turn Soldier. ~ 200 Melancholy.................237 The Fashionable Beau............... 201 On the Theme of Love........... 238 His Prose Writings...... -.. 201 The Funeral of Calamity... 238 12 CONTENTS. JOHN MILaTON................... 239 SAMUEL BUTLER His chief Poetical Works... -- --- 240 His Apparel........................ 296 Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity 241 Butler's Prose-A Small Poet........ 296 Lycidas............................ 243 Scene from Comus.................. 249 THOMAS BROWNE............. 298 Invocation to Light.................-.-.. 252 His various Works..-............... 298 Eve's Account of her Creation....... 253 Thoughts on Death and Immortality. 299 Evening in Paradise....... - 254 Pride........................~..... 300 Rome.............................. 257 Soliloquies of the Old Philosopher and Athens............................. 257 the Young Lady, (note)............ - 301 Samson's Lamentation for his Blind- His Latinized English............... 302 ness........................... 258 Sonnet on his own Blindness........ 259 IZAAK WALTON.................... 302 To Cyriack Skinner.................. 260 Complete Angler.................... 303 To a Virtuous Young Lady —.... 260 Falconry, account of, (note)- - -...... 303 His Prose Works.................... 260 Dialogue-Falconer................. 303 He consecrates his Powers to the Cause Venator.................. 305 of Truth-Studies and Preparation Piscator................. 305 for his great work.............. 261 Piscator and Milk-woman........... 307 Argument for the Liberty of the Press 265 Exhortation to Contentment. - 308 England and London............... 266 Rieform............................ 266 ROBERT LEIGHTON................. 309 The Power of Truth................. 267 Despise not the Least................ 310 The Poet's Morning.- - - -.-.-.- 268 The Beasts within us................ 310 Symmons's Estimate of his Character 268 All Christians Preachers............ - --- ill Sir Egerton Brydges's Estimate. —-..268 Temperance....................... - - 311 The Heart the Great Regulator -. - 311 E.DWARD IHYDE, EARL OF CLAREN- A Contracted Sphere no Security DON..... 269 against Worldliness............. 312 John Hampden........... 270 Character of Charles I., (note).. 270 ANNE KILLIGREW................. 312 Lord Falkland...................... 272 The Discontent...................... 312 SIR MATTHEW IALE..*....~ 274 EDMUND WALLER. —. -- -.....-.... 314 Lord Erskine's Encomium, (note).... 274 Panegyric to my Lord Protector -.-.. 315 Cowper's Encomium, (note).- -... *- 274 Beauty and the Rose compared -..-.... 316 To his Children-upon regulating their conversation.................... 2275 JOHN BUNYAN. J.OH 317 Cowper's Lines to Bunyan- - -. 317 ISAAC BARROW. —................. 278 His various Works.................. 319 Duty of Bountyto the Poor- * - - -.. 278 Pilgrim's Progress. - - - - - - - - - - e - - 319 The Structure of the Body a Proof of Macaulay's Eulogy, (note)........... 320 Divine Wisdom............ 280 Christian in Doubting Castle... X -.. 320 Guilt of making man Property, (note) 280 What is Wit? - - -.................. 281 ROBERT BARCLAY...... 324 Knowledge a Source of Delight..- - - 282 Practical Religion, (note) -.............. 325 Dedication to Charles II......... 325 ANDREW MARVELL... 282 Against Titles of Honor............. 326 Bacon on Knowledge, (note)......... 282 Doleful Evils of the Press - -- -.. ---—.... 283 ROBERT BOYLE......... 328 Parody on Charles II.'s Speeches-..- - 284 His Various Writings -.......- -- 329 Friendship of Marvell and Milton-.... 285 The Study of Natural Philosophy fax Milton............................ 286 vorable to Religion- -- - - - - - - - - -. 330 His Poetry-The Emigrants......... 286 Discrimination necessary in Reading The Nymph complaining for the Death the Scriptures-........ - - 331 of her Fawn- - -..- *e-. —-- 287 RICHARD BAXTER —.-.-. —..... 332 OWEN FELLTHAMI... —....-.... — 288 Experience of Human Clqaracter. ---- 333 We are Happy or Miserable by Com- Desire of Approbation............... 334 parison * --. ~ - - - * -. -. 289 Character of Sir Matthew Hale. — - - -334 On Prayer -......................... 289 Theological Controversies - -...... -- 336 Of Faith and Works.................. 290 Sedulity and Diligence -.-.. 290 JOHN TILLOTSON... 336 Content makes Rich *............. 291 False and True Pleasure............ 837 Morning and Evening Prayer..s —* 292 Evidence of a Creator in the Structure of the World................... 337 SAMUEL BUTLER....-......-.-. 292 Education.............. -......... 338 tMlacaulay's Character of the Puritans, Coleridge's Views of Education, (note) 338 (note)....... 293 Formation of a Youthful Mind...... 338 Description of Hudibras. - - - - -. —. 293 Worldly Influences................. 339 HIudibras's Logic -.............-. 294 His Mathematics.................... 295 HENRY VAUGHAN- —........-..... 339 Mis Metaphysics- -- - - - -..-..., 295 Early Rising and Prayer. - -- -....- 340 CONTENTS. 13 HENRY VAUGIIAN. ANNE FINCHtI....... —.. 396 Pleasures of the Country............ 340 I The Atheist and the Acorn.- ------ 396 Responsibility of Authors and Pu n- Life's Progress.......... 397 lishers......................... 341 MATTHEW PRIOR... *..**..,.*.** 398 QIR WILLIAM TEMPLE............. 342 An Epitaph............. -. 398 His various Works -............... 342 his Essay on Ancient and Modern ESTHER VANHOMRIGH....-... —--- 399 Learning....................... 342 Ode to Spring....................... 399 Pleasures of a Rural Life........... 343 Hiomer and Virgil compared -. 343 LADY RACHEL RUSSELL........... 400 Against excessive Grief............. 344 Letter to Dr. Fitzwilliam.. *.....- - 400 JOHN DRYDEN...................... 346 GEORGE SEWELL................... 401 IIis various Works.................. 346 Verses in Anticipation of his own Death 402 Estimate of his Character............ 347 Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Kil- SIR RICHARD STEELE.-. —.. 402 legrew......................... 348 His Claims to be considered the Father On Milton.......................... 49 of Periodical Writings........... 403 Veni Creator Spiritus............... 349 The Dream......................... 404 Enjoyment of the Present Hour re- The Death of his Father............. 405 commended.................... 350 The Strength of True Love........... 405 His Prose Works. * e * 351 The Blind restored to Sight. 407 Shakspeare......................... 352 Ben Jonson -.. —---.- - -.- 352 DANIEL DE FOE.................... 410 Chaucer and Cowley................ 353 His various Works..- - - -- -- -- —.- 410 The Heathen —Peason and Revelation 354 Robinson Crusoe discovers the Footprint..-..............-...... 411 JOHN LOCKE........................ 356 hIts various Works................. 357 JOHN GAY.......................... 414 Practice and Habit.................. 357 The Bull and the Mastiff - - *.... - 414 Injudicious Haste in Study — - -....359 The Hare and many Friends........~ 415 Importance of Moral Education.. -. 360 His Prose Works.................. 416 The Right Improvement of History.. 360 The Village Lovers. - - -- 416 The Schoolmaster, (note)- -. —- -—. 360 Orthodoxy and Heresy.............. 361 BARTON BOOTH..-. - - ~- -.... 418 Duty of Preserving Health. * *.. 362 Sweet are the charms of her I love.. 418 ROBERT SOUTH..................... 362 JOHN ARBUTHNOT........ 419 The Will for the Deed. *- * * 363 Know Yourself..................... 420 Covetousness.. --—. —---- 364 The Glory of the Clergy............. 365 ELIZABETH ROWE............. 422 The Pleasures of Amusement and In- Despair............... 423 dustry compared................ 365 A Hymn.......- -. - -- - 423 The Eye of Conscience..... *. 365 HENRY GROVE.. —----------- 424 TIOMAS PARNELL................. 366 The true Art of enjoying Life... *. 425 From the HIermit.-.- 367 On Novelty....................- 426 Story on which the "Hiermit" is founded, (note).................. 367 THOMAS TICKELL.................. 427 Hymn to Contentment.............. 368 On the Death of Addison.. - -.- 427 WILLIAM PENN.................... 369 RICHARD BENTLEY............ 429 Preface to his Maxims............... 370 Authority of Reason in Religion.. 430 Advice to his Children............... 372 WILLIAM SOMERVILLE............ 431 )OSEPH ADDISON................... 374 Beginning of a Fox-Hunt............. 431 Commencement of the Tatler, (note)-.. 375 Lines addressed to Addison......... 432 Spectator..... 375 Guardian..... 376 JONATHAN SWIFT.................. 433 On Shakspeare..................... 377 Wood's HIalf-Pence.................. 434 Bickerstaff's learnin( Fencing....... 378 Country IHospitality.. *- *- * - -. 435 On the Use of the Fan............... 378 The Spider and the Bee.............. 437 The Lover's Leap................... 881 Partridgle's Death foretold............ 439 Dissection of a Beau's Ilead.......... 383 Partridge's Death realized........... 440 Coquette's Heart...... 385 His Poetry......................... 442 Visit to Sir Roger in the Country.... 387 Bancis and Philemon................ 442 Sir Roger at Church................ 390 Moral Tendency of Addison's Writings 391 THOMAS YALDEN.................. 446 Omnipiesence of the Deity........... 391 John Partridge's Defence........... 446 Reflections in Westminster Abbey. - * 393 His Poetry-Letter from Italy...... 394 ALEXANDER POPE.................. 450 Paraphrase of Psalm xxiii............ 395 Messiah......... 452 2 14 sCONTENTS. ALEXANDER POPE. GEORGE BERKELEY...........* 50 Pride............................... 454 Poetry............................. 511 Sound an Echo to the Sense......... 455 South Sea Scheme, (note)- -- -- -- -- --- 511 Evanescence of Poetic Fame.......... 455 National Luxury the Road to National The Scale of Being................. 456 Ruin... ---------—. 513 Omnipresence of the Deity........... 457 Address to Bolingbroke.............. 457 ELIZABETH TOLLET............... 515 The Toilet.......................... 458 On a Death's-Head.................. 515 Description of Belinda... -. - - 458 Winter Song. - - - - - - - - -.. 516 The Baron offers Sacrifice for Success. 459 The Sylphs-their Functions. -- 459 WILLIAI COLLINS 516 The Dying Christian...-.............- 461 Ode to Fear......................... 517 His Prose -- -- - --.. -- - - --—. 462 Ode to Evening. -- - - -- - - -- 519 Letter to Steele on Early Death...... 462 The Passions........................ 520 Shakspeare......................... 463 Ode to the Brave.................... 523 Homer and Virgil compared. 464 Ode to Mercy....................... -523 On the Death of Thomson. -. - - - 524 ROBERT BLAIR................ —-- 465 The Grave.......................... 465 SAMUEL RICHARDSON.............. 525 Death-divided Friendships - - - - -. - - - -- 466 Moral Sentiments-Benevolence, Ca, Death, the good Man's Path to Heaven 466 lumny, Censure, Children, Education............................ 527 J AMES THOMSON................... 468 Friendship, General Observations.... - - - 528 Loves of the Birds..... - - - * 469 The Good Man...................... 528 A Summer Scene- -. -.. - 470 The Good Woman, Youth............ 529 A Thunder-Shower.................. 470 Summer Evening............... 470 THOMAS SHERLOCK................ 529 The Springs of livers.......-....... 471 Different Ends of Religion and InfiA Man perishing in the Snows of delity........................... 530 Winter......................... 472 The Information the Gospel gives most The various Sufferings in Winter...* 473 desirable........................ 530 Moral of the Seasons. 473 Christ and Mohammed compared. - 532 Hymn on the Seasons............... 474 From the Castle of Indolence..... 477 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 532 Eastern Manners and Language. --- 5633 ISAAC WATTS................... 479 France in 1718...................... 535 A Summer Evening................ 480 [Female Education................... 535 The Rose........................... 481 Few Happy Matches.- -. 481 JOHN BYROM....................... 538 Looking Upward- - -. 482 A Pastoral......................... 538 Seeking a divine Calm in a restless The Three Black Crows -........... 540 World....- ^ 483 Launching into Eternity.... - -. 483 WILLIAM KING..................... 541 His Prose.................. 484 Virgil.............................. I 541 General Directions relating to our A Repartee...............-.-... 543 Ideas......... -- 484 Singular Conduct........ 544 Rules for Improvement by Conversation..................- 486 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. ----------- 546 The School-M3listress. -.- -- - -- - 546 CONYERS MIDDLETON.............. 489 Cicero offers Himself to the Bar. - - - 490 ROBERT DODSLEY.1 4 549 Close of Cicero's Consulship.......... 491 Emulation......................... 550 Character of Pompey.. 492 Temperance. - * - - - *. - - - - - 550 Anger............................. 551 IENRY ST. JOHN (BOLINGBROKE). ~ 494 Woman..... --................- 552 Absurdities of Useless Learning-. - - - 495 Rich and Poor...................... 553 The Use of History.- -.497 Benevolence........................ 554 The World our Country...... *. 497 Fortune not to be trusted............ 498/ EDWVARD YOUNG....-...... - 555 Introduction to the Night Thoughts, PIHILIP DODDRIDGE................ 499 the Value of Time, &c........... 558 Letter to a Female Friend........... 500 MIan's Resolutions to Reform........ 559 Letter to his Wife.........~......... 501 Life and Death...................... 559 The true Use of Learning.- ---- -- -- - - 502 Dying Rich......................... 559 Worldly Cares- - - -. - - - -.- - -.. - -- - - -. - - -502 Society necessary for Happiness...... 560 His Poetry................. 503 Insufficiency of Genius and Stati6n The Sabbath- -.. 503 without Yirtu: - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -. 560 Self-examination................ 503 The Love of Praise.................. 562 Entering into Covenant........... 504 The Languid Lady. - - -- -. -- - 562 -OSEPIIH BUTLER.................... 504 WILLIAM FALCONER............... 562 Christianity a Scheme imperfectly The Vessel goinpg to Pieces, Death of comprehended 5.0 ** t. * *.. 507 Albert the Comma nder I 5C,.1 CONTENTS. 15 CATHERINE TALBOT........ 566 WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHAT'rIAM. A Sense of God's Presence........... 566 Our own Reason, and Others' ExperiSelf-Examination.....-....... 567 ence to be used. - * *- *. *- * 643 All can do Good..................... 567 Importance of Time..-.-. —. —.- 568 SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE....... 645 Poetry............................. 569 The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse.- 645 Importance of Early Rising. * - - - 569. SAMUEL JOIHNSON............. 647 THIIOMIAS CHATTERTON............. 570 Lines of Garrick, (note)........... 648 Death of Sir Charles Bawdin......... 571 Letter to Lord Chesterfield........... 649 Resignation......................... 577 The Voyage of Life.. - - - * --. 653 Knowledge to be accommodated to the M ARK AKENSIDE ---—. - ------- 578 Purposes of LiiS ---—............ 656 Introduction. The Subject proposed ~ 579 Right Improvement of Time- -.- -.- -.. 657 Man's immortal Aspirations......... 580 Duty of Forgiveness................. 659 Cause of our Pleasure in Beauty. -- 582 Solitude not Desirable..... 660 Superiority of Moral Beauty.- -.. 582 Gayety and Good Humor.. 661 Taste. - * * - - - - - - * * * - - - 583 The Conversation of Authors... 661 Conclusion.*- * —- - *- * * - * *- 584 Books and Tradition.. 662 Prevention of Evil Habits....... 662 THOMAS GRAY........... 5 O 585 From the Preface to his Dictionary. 662 The Progress of Poetry 587 Reflections on Landing at Iona.. - 663 The Bard.590 Picture of the Miseries of War....... 664 Elegy written in a Country Church- Parallel between Diyden and Pope. 665 yard..................... 596 Shakspeare.........-.... 666 On a distant Prospect of Eton College 599 The Fate of Poverty..* - - - - - - - - 669 Song............................... 602 Cardinal Wolsey..................... 669 Prose Works........................ 603 Charles XII.. -................. 670 How he Spends his Time in the Coun- Objects of Petition................... 671 try............................ 603 Folly of Procrastination............. 671 Netley Abbey and Southampton.Beautiful Sunset --.. --- 604 MRS. GREVILLE..................... 672 To Mr. Nichols, on the Death of his Prayer for Indifference.............. 672 Mother......................... 605 To Mr. Mason, on the Death of his ROBERT LOWTIH.... 673 Wife... —.. 606 Philosophy and Poetry compared as Sources of Pleasure and Instruce TOBIAS SMOLLET................... 606 tion............................ 674 The Tears of Scotland.. 607 Utility of Poetry, by Leigh. Hunt, (note) 674 Ode to Leven Water...* 608 Sublimity of the Prophet Isaiah..... 678 JOhIIN HAWKESWORTII............. 609 THOMAS WARTON.................. 680 Value of Familiar Letters -......... 610 The Hamlet, an Ode............. - 681 Danger of Relapse after Purposes of The Crusade, an Ode................ 682 Amendment..* 610 [How far the Precept to Love our Ene- WILLIAM ROBERTSON.............. 684 mies is PracticabLle........... 612 Resignation of Charles V. * - - - * -. - 684 Carazan, the Merchant of Bagdad... 615 Columbus discovering America. -.. 687 4 Lesson from the Flight of Time.... 617 iHyml*n * * * * * * *****-............ 618 EDWARD GIBBON................... 688 His Birth. —------ -------- ----—. 689 OLIVER GOLDSMITH......e.e-~ ~ 618 - Education.- -. —-......689 Italy.............................. 622 - First Love....... *- 690 France.. - - - - - -. - - - *..*......*.-. - 623 - Interview with his Father.. 691 Britain............... 624 - Publication of his History....... 692 The Village Preacher............... 625 - Completion of his History....... 693 Elegy on Mrs. Blaize................ 626 Invention and Use of Gunpowder.... 694 Prose Works.. * * * * * * 627 Life Endeared by Age............... 627 SIR WILLIAM JONES.- - - - - * - *- 695 A City Night-Piece.................. 629 The Bible........................... 697 Scenery of the Alps................. 631 An Ode............................. 697 History of a Poet's Garden......... 631 Description of Milton's Residence... 698 All cannot be Poets................. 634. ROBERT BURNS-. —-—; —-—.. 700 DAVID HUME.... 635 Professor Wilson's Remarks.. 701 On Delicacy of Taste................ 636 To a Mountain Daisy............... 702 On Simplicity and Refinement....... 637 To Mary in Heaven................ 704 The Middle Station of Life........... 637 Lessons for Life................... 705 The Cotter's Saturday Night....- -.... 706 WILLIAMN PITT, EARL OF CIIATHAMI 639 Man was made to Mourn............ 710 Study of the Classics recommended.. 640 General Advice to the Youthful Stu- EDMUND BURKE E —--- — F.. --.712 denteal * o *h -f * - - ~ * - * * - -. - 11 Efforts of English Abolitionists, (note) 713 16 CONTEINTS. EDMUND BURKE. WILLIAM COWPER. Comparison between Burke and John- Slavery..................... 739 son, (not e)....714 Happy Effects of Emancipation, (note) 740 Terror a Source of the Sublime.... 715 Knowledge and Wisdoma............. 740 Sympathy a Source of the Sublime... 715 Mercy to Animals... 740 Uncertainty a Source of the Sublime. 716 War................ 741 Difficulty advantageous............. 717 Liberty.. —- 741 Revolutions of National Grandeur.... 717 The Post-Boy............... * - * - 742 Character of Junius............. 718 Pleasures of a Winter Evening.... 742 John Howard................. 718 The Guilt of making Man Property ~ ~ 745 Sir Joshua Reynolds................ 719 To Mary. - -................. - - 745 Speech to the Electors of Bristol. - -. 720 Preaching vs. Practice............... 746 The Queen of France................ 721 John Gilpin........ 747 Rights of Man................. 721 John Bunyan........ 752 Noisy Politicians -............... -. * 721 Sonnet to William Wilberforce.. - - 753 Chivalry, what? (note).............. 721 Wilberforce's Efforts to abolish SlaveLamentation over his Son.......... 722 ry, (note).753 Lines on his Mother's Picture........ 753 LETTERS OF JUNIUS............... 723 His Prose —His Letters.............. 755 Dedication to the English Nation... 726 Cowper's Amusements - -.. -- - 756 To the Duke of Bedford....... -. 727 Writing upon Any Thing. 757 To the IKing. * * * * * * * * *. 729 An Epistle in Rhyme................ 758 Encomium on Lord Chatham........ 732 Expects Lady Hesketh-Preparations To Lord Camden................. 733 for her-His Workshop - —. - --.760 Translation of Homer-The Nonsense WILLIAM COWPER.................. 734 Club........................... 761 Providence of God in all Things- -- -..- 737 On a Particular Providence.......... 76. The Wounded Spirit healed.- - - - -. 738 True Philosophy.. —- ----- e —---- 738 The Geologist and Cosmologist....... 739 SNOTS..-In using the "Compendium" with less advanced classes I have deemed it better to commence with the authors of Queen Anne's reign-say with Addison-and then, after having gone through the book, to go back to foar earliest literature, beginning with Sir John Mandeville. Others, on the contrary, may think it more beneficial for all students, at the outset, to be made familiar with our good old English. Which is the better way, every instructor will of course decide for himself, according to circumstances. C. D. C COMPENDIUM OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE. 1300-1371. TaIE first prose writer which occurs in the annals of English Literature, is tne ancient and renowned traveller, Sir John Mandeville. He was born a; St. Albans,' about the year 1300. Stimulated by an unconquerable curiosity to see foreign countries, he departed from England in 1322, and continued abroad for thirty-four years; during which time his person and appearance had so changed, that, on his return, his friends, who had supposed him dead, did not know him. But so fixed was his habit of roving, that he set out a second time from his own country, and died at Leige, (Belgium,) November 17, 1371. John Bale, in his catalogue of British writers, gives him the following fine character, as translated by Hakluyt:"c John Mandevil Knight, borne in the Towne of S. Albans, was so well given to the study of Learning from his childhood, that he seemed to plant a good part of his felicitie in the same: for he supposed, that the honour of his Birth would nothing availe him, except he could render the same more honourable, by his knowledge in good letters. Having therefore well grounded himselfe in Religion, by reading the Scriptures, he applied his Studies to the Art of Physicke, a Profession worthy a noble Wit: but amongst other things, he was ravished with a mightie desire to see the greater parts of the World, as Asia and Africa. Having therefore provided all things necessary for his journey, he departed from his Countrey in the yeere of Christ 1322; and, as another Ulysses, returned home, after the space of thirty-four yeeres, and was then knowen to a very fewe. In the time of his Travaile he was in Scythia, the greater and lesse Armenia, Egypt, both Libyas, Arabia, Syria, Media, Mesopotamlia, Persia, Chalduea, Greece, Illyrium, Tartarie, and divers other Kingdomes of the World: and having gotten by this meanes the knowledge of the Languages, least so many and great varieties, and things miraculous, whereof hinmself had bene an eie witnes, should perish in oblivion, he coimmitted hlis whole Travell of thirty-four yeeres to writing, in three divers tongues, English, French, and Latine.2 Being arrived again in England, and having seene the wickednes of that age, he gave out this Speech:'In our time, (said he) it may be spoken more truly then of olde, that Vertue is gone, the Church is under foote, the Clergie. is in errour, the Devill raigneth, and Simonie beareth the sway."' 1 A town of Hertfordshire, about twenty miles north of London. 2 They were published in 1356. B 2*1 7 ]8 3MANDEVILLE. [EDWARD III. John Mandeville was indeed a remarklable man; and though Englandl ha.s since distinguished herself above all other nations for the number and the c. aracter of her voyagers and travellers, who, for the sake of enlarging the bounds of geographical knowledge, have pushed their way into every part of the world, yet, considering the time and circumstances in which he wrote, to none must Sir John Mandeville give place. We must bear continually in mind that he wrote nearly five hundred years ago-one hundred years before printing was introduced into England-in an age of great ignorance, and eager for the marvellous and the wonderful in relation to other lands so little known. That he has told many ridiculous stories is no doubt true; but such he generally prefaces with ccthei seyn," or,"men seyn but I have not sene it." 3But if we charge these against him, we must also give him credit for those accounts which, for a long time, rested on his single and unsupported authority, but which later discoveries and inquiries have abundantly confirmed;-such as the cultivation of pepper-the burning of widows on the funeral pile of their husbands-the trees which bear wool, of which clothing is mrade-the carrier pigeons-the gymnosophists-the Chinese predilection for small feetthe artificial egg-hatching in Egypt-the south pole star, and other astronomical appearances, from which he argues for the spherical form of the earththe crocodile-the hippopotamnus-the giraffe, and many other singular productions of nature. "His boolk," says an elegant writer, "is to an Englishman doubly valuable, as establishing the title of his country to claim as its own, the first example of the liberal and independent gentleman, travelling over the world in the disinterested pursuit of knowledge; unsullied in his reputation, and honored and respected wherever he Nwent for his talents and personal accomplishments.' 1 FROM T1HE PROLOGUE.0 And for als Inoche3 as it is longe tyme passed, that ther was no generalle Passage ne Vyage over the See; and many Men desiren for to here speke of the holy Lond, and han4 thereof gret Solace and Comfort; I John Maundevylle, Knyght, alle be it I be not worthi, that was born in Englond, in the Town of Seynt Albones, passed the See, in the Zeer of our Lord Jesu Crist MCCCXXII, in the Day of Seynt Michelle; and hidre to5 have been longe tyme over the See, and have seyn and gon thorghe manye dyverse Londes, and many Provynces and Kingdomes and Iles, and have passed thorghe Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye6 the litylle and the grete; thorghe Lybye, Caldee and a gret partie of Ethiope; thorghe Amazoyne, Inde the lasse and the more, a 1 Read-an interesting article on his travels in the Rctrospective Revielv, iii, 269: also, No. 254 of tle Tatler, in which Addison has ridiculed, with infinite huinor, the propensity of Sir John towards the marvellous. 2 In printing these extracts from Mandeville, the edition of J. O. Halliwell, London, 1839, published fiom a manuscript about three hundred years old, has been carefully followed. The language, therefole, is such as our ancestors used more than three centuries ago, and it is here given not only as a curiosity, but from the belief that it will be read with more satisfaction, and convey a much better idea of the progress whic-h the English language has since made, than if it were modernized. Before the art of printing was discovered, there was no settled method of spelling; the same word therefore, will be found spelled dilffrent ways. S As muck. 4 Have. 5 Hitherto. 6 Armenia. 1327-1377.] WMANDEVILLE. 19 gret partie; and thorghe out many othere Iles, that ben abouten Inde; where dwellen many dyverse Folkes, and of dyverse Mareres and Lawes, and of dyverse Schappes' of men. Of whiche Londes and Iles, I schalle speke more pleynly hereaftre. And I schalle devise zou sum partie of thinges that there ben, whan time schalle ben, aftre it may best come to my mynde; and specyally for hem, that wylle and are in purpos for to visite the Holy Citee of Jerusalem, and the holy Places that are thereaboute. And I schalle telle the WVeye, that thei schulle holden thidre. For I have often tymes passed and ryden2 the way, with gode Companye of many Lordes: God be thonked. And zee schulle3 undirstonde, that I have put this Boke out of Latyn into Frensche, and translated it azen4 out of Frensche into Englyssche, that every Man of my Nacioun may undirstonde it. But Lordes and Knyghtes and othere noble and worthi Men, that conne5 Latyn but litylle, and han ben bezonde the See, knowen and undirstonden, zif I erre in devisynge, for forzetynge,6 or elles;7 that thei moweS redresse it and amende it. For thinges passed out of longe tyme from a Mannes mynde or from his syght, turnen sone in forzetynge: Because that Mynde of Man ne may not ben comprehended ne witheholden, for the Freeltee of Mankynde.~ TIhE CHINESE. The gret Kyng hathe every day, 50 fair Damyseles, alle Maydenes, that serven him everemore at his Mete. And whan he is at the Table, thei bryngen him hys Mete at every tyme, 5 and 5 to gedre. And in bryngynge hire0o Servyse, thei syngen a Song. And aftre that, thei kutten his Mete, and putten it in his Mouthe: for he touchethe no thing ne handlethe nought, but holdethe evere more his Hondes before him, upon the Table. For he hathe so longe Nayles, that he may take no thing, ne handle no thing. For the Noblesse of that Contree is to have longe Nayles, and to make hem growen alle weys to ben as longe as men may. And there ben manye in that Contree, that han hire 1 Shapes. 2 Ridden. 3 Should. 4 Again. 5 Know. 6 Forgetting. 7 Else. 8 %a y. 9 At a period when Europe could hardly boast of three leisurely wayfarers stealing over the face of the universe; when the Orient still remained but a Land of Fairy, and the " map of the world " was yet unfinished; at a time when it required a whole life to traverse a space which- three years might now terminate, Sir John Mandeville, the Bruce of the fourteenth century, set forth to enter unheard-of regions. His probity remains unimpeached, for the accuracy of what he relates froin lis, own personal observation has been confirmed by subsequent travellers. But when he had to cld scribe the locality of Paradise, he fiirly acknowledges that he " cannot speak of it properly, for I wab not there: it is far beyond, but as I have heard say of wise men, it is on the highest part of the earth, nigh to the circle of the moon." So popular were his travels, that of no book, with the exception of the Scriptusres, can mlore mansuscripts of that timoe be foundl. Read-an erticle im D'Ilsrreli' sinediies oj' Literauturee, vol. i., ald tIodlibelll's Itlrodlctiolt to llfiundeoie's'i Traels. 10'il heir. 20 MANDEVILLE. [PRICIAiRD II. Nayles so longe, that thei envyronne alle the Hond: and that is a gret Noblesse. And the Noblesse of the Women, is for to haven smale Feet and litille: and therfore anon as thei ben born, they leet bynde hire Feet so streyte, that thei may not growen half as nature wolde: And alle weys theise Damyseles, that I spak of beforn, syngen alle the tyme that this riche man etethe: and when that he etethe no more of his firste Cours, thanne other 5 and 5 of faire Damyseles bryngen him his seconde Cours, alle weys syngynge, as thei dide beforn. And so thei don contynuelly every day, to the ende of his Mete. And in this manere he ledethe his Lif. And so dide thei before him, that weren his Auncestres; and so schulle thei that comen aftre him, with outen doynge of ony Dedes of Armes: but lyven evere more thus in ese, as a Swyn, that is fedde in Sty, for to ben made fatte. THE SPHERICAL FORM OF THE EARTH.1 In that Lond,2 ne in many othere bezonde that, no man may see the Sterre transmontane,3 that is cdept the Sterre of the See, that is unmevable, and that is toward the Northe, that we clepen the Lode Sterre.4 But men seen another Sterre, the contrarie to him, that is toward the Southe, that is clept5 Antartyk. And right as the Schip men taken here AvysG here, and governe hem be the Lode Sterre, right so don Schip men bezonde the parties, be the Sterre of the Southe, the whiche Sterre apperethe not to us. And this Sterre, that is toward the Northe, that wee clepen the Lode Sterre, ne qippearethe not to hem. For whiche cause, men may wel perceyve, that the Lond and the See ben of rownde schapp and forme. For the partie of the Firmament schewethe in o7 Contree, that schewethe not in another Contree. And men may well preven be experience and sotyles compassement of Wytt, that zif a man fond passages be Schippes, that wolde go to serchen the World, men myghte go be Schippe alle aboute the World, and aboven and benethen. And zif I hadde had Companye and Schippynge, for to go more bezonde, I trowe9 wel in certeyn, that wee scholde have seen alle the roundnesse of the Firmament alle aboute. But how it semethe to symple men unlerned, that men ne mowe.10 not go undre the Erthe, and also that men scholde falle toward the Hevene, from undre! But that may not be, upon 1 This, it seems to me, is a most curious and remarkable passage, for we must remember that it was written nearly one hundred and fifty years before the discovery of America. It proves, beyond a doubt, that Mandeville had a distinct idea of the rotundity of the earth, and probably of the New World, and that, if he sad had the means, he would undoubtedly have anticipated, by more than a century, the brilliant discovery of Columbus. e Africa. 3 The pole star. 4 That is, the star to which the loadstone or magnet points. o Called 6 Advice. 7 One. 8 Subtle. 9 Think. 10 May not, that is, cannot. 1377-1399.] WICLIF. 21 lesse,l than wee mowe falle toward Hevene, fro the Erthe, where wee ben. For fro what partie of the Erthe, that men duelle,q outher aboven or benethen, it semethe alweys to hem that duellen, that thei gon more righte than ony other folk. And righte as it semethe to us, that thei ben undre us, righte so it seinethe hem, that wee ben undre hem. For zif a man myghte falle fro the Erthe unto the Firmament; be grettere resoun, the Erthe and the See, that ben so grete and so hevy, scholde fallen to the Firmament: but that may not be. JOHN WICLIF. 1324-1384. JOHNI WICLIr, the Mlorning Star of the Reformation, c" honored of God to le the first Preacher of a general Reformation to all Europe;,3 was born in the little village of Wiclif, near Richnmond, in the northern part of Yorkshire, about the year 1324. Where he received the rudiments of his education is not known, but at a suitable age he entered the University of Oxford, where he soon distinguished himself, not only in the scholastic philosophy of the times, in which he surpassed all his contemporaries, but also in the sttudy and interpretation of the Scriptures; so that he acquired the title of Evangelical or Gospel Doctor. In 1361 he was promoted to the headship of Canterbury Hall, and soon after, from witnessing the ecclesiastical corruptions which so extensively prevailed, he began to attack, both in his sermons and other pieces, not only the whole body of Monks, but also the encroachments and tyranny of the church of Rome. He had now fairly entered into that arena which he was to quit only with his life. To enter, however, into the particulars of his eventful life-the con tinned and most bitter persecutions he ever experienced at the hands of ecIe, siastical power-his fearless and manly defences of himself-the bulls issued against him by the Pope-his appearance before august convocations to an swer for himself, touching the samue-his providential escapes from the snares set for him by his enemies-to enter into these and other numerous and eventful incidents of his most active life, would be quite impracticable in the limited space prescribed for these biographical sketches.4 Milton, in his " Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing," thus remarks:'Had it not been for the obstinate perverseness of our Prelates against the divine and admirable spirit of Wiclif, to suppress him as a schismnatic or innovator, perhaps neither the Bohemian Husse and Terome, no, nor the name of Luther or of Calvin, had ever been lknown." And Milton is undoubtedly right. Far be it firom us to say any thing that would detract, in the least degree, from the merits of the great German Reformer. The name of Luther is endeared to the whole Protestant world, and will ever be cherished as long as holy zeal, and moral courage, and untiring ardor in the 1 Unless. 2 Dwell, live. 3 ilton. 4 The reader may consult The Life and Opinions of John wichl; by Robert Vaughan, 8vo: The Life of Wiclif, by Professor Charles Webb Le Bas, London, 12llmo: The Life of Wiclif, wvith an apipendix and list of his works, 12mo, Edinburgh, 1825. If none of these is accessible, thlee isi a little work of Professor Pond, eltitled l" ViuciJ antd hi'Times." 22 WICLIF. ERICARID IL, best ot e auses, have an advocate on earth. But in somne respects Wiclif claims precedence of Luther. We must ever bear in mind that he was two hundred years before him, and that he lived in a darker night of ignorance, and when the papal power was in its fullest strength. Wiclif, too, stood comparatively alone; for though countenanced by the mother of the king, and by the powerful Duke of Lancaster, yet he met with no support that deserved to be compared with that retinue of powerful patronage which gave effect to the exertionlls of Luther. ", Allowing, however," (says Professor Le Bas,) " if we must, to Luther, the highest niche in this sacred department of the Temple of Renown, I know not who can be chosen to fill the next, if it shall be denied to Wiclif."' Wiclif died December 30, 1384, of a stroke of the palsy, continuing to the l-ery end of life to labor with increasing zeal in that holy cause to which he had devoted himself in his earlier years. His inveterate enemies, the papal clergy, betrayed an indecent joy at his death, and the Council of Constance,2 thirty years after, decreed that his remains should be disinterred and scattered. The order was obeyed, and what were supposed to be the ashes of Wiclif were cast into an adjoining brook, one of the branches of the Avon.,, And thus," says old Fuller, the historian, c" this brook did convey his ashes into Avon; Avon into Severn; Severn into the narrow sea; and this into the wide ocean. And so the ashes of Wiclif are the emblem of his doctrine, which is now dispersed all the world over."3 The character of Wiclif was marked by piety, benevolence, and ardent zeal, to which was added great severity, and even austerity of manners, such as befitted the first great champion of religious liberty. In the extent and variety of his knowledge he surpassed all the learned men of his age; and the number of his writings still extant, though very many were burnt both before and after his death by order of the Pope, is truly astonishing. IMost of these now exist in manuscript, in the public libraries in England and Ireland, and some in the Imperial Library at Vienna. His great work was the translation of the Scriptures, and to him belongs the high honor of having 1,"In all stages of society, those unquestionably deserve the highest praise, who outstep the rest of their contemporaries; who rise up in solitary majesty amidst a host of prejudices and errors, comnbating intrepidly on one side, though assailed and weakened on another. The merit consists in setting the example; in exhibiting a pattern after which others may work. It is easy to follow where there is one to lead; but to be the first to strike out into a new and untried way, in whatever state of society it may be found, marks a genius above the common order. Such men are entitled to everlasting gratitude." Read-Burnett's English Prose W'riters. 2 A town in Switzerland on the west of the lake of the same name. This papal Council, which met lo 1414, condesmned John Huss and Jerome of Prague, who were both burnt at the stake. a Wordsworth has thus beautifully expressed this thought:- Wiclif is disinhumed; Yea-his dry bones to ashes are consumed, And Sung into the brook that travels near: Forthwith, that ancient voice which streams can hear, Thus speaks —(that voice which walks upon the wind, Though seldom heard by busy human kind:)'As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon-Avon to the tide Of Severn-Severn to the narrow seasInto main ocean they-this deed accurst, An emblem yields to friends and enemies, How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread throughout the world dispersed?. 1377 1399.] WICLIF. 23 given to the English nation the first translation of the entire Scriptures in their mother tongue, which he made, however, not from the original languages, but from the Latin Vulgate. The following are his reasons for this great undertaking:1 WICLIF S APOLOGY. Oh Lord God! sithin2 at the beginning of faith, so many men translated into Latin, and to great profit of Latin men; let one simple creature of' God translate into English, for profit of Englishmen. For, if worldly clerks look well their chronicles and books, they shoulden find, that Bede translated the Bible, and expounded much in Saxon, that was English, either3 common language of this land, in his time. And not only Bede, but king Alfred, that founded Oxenford, translated in his last days, the beginning of the Psalter into Saxon, and would more, if he had lived longer. Also Frenchmen, Bemers,4 and Britons han5 the Bible and other books of devotion and exposition translated into their mother language. Why shoulden not Englishmen have the same in their mother language? I cannot wit.0 No, but for falseness and negligence of clerks,7 either fore our people is not worthy to have so great grace and gift of God, in pain of their old sins. TIE ALL-SUFFICIENCY OF THIE SCRIPTURES. Christian men and women, old and young, shoulden study fast in the New Testament, and that no simple man of wit should be aferde unmeasurably to study in the text of holy writ; that pride and covetisse of clerks,7 is cause of their blindness and heresy, and priveth them fro very understanding of holy writ. That the New Testament is of full autority, and open to understanding of simple men, as to the points that ben most needful to salvation; that the text of holy writ ben word of everlasting life, and that he that keepeth meekness and charity, hath the true understanding and perfection of all holy writ; that it seemeth open heresy to say that the Gospel with his truth and fireedom sufficeth not to 1 For this noble labor, which he completed in 1380, le received abuse without measure from the priests. The following is but a mild specimen of papal rage. It is firol one HIenry Xnyghtoin, a contemporary priest. "LThis master John Wiclif translated out of Latin into English, the Gospel which Christ had intrusted with the clergy and doctors of the church, that they msight minister it to the laity and weaker sort, according to the exigency of times and their several occasions. So that by this means the Gospel is made vulgar, and laid more open to the laity, and even to women who could read, thasl it used to be to the most learned of the clergy, and those of the best understanding. And so the Gospel jewel, or evangelical -pearl, is thrown about and trodden under foot of swine." — Even in the third year of Henry V., (1415,) it was enacted ti a Parliamnent held in Leicester, " that viLosoever they were that should read the Scriptures in their motler tongue," (v'wch was then called iclif's learning,) "they should forfeit land, cattle, body, life, and goods, from their heirs forever, and be condemned for heretics to God, enemies tothe crown, and most arrant traitors to the land." 2 Since. 3 Or. 4 Eollemians. 5 Have. G Know, or tell. 7 Schlars. s Or because. 24 WICLIF. [RICHARD II. salvation of Christian men, without keeping of ceremonies and statutes of sinful men and uncunning, that ben made in the time of Satanas and of Anti-Christ; that men ought to desire only the truth and freedom of the holy Gospel, and to accept man's law and ordinances only in as much as they ben grounded in holy scripture, either good reason and common profit of Christian people. That if any man in earth either angel of heaven teacheth us the contrary of holy writ, or any thing against reason and charity, we should flee from him in that, as fro the foul fiend of hell, and hold us stedfastly to life and death, to the truth and freedom of the holy Gospel of Jesus Christ; and take us meekly men's sayings and laws, only in as much as they accorden with holy writ and good consciences; no further, for life, neither for death. And so (says Wiclif) they would condemn the Holy Ghost, that gave it in tongues to the apostles of Christ, as it is written, to speak the word of God in all languages that were ordained of God under heaven, as it is written. MATTHE W, CHAP. V.' And Jhesus seynge the peple, went up into an hil; and whanne he was sett, his disciplis careen to him. And he openyde his mouthe, and taughte hem; and seide, Blessid be pore men in spirit; for the kyngdom of hevenes is herun.2 Blessid ben mylde men: for thei schulenweelde the erthe. Blessid ben thei that mournen; for thei schal be coumfortid. Blessid be thei that hungren and thirsten rightwisnesse:3 for thei schal be fulfilled. Blessed ben merciful men: for thei schul gete mercy. Blessed ben thei that ben of clene herte: for thei schulen se God. Blessid ben pesible men: for thei schulen be clepid goddis children. Blessid ben thei that suifren persecucioun for rightwisnesse: for the kyngdom of hevenes is hern. Ye schul be blessid whanne men schul curse you, and schul pursue you: and schul seye al yvel agens you liynge for me. Joie ye and be ye glade: for your meede is plenteous in hevenes: for so thei han pursued also prophetis that weren bifore you. Ye ben salt of the erthe, that if the salt vanishe awey wherynne schal it be salted? to nothing it is worth over, no but it be cast out, and be defoulid of men. Ye ben light of the world, a citee set on an hill may not be hid. Ne men teendith not a lanterne and puttith it undir a bushel: but on a candilstik that it give light to alle that ben in the hous. So, schyne your light bifore men, that thei see youre gode workis, and glorifie your fadir that is in hevenes. Nyle ghe deme that 1 The original spelling is preserved in this extract from Wiclif's Bible as a curiosity. a Theirs. 3 Rightfulnesse, in many manuscripts. 1377-1399.- BARBOUR. 25 I cam to undo the Lawe or the prophetis, I cam not to undo the ]awe but to fulfille. Forsothe I sey to you till hevene and erthe passe, oon lettre, or oon title, schal not passe fro the Lawe til alle thingis be don. Therefore he that brekith oon of these leeste maundementis, and techith thus men, schal be clepid the Leest in the rewme of hevenes: but he that doth, and techith, schal be clepid greet in the kyngdom of hevenes. JOHN BARBOUR. 1326-1396. Aniross the very earliest of the poets of Scotland was John Barbour, Archdeacon of Aberdeen. But very little is known of his personal history. The only work of consequence which he has left, is entitled "Bruce." It is a metrical history of Robert the First (1306-1329) —of his exertions and achievements for the recovery of the independence of Scotland, including the principal transactions of his reign. Barbour, therefore, is to be considered in the double character of historian and poet. As he flourished in the age immediately following that of his hero, he enjoyed the advantage of hearing, from eye-witnesses themselves, narratives of the war for liberty. As a history, his work is good authority. He himself boasts of its "soothfastness;" and the lofty sentiments and vivid descriptions with which it abounds, prove the author to have been fitted by feeling and principle, as well as by situation, for the task which he undertook. As many of the words in Barbour are now obsolete, we will give but one quotation from his heroic poem. After the painful description of the slavery to which Scotland was reduced by Edward I., he breaks out in the following noble Apostrophe to Freedom. It is in a style of poetical feeling uncommon not only in that but many subsequent ages, and has been quoted with high praise by the most distinguished Scottish historians and critics. " A! fredome is a nobill thling! Fredome mayse man to haiff liking! Fredome all solace to man giftis: He levys at ese that frely levys! A noble hart may haiff nane ese, Na ellys nocht that may him plese, Gyff fredome failythe: for fre liking Is yearnyt our all othir thing. Na he, that ay hase levyt fre, May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, The angyr, na the wretchyt dome, That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. Bot gyff he had assayit it, Then all perquer he suld it wyt; And suld think fredome mar to pryse Than all the gold in warld that is." 1 The following paraplrase of the above lines is taken from Chambers's Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotsmen:Ah! freedom is a noble thing, And can to life a relish bring; 26 CHAUCER. [RICHARD II. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 1328-1400. That renowned Poet Dan Chaucer, Well of English undefyled, On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled. SPENSEr. That noble Chaucer, in those former times, Who first enriched our English with his rhymes, And was the first of ours that ever broke Into the Muse's treasures, and first spoke In mighty numbers; delving in the mine Of perfect knowledge. WORDSWORlTH. WFE now come to one of the brightest names in English literature-to him who has been distinctively known as ("The Father of English poetry"Geoffrey Chaucer. Warton, with great beauty and justice, has compared the appearance of Chaucer in our language to " a premature day in an English spring, after which the gloom of winter returns, and the buds and blossoms which have been called forth by a transient sunshine, are nipped by frosts and scattered by storms." Chaucer was born probably about the year 1328, though all attempts to fiE the precise year have. utterly failed. His parentage is unknown, nor is there any certainty where he was educated. His great genius early attracted the notice of the reigning sovereign, Edward III., and he soon became the most popular personage in the brilliant court of that monarch. It was in this circle of royalty that he became attached to a lady whom he afterwards married, Philippa Pyknard. She was maid of honor to the queen Philippa, and a younger sister of the wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. By this connection, therefore, Chaucer acquired the powerful support of the Lancastrian family, and during his life his fortune fluctuated with theirs. To his courtly accomplishments he added much by foreign travel, having been commissioned by the king in 1372 to attend to some important matters of state at Genoa. While in Italy he became acquainted with Petrarch,' and probably with Boccacio, whose works enriched his mind with fresh stores of learning Freedom all solace to man gives; He lives at ease that freely lives. A noble heart may have no ease, Nor aught beside that may it please, If freedom fail-for'tis the choice, More than the chosen, man enjoys. Ah, he that ne'er yet lived in thrall, Knows not the weary pains which gall The limbs, the soul, of him who plains In slavery's foul and festering chains. If these he knew, I ween right soon He would seek back the precious boon Of freedom, which he then would prize More than au wealth beneath the skies. I The three distinguished scholars of Italy of the fourteenth century were, DANTE, (1265-1321,) the father of modern Italian poetry; PETRARCH, (1304-1374,) the reviver of ancient learning, and the first founder and collector of any considerable library of ancient literature: and BoccAVco, (1913 -1375,) the father of modern Italian prose. 1377-1399,] CHAUCER. 27 and images of beauty, and whose great succe'Is was doubtless a spur to his ambition to attain a like enviable fame. On his return home, the friendship and patronage of the reigning monarch were continued to him. He was made controller of the customs of wine and wool, the revenue from which office, together with a pension that was granted to him, gave him a liberal support. During the whole of the reign of Edward III., his genius and connections ensured to him prosperity, and also during the period of John of Gaunt's influence in the succeeding reign of Richard II., 1377-1399. But during the waning fortunes of that nobleman, Chaucer also suffered, and was indeed imprisoned for a short time; but on the return of the Duke of Lancaster from Spain, 1389, he had once more a steady protector, and on the accession of Henry IV., he had an additional annuity conferred upon him. But he did not live long to enjoy this accession to his fortune, for he died on the twenty-fifth of October, 1400, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. We know little of Chaucer as a member of society; but we know that he had mingled with the world's affairs, both at home and abroad. Accomp.lished in manners and intimately acquainted with a splendid court, he was at once the philosopher who had surveyed mankind in their widest sphere, the poet who haunted the solitudes of nature, and the elegant courtier whose opulent tastes are often discovered in the graceful pomp of his descriptions. The vigorous yet finished paintings, with which his works abound, are still, notwithstanding the roughness of their clothing, beauties of a highly poetical nature. The ear may not always be satisfied, but the mind of the reader is always filled.l Chaucer's genius, like Cowper's, was not fully developed till he was advanced in years; for it was not until he was about sixty, in the calm evening of a busy life, that he composed his great work on which his fame chiefly rests, his CANTERBURY TALES. He took the idea, doubtless, from the Decameron of Boccacio,2 at that time one of the most popular of books. He supposes that a company of pilgrims, consisting of twenty-nine ", sundry folk," meet together at the Tabard inn, Southwark,3 on their way to the shrine of Thomas 6 Becket,4 at Canterbury. While at supper they agreed, at the suggestion of their host, not only to pursue their journey together the next morning, but, in order to render their way the more interesting, that each should divert the others with a tale, both in going and returnfing, and that whoever told the best, should have a supper at the expense of the rest; and that the landlord should be the judge. It will thus be seen that the plan of Chaucer is vastly superior to that of Boccacio. His characters, instead of being youthful and from the same city, 1 Read Hippisleyse Early English Literature: also, Todd's Illustrations of Gower and Chaucer. "I take unceasing delight in Chaucer. His manly cheerfulness is especially delicious in my old age. How exquisitely tender he is."-Coleridge's Table Talk. Read, also, Chaucer Modernized, 1 vol. 12mo, with a well-written introduction on English poetry by R. H. Horne, and versifclations by Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, and others. 2 Boccacio supposes that when the plague began to abate in Florence, (1348,) ten young persons of both sexes retired to the country to enjoy the fresh air, and pass TEN DAYS agreeably. (Hence the name DECAsERON, from the Greek beea (deka) "ten," and hscepa (hemera) "a day." Their principal amusement was in telling tales in turn; and as each of the ten told a story a day, and as they zontinued together ten days, the Decameron consists of one hundred tales. a Opposite the city of London, on the Thames. F& or the murder of this famous archbishop in the reign of Henry II., A. D. 1171, see HItor.y Of Sr'ass. Canterbury is 53 miles south-east from London. 28 CHAUCER, [rGDNRY IV, are of matiured experience, from various places, and are drawn from different classes of mankind, and consequently are, in their rank, appearance, manners, and habits, as various as at that time could be found in the several departments of middle life; that is, in fact, as various as could, with any probability, be brought together, so as to form one company; the highest and lowest ranks of society being necessarily excluded. But what gives us the greatest admiration of the poet, is the astonishing skill with which he has supported his characters, and the exquisite address that he has shown in adapting his stories to the different humors, sentinzents, and talents of the reciters. He has thus given us such an accurate picture of ancient manners as no contemporary writer has transmitted to posterity, and in the Canterbury Tales we view the pursuits and employments, the customs and diversions of the reign of Edward III., copied from the life, and represented with equal truth and spirit. It has been justly remarked, that it was no inferior combination of observation and sympathy which could bring together into one company the many-colored conditions and professions of society, delineated with pictorial force, and dramatized by poetic conception, reflecting themselves in the tale which seemed most congruous to their humors.1 The following are some select characters, as portrayed in the Prologue.2 THE PROLOGUE. Whenne that April, with his showre's sote,3 The drouth of March hath pierced to the rote,4 And bathed every vein in such licouir, Of which virtuie engendred is the flow'r; When Zephirus eke, with his sote3 breath, Inspired hath in every holt5 and heath The tender croppes, and the younge sun Hath in the Ram6 his half'e course yrun, And smalle fowles maken melody, That sleepen all6 night with open eye, So pricketh them natfire in their courages,7 Then longen folk to go on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seeken strange strands, To serve hallowss couth9 in sundry lands; And'specially from every shire's end Of Engleland to Canterbury they wend,10 1 Read D'Israeli's Amenities of Literature, 3 vols. 8vo. 2 In a subsequent age, the great work of Chaucer exerted a powerful influence in helping on the great cause of the Reformation. So much was Cardinal Wolsey offended at the severity with which the papal clergy were treated in the Pilgrim's Tale, that he laid an interdict upon its ever being printed with the rest of the work, and it was with difficulty that the Ploughman's Tale was permitted to stand. John Fox, (1517-1587,) the historian of the martyrs, thus writes: "But much nore I mervaile to consider this, how that the bishops condemning and abolishing all maner of English bookes and treatises, which might bring the people to any light of knowledge, did yet authorize the Workes of Chaucer to remaine. So it pleased God to blind then the eies of them, for the maore commodoty of his people." 8 Sote-sweet. 4 Rote-root. i Holt-grove, forest. 6 To make this line consistent with the first, it should read Bull instead of Ram, for he says that the time of this pilgrimage was when the showers of April had pierced into the root the drought of March, so that April, which corresponds to the constellation of the Bull, must have been far advanced Read, Tyrwhitt's Introduction to Canterbury Tales. 7 Courages —hearts, spirits. 8 Hallows-holiness. 9 Couth —known. 10 Wend- go, make way. 1399-1413.] CHAUCER. 29 The holy blissful martyr for to seek That them hath holpen when that they were sock. Befell that in that season on a day, In Southwark at the Tabard I as I lay, Ready to wenden2 on my pilgrimage To Canterbury with devout courage; At night was come into that hostelry Well nine-and-twenty in a company Of sundry folk, by aventure yfall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all That toward Canterbury woulden ride. The chambers and the stables weren wide, And well we weren eased4 atte best. THE KNIGHT AND SQUIRE. A Knight there was, and that a worthy man That from the time that he first began To riden out, he loved chivalry, Truth and hon6ur, freedom and courtesy. Full worthy was he in his lord6s war, And thereto had he ridden, no man farre.5 As well in Christendom as in Heatheness, And ever honour'd for his worthiness. With him there was his son, a younge Squire, A lover and a lusty bachelor, With locklis curl'd as they were laid in press; Of twenty years'of age he was I guess. Of his statuere he was of even length, And wonderly deliver, and great of strength; And he had been some time in chevachie,7 In Flaunders, in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him well, as of so little space, In hope to standen in his lady's grace. Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead All full of freshe flowres white and red: Singing he was or floyting9 all the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May: Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide; Well could hie sit on horse, and faire ride: He coulde songes make, and well endite, Joust and eke dance, and well pourtray and write: So hot he loved, that by nightertale'l He slept no more than doth the nightingale: Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, And carv'd before his father at the table. 1 That is, the inn called " The Tabard." The Tabard was a "jacket, or sleeveless coat, worn in times past by noblemen in the wars, but now only by heralds, and is called their coat of arms in service."-Speght. 2 Wenden-go, make way. 3 Wide —spacious. 4 Eased att6 best- - commodiously lodged. 5 Farre-farther. 6 Wonderly deliver-wonderfully active: from the French libre, free. 7 Chevachie, (French, chevauchee,) a military expedition. 8 Conducted himself well, considering the short time that he had served. 9 Floyting-fluting, playing on thu flute, whistling. The squire would not, in all probability, have a flute always with him. 1 saoula therefore prefer the reading that he " whistled all the day:" as being a more natural touch et charao. ter, as well as in keeping with the hilarity of youth. 10 Nightertale-night-time.'3* 80 CHAUCERo H ETNRY IV, THE CLERK.' A Clerk2 there was of Oxenford also, That unto logic hadde long ygo.3 As leane was his horse as is a rake, And he was not right fat I undertake, But looked hollow, and thereto soberly. Full threadbare was his oeverest courtepyi For he had gotten him yet no benefice, Nor was nought worldly to have an office For him was levers have at his bed's head Twenty booke's clothed in black or red Of Aristotle and his philosophy, Than robes rich, or fiddle or psaltry: But all be that he was a philosopher Yet haddd he but little gold in coffer, But all that he might of his friendes hent,6 On bookes and on learning he it spent, And busily'gan for the soulds pray Of them that gave him wherewith to scholay.7 Of study took he moste cure and heed; Not a word spake he more than was need, And that was said in form and reverence, And short and quick, and full of high sentence: Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, And gladly would he learn and gladly teach. THE WIFE. A good Wife was there of beside' Bath, But she was some deal deaf, and that was scathe.9 Of cloth-nmaking she hadde such a haunt 10 She passed them of Ypres and of Ghent. In all the parish, wife ne was there none That to the off'ring before her shoulde gone, And if there did, certain so wroth was she, That she was out of alle charity. Her coverchiefsn weren full fine of ground; I durst6 swear they weigheden a pound, That on the Sunday were upon her head: HIer hosed weren of fine scarlet red, Full strait ytied, and shoes fall moistm2 and new' Bold was her face, and fair and red of hew. She was a; worthy wonman all her live; Husbands at the church door had she had five.'3 I In the interesting character of the "clerk" or scholar, whose poverty, delight in study, and inPttention to worldly affairs are eminently conspicuous, Warton thinks that Chaucer glanced at. the nattention paid to literature, and the unprofitableness of philosophy. I That is, a scholar. 3 Ygo-part. past, gone. 4 Overest courtepy-uppermost short cloak. 5 Lever-rather. 6 Hent-catch hold of. 7 Scholay-study. 8 High sentence —. e. lofty period. 9 Scathe-harm, damage. 10 Haunt-custom. 11 Head-dress. 12 Moist-fresh 13 This alludes to the old custom of the parties joining hands at the door of the church before they went up to the altar to consummate the union; and this jolly dame and good housewife is reprosented as having gone through that interesting ceremony five times. 1399-1413.e CHAUCER. 31 THE PARSON.l A good man there was of religion, That was a poor6e Parson of a town, But rich he was of holy thought and work, He was also a learned man, a Clelk, That Christes gospel truly woulcle preach; His parishens2 devoutly would he teach; Benign he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversity full patient, And such he was yprov6d often sithls;3 Full loth were him to cursen for his tithlles; But rather would he given out of doubt Unto his poore parishens about Of his off'ring, and eke of his substance; He could in little thing have suffisance:4 Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, But he ne left noughllt for no rain nor thunder, In sickness and in mischief, to visit The farthest in his parish much and lite5 Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff: This noble'nsamlple to his sheep he yaf,6 That first he wrought, and afterward he taught, Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, And this figfire he added yet thereto, That if gold ruste what should iron do? For if a priest be foul on whom we trust, No wonder is a 13wed7 man to rust; And shame it is, if that a priest take keep To see a " fouled" shepherd and clean sheep: Well ought a priest ensample for to give By his cleanness how his sheep should live. He sette' not his benefice to hire, And let his sheep accumlbreds in the mire, And rall unto Lond6n ulnto Saint Poule's To seeken him a chantery9 for souls, Or with a brotherlhood to be witholdl 10 But dwelt at home andi lkepte well his fold, So tllat the wolf ne made it nlot llmiscarry; He was a shepherd and no mercenary; As though he holy were, and virtuous, He was to sinfil mllen not dispitous,1" Ne of his speeche dangerous12 ne digne; 13 But in his teaclling discreet and benign. 1 In describing tlie sanctity, simplicity, sincerity, patience, industry, courage, and conscient.m. Impartiality of this excellent parish-priest, Chaucer, as Warton observes, has shown his good setwhe and good heart. Is not Goldsmith indebted to it for some of the beautiful traits in the character r;~ his Village Preacher, in the Dese'rted Village? 2 Parishens-parishioners. 3 Sithes-times. 4 Suffisance-sufficiency. 5 Much and Ulte-great and small. 6 Yaf —gave. 7 Lewed-ignorant. 8 Accumbred-encumbered, 9 Chantery. An endowment for the payment of a priest to sing mass agreeably to the appoint. ment of the founder. There were thirty-five of these chantries established at St. Paul's, which wvere served by fifty-four priests.-Duglgdule, Hist. pref. p. 41. 10 Withold-withbholden, wvithheld 11 Dislpit:ols —inexorable, angry to excess. 12 Dangerous-sparing. 13 Digne —proud, disdainful 82 CHAUCER. CHENRY IV. To drawen folk to heaven with faireness,.By good ensample, was his business; But it were1 any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate, Him would he snibben2 sharply for the nones:3 A better priest I trow that no where none is. He waited after no pomp or reverence, Ne malked him no spiced conscience; But Christes lore,4 and his apostles twelve He taught, but first he followed it himselve. But the Canterbury Tales are by no means the only production of Chaicer's mruse. He has written many other poems containing passages equal to any thing found in his chief work. The following are the principal. TRtoiLus ANDI CRESEIDE. This is in five bools, " in which the vicissitudes of love are depicted in a strain of true poetry, with much pathos and simplicity of sentiment." The author calls it "a litill tragedie." On the whole, however, it is rather tedious, from its innumerable digressions. For instance, Troilus declaims, for about one hundred lines, on the doctrine of predestination. RorAXUNT OF THE RosE. This is an allegory, depicting the difficulties and dangers encountered by a lover in pursuit of the object of his affections, who is set forth under the emblem of the rose. He traverses vast ditches, scales lofty walls, and forces the gates of adamantine and almost impregnable castles. These enchanted fortresses are all inhabited by various divinities, some of which assist, and some oppose the lover's progress. Thus this poem furnishes a great variety of rich and beautiful descriptions-paintings most true to nature. TIIE House or FaMrE. This is represented under the form of a dream, and consists of three books. It abounds in lively and vigorous description, in disquisitions on natural philosophy, and in sketches of human nature of no com mon beauty. The poet, in a vision, sees a temple of glass, on the walls of which are displayed in portraitures the history of REneas, abridged from Virgil. After looking around him, he sees aloft,'n fast by the sun," a gigantic eagle, which souses down, and bears him off in his talons through the upper regions of air, leaving clouds, tempests, hail, and snow far beneath him, and at length arrives among the celestial signs of the Zodiac. Here his journey ends. The ", House of Fame" is before him. It is built of materials bright as polished glass, and stands on a rock of ice of excessive height, and almost inaccessible. All the southern side of the rock is covered with the names of famous men, which were perpetually melting away by the heat of the sun; but those on the northern side remained unmelted and uneffaced. The poet then enters the building, and beholds the Goddess of Fame, seated upon a throne of sculptured carbuncle. Before her appear the various candidates for her favor; and here the poet has admirably improved the wide field before aim in describing the capricious judgment of the fickle deity in awarding her favors. Pope, in his c" Temple of Fame," has imitated Chaucer to a considetable extent, as may be seen by comparing various passages in each author. l But it were-should it happen that any one were, &c. 2 Sn!bben-rebuke, 8 Fot the nones-for the occasion. 4 Lore —lear aing, doctrine. 1399-1413.] CHAUCER. 33 THE EAGLE S FLIGHT WITH THE POET. And I adown'gan looken tho,1 And beheld field6s and plaines, Now hilles and now mountaines, Now valleys and now forest6s, And now unneth6s2 great beastes, Now riveres, now city6s, Now townles, and now great tree's Now shipp6s sailing in the sea; But thus soon in a while he Was flowen from the ground so high That all the world, as to mine eye, No more yseemed than a.prick,3 Or elles was the air so thick That I ne might it not discern.4 THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. This has an instructive moral. A gentlewoman, out of an arbor in a grove, seeth a great company of knights and ladies in a dance upon the green grass, the which being ended they all kneel down, and do honor to the daisy, some to tile Flower and some to the Leaf. Afterward this gentlewoman learneth by one of these ladies the meaning hereof, which is this: they who honor the Flower, a thing fading with every blast, are such as look after beauty and worldly pleasure; but they that honor the Leaf, which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the winter storms and frosts, are they which follow virtue and true merit, without regarding worldly respects. Such are the chief poems of Geoffrey Chaucerf. Though Chaucer was and is known chiefly as a poet, yet in his prose he equally excels all his contemporaries, thus verifying what we believe will be found to be a universal truth, that every good poet is no less distinguished for a clear and vigorous prose style. Two of the Canterbury Tales, the Tale of Melibeus and the Parson's Tale, are in prose, but his longest unversified production is his Testament of Love, written to defend his character from the imputations cast on it by his enemies. From the Tale of Melibeus we extract the following excellent remarks UPON RICHES. In getting of your riches, and in using of "'em, ye shulen alway have three things in your heart, that is to say, our Lord God, conI Tho-then. 2 Unnethes-not easily, with difficulty. 3 Prick-point. 4 I stood, methonght, betwixt earth, seas, and skies, The whole creation open to my eyes. In air self-balanced hung the globe below, Where mountains rise, and circling oceans flow; Here naked rocks and empty wastes are seen, There tow'ry cities, and the forests green; Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes; There trees, and intermingled temples rise. Temple of Fame, lines 11-18. 6 Read-" Clarke's Tales from Chaucer," written in imitation of Lamb's " Tales from Shakspeare,. and Clarke's " Riches of Chaucer." Also, a critique upon Chaucer in the Retrospective Review, ix. 173; and another in the Edinburgh Review, iii. 437; also a parallel between Cnaucer and Spenser in the latter Review, xxiv. 58. C 34 GOWER. [HENRY IV. science, and good name. First ye shulen have God in your heart, and for no riches ye shulen do nothing which may in any manner displease God that is your creator and maker; for, after the word of Solomon, it is better to have a little good with love of God, than to have muckle good and lese the love of his Lord God; and the prophet saith, that better it is to ben a good man and have little good and treasure, than to be holden a shrew and have great riches. And yet I say furthermore, that ye shulden always do your business to get your riches, so that ye get'em with a good conscience. And the apostle saith, that there nis thing in this world, of which we shulden have so great joy, as when our conscience beareth us good witness; and the wise man saith, The substance of a man is full good when sin is not in a man's conscience. Afterward, in getting of your riches and in using of'em, ye must have great business and great diligence that your good name be alway kept and conserved; for Solomon saith, that better it is and more it availeth a man to have a good name than for to have great riches; and therefore he saith in another place, Do great diligence (saith he) in keeping of thy friends and of thy good name, for it shall longer abide with thee than any treasure, be it never so precious; and certainly he should not be called a gentleman that, after God and good conscience all things left, ne doth his diligence and business to keepen his good name; and Cassiodore saith, that it is a sign of a gentle heart, when a man loveth and desireth to have a good name. JOHN GOWER. Died 1408. Joan GowER, one of the most ancient of the English poets, was contemporary with Chaucer, his intimate friend. Where, when, or of what family he was born, is uncertain. His education, says Warton,l appears to have been liberal, and his course of reading extensive, and he tempered his severer studies by mingling with the world. By a critical cultivation of his native language, he labored to reform its irregularities, and to establish an English style. In these respects he resembled Chaucer, but he has little of his spirit, imagination, or elegance. His language is tolerably perspicuous, and his versification often harmonious, but his poetry is of a grave and sententious turn. He has much good sense, solid reflection, and useful observation; but he is serious and didactic on all occasions, preserving the tone of the scholar and the moraliston the most lively topics. Hence he is characterized by Chaucer as the., Morall Gower." He died in 1408. The chief work of Gower is entitled c" CONlEssIO ArxANTIS," or the ConJession of a Lover. It consists of a long dialogue between a Lover and his Confessor, who is a priest of Venus, and is called Genius. To make his pre1 Read —his "History of English Poetry," 4 vols., a work of vast learning. but not unfrequently teilous from its numerous digressions. 1399-1413.] GOWER. 35 cepts more impressive, he illustrates his injunctions by a series of apposite tales, with the morality of which' the lover professes to be highly edified. One of which, entitled " Florent," has considerable merit, and is told in Gower's best manner. As it is too long to insert in the Compendium, we will give the substance of it in prose, as near the author's language as we can, interspersing here and there a few lines of the original. There was, in days of old, as men tell, a worthy knight by the name of Florent; nephew to the emperor, and of great strength and courage. He was also ambitious of distinction in arms, and to gain the applause of men, he would go into any regions in search of adventures. It happened upon a time when he was abroad, that, going through a narrow pass, he was attacked by a number of men, and was taken and led to a castle. In the affray, however, he had killed Branchus, the son and heir of the captain of the castle. The father and mother were ready to take vengeance on him, but remembrance of his worthiness, and his high connections, made them pause. They feared to slay him, and were " in great disputes on what was best." There was a lady in the castle of very great age, and the shrewdest of all that men then knew. She, on being asked her advice, said, that she would devise a plan that would bring about the death of Florent, and all by his own agreement, and without blame to any one. The knight is summoned, and she thus addresses him: " Florent, though thou art guilty of Branchus's death, no punishment shall be visited upon thee, upon this condition-that thou shalt be able to answer a question which I shall ask; and thou shalt take an oath that if thou prove unable to do this, thou shalt yield thyself up voluntarily to death. And that thou mayest have time to think of it, and to advise with others, a day shall be fixed for thee to go hence in safety, provided that at the expiration of the time agreed upon, thou return with thine answer." The knight begs the lady to propose the question immediately, and agrees to all her conditions. She then says, " Florent, my question is one which pertains to love, What alle women most desire." Florent then, having taken an oath to return on a fixed day, goes forth, and returns to his uncle's court again. He tells him all that had befallen him, and asks the opinion of all the wisest men of the land upon the question to which he is bound to give an answer at the peril of his life. But he finds no two that agree. What some like, others dislike; but what to all is mosl pleasant, and most desired above all otherSuch a thing they cannot find By constellati6n ne kind, that is neither by the stars, nor by the laws of kind or natule. At length the day arrived when Florent must return. He begs his uncle not to be angry with him, for that is a "point of his oath," and he also entreats hilTm not to let any one revenge his death when he shall hear of his lamentable end. So he sets out on his return-pondering what to do-what answer to give to the question proposed. At length he came to a large tree, under which sat an old woman most ugly to viewThat for to speak of flesh and bone So foul yet saw he never none. 86 GOWER. [HE NRY IV. Oar hero was riding by briskly, when she called to him by name, and said, u Florent, you are riding to your death, but I can save you by my counsel." He turned at once, and begged her to advise him what he should do. Said she, "c What wilt thou give me, if I will point out a course by means of which you shall escape death?" "Any thing you may ask," said he. "cI want nothing more than this promise," said she, "6 therefore give me your pledge That you will be my housebande." " Nay," said Florent —" that may not be." "Ride thenne forth thy way," quod she. Florent was now in great perplexity: he rode to and fro, and knew not what to do. He promised lands, parks, houses, but all to no purpose, the housebhande was the only thing that would do. He came, however, to the conclusion that.t was Better to take her to his wife, Or elles for to lose his life. lIe also calculated with some skill the doctrine of chances, and came to the Conclusion that she would probably not live very long; and that while she did live he would put her Where that no man her shoulde know Till she with death were overthrow. He therefore agreed, most reluctantly, to the terms proposed. She then tells him that when he reaches the castle, and they demand of him his answer to the question proposed, he shall reply That alle women lievest would Be sovereign of mannes love; far what woman, says she, is so favored as to have all her willt: and if she be not " sovereign of mannes love," she cannot have what she " lievest have," that is what she may most desire. With this answer, she says he shall save hirnself; and then she bids him to return to this same place, where he shall find her waiting for him. Florent rode sadly on, and came to the castle. A large umaber of the inmates is summoned to hear his answer. He named several things of his own excogitations, but all would not do. Finally, he gives the answer the old woman directed: it is declared to be the true one, and he rides forth from the castle. Here began poor Florent's deepest sorrow, for he must return according to his oath. He rides back, and finds the old woman sitting in the same place, The loathliest wight That ever man cast on his eye, Her nose bas,' her browes high, Her eyen small, and depe-set, Her chekes ben with teres wet, And rivelin2 as an empty skin, Hangende3 down unto her chin, Her lippes shrunken ben for age; There was no grace in her visage. She insists, however, that he shall comply with the terms of agreement, and therefore, sick at heart, and almost preferring death, 1 Loow hat. 2 Shrivelled. 8 Hanging. 1399-1413.] cOWER. 37 In ragges as she was to-tore He set her on his horse to-fore, and riding through all the lanes and by-ways, that no one might see himn, hl arrives, by design, at the castle by night. He then calls one or two of his trusty friends, and tells them that he was obliged This beste wedde to his wife, For elles he had lost his life. The maids of honor were then sent in; Her ragges they anon off draw, And, as it was that tim6 law, She hadd6 bath, she hadde rest, And was arrayed to the best, all except her matted and unsightly hair, which she would not allow them to touch. But when she was fully array'd And heriattire was all assay'd, Then was she fouler unto see. But poor Florent must take her for better for worse, though the worse seemed then rather to predominate. The company are all assembled, and the bride and bridegroom stand up to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The ceremony being over, the ill-fated knight covered up his head in grief. His body mighte well be there; But as of thought and of memaiore His heart6 was in Purgatoire. She endeavored to ingratiate herself in his affections, and approached and took him softly by the hand. He turned suddenly, and saw one of the mIost beautiful beings that ever his eyes beheld. He was about to draw her unto himself-when she stopped him, And sayth, that for to win or lose He mote one of two thinges choose, Wherl he will have her sutch o' night Or elles upon daye's light; For he shall not have both6 two. Here Florent was utterly at a loss what to say. At last he exclaims, I n'ot what answer I shall give, But ever, while that I may live, I will that ye be my mistress, For I can naught myselv6 guess Which is the best unto my choice. Thus grant I you mine whole6 voice. Choose for us bothen, I you pray, And, what as ever that ye say, Right as ye wille, so will I. This is the point-lie yields up his will entirely to hers. This is what,, s116 1 Whether. 4 38 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. [HENRY VI. women most desire," to be sovereign of man's love:-in short-to have their own way. The bride then thus answers the happy groom: "My lord," she saide, "grand-mercil For of this word that ye now sayn That ye have made me sovereign, My destiny is overpass'd; That ne'er hereafter shall be lass'd2 My beauty, which that I now have, Till I betake unto my grave. Both night and day, as I am now, I shall alway be such to you. Thus, I am yours for evermo." JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 1395-1437. To an incident which happened in the reign of Henry IV. of England, we are indebted for the most elegant poem that was produced during the early part of the fifteenth century-" The King's Quair,"3 by James I. of Scotland. This prince was the second son of Robert III., and was born in 1395. Hit elder brother died, and the king determined to send his surviving son, James to be educated at the court of his ally, Charles VI., of France; and he embarked for that country with a numerous train of attendants in 1405. But the ship was stopped by an English squadron, and the passengers were, by order of Henry IV., sent to London. It was, of course, an outrageous violation of all right, for Henry to make James a prisoner; but the accident that placed him in his power was ultimately advantageous to the prince as well as to the nation he was born to govern. He was at that time only ten years of age, but Henry, though he kept him closely confined, took great pains to have him educated in the most thorough manner, and so rapid was the progress that he made in his studies that he soon became a prodigy of erudition, and excelled in every branch of polite accomplishments. During fifteen years of his captivity, he seemed forgotten or at least neglected by his subjects. The admiration of strangers and the consciousness of his own talents only rendered his situation more irksome, and he had begun to abandon himself to despair, when he was fortunately consoled for his seclusion at Windsor Castle by a passion of which sovereigns in quiet possession of a throne have seldom the good fortune to feel the influence The object of his admiration was the lady Jane Beaufort, (daughter of John Beaufort, duke of Somerset,) whom he afterwards married, and in whose commendation he composed his principal poetical work, ", The King's Quair." In 1423 he was released, and, taking possession of the throne of his ancestors, lie did very mluch to improve the civilization of his country, by repressing many disorders, and enacting many salutary laws. But his stringent measures 1 Many thanks. 2 Lessened. 8 "Quair," quire, pamphlet, or uook; hence the "King's Quair" means the King's Book. See Ellis's "Specimens," i. 299, Warton's "History of English Poetry," ii. 437, and Park's edition of Walpole's " Royal and Noble Authors.' 1422-1461.] JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 39 of reform were very offensive to a lawless nobility; a conspiracy was formned against him, and he was murdered at Perth, in 1437. The chief poem of James I., as mentioned above, consists of one hundred and ninety-seven stanzas. It contains various particulars of his own life; is full of simplicity and feeling, and, as has been correctly said, is superior to any poetry besides that of Chaucer produced in England before the reign of Elizabeth,-as will be testified by the following stanzas. ON HIS BELOVED. The longe dayes and the nightis eke I would bewail my fortune in this wise; For which again1 distress comfort to seek, My custom was on mornis for to rise Early as day: O happy exercise! By thee come I to joy out of torm6nt; — But now to purpose of my first intent. Bewailing in my chamber thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, And to the window gan I walk in hye,6 To see the world and folk that went forby; As, for the time, (though I of mirthis food Might have no more,) to look it did me good. Now was there made, fast by the Touris wall, A garden fair;3 and in the corners set An herbere,4 green; with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with treeis set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet That life5 was none [a] walking there forby, That might within scarce any wight espy. And on the smalle grene twistis sat The little sweete nightingale, and sung So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate Of levis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song; and on the couple next6 Of their sweet harmony: and lo the text! "Worshippe ye that lovers bene this May, For of your bliss the calends are begun; And sing with us,'Away! winter away! I'gainst. 2 Haste. 8 he gardens of this period seem to have been very small. In Chaucer's Troilus and Clesseide" we Ir ad tJ e same place indifferently called a garden and a yard; and this, at irndsor, Jast by theTourig waia, war probably either in the yard or on the terrace. 4 toh,.bly an arbour, though the word is also very frequently used for an herbatry, or garden of simpler. 5 Living person. 6 Mr' ytler imagines that this relates to the pairing of the birds; but the word couple seems here to be vi d as a musical term. 40 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. [HENRY ~V. Come, summer, come! the sweet seas6n and sun! Awake, for shame! that have your heavens won! I And amorously lift up your headis all; Thank Love, that list you to his mercy call 1'" When they this song had sung a little thlrow,2 They stent3 awhile, and, therewith unafraid As I beheld, and cast mine eyen a-lowe, From bough to bough they hipped4 and they play'd, And freshly, in their birdis kind, array'd Their feathers new, and fret5 them in the sun, And thanked Love that had their makis6 won. And therewith cast I down mine eye again, Whereas I saw, walking under the Tower Full secretly, new comyn her to pleyne,7 The fairest, or the freshest younge flower That ever I saw, methought, before that hour; For which sudden abate anon asterts The blood of all my body to my heart. And though I stood abased tho a lyte,9 No wonder was; for why? my wittis all Were so o'ercome with pleasance and delight. Only through letting of mine eyen fall, That suddenly my heart become her thrall For ever; of free will; for of men6ce There was no token in her sweete face. And in my head I drew right hastily; And eft-soones I lent it forth again: And saw her walk that very womanly, With no wight mo'0 but only women twain. Then gan I study in myself, and sayni "Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature, Or heavenly thing in likeness of natfire?' Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comen are to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand This garden full of flouris as they stand " What shall I think, alas! what reverence Shall I mester"l [un] to your excellence? "Giff12 ye a goddess be, and that ye like To do me pain, I may it not astert: Giff ye be worldly wight, that doth me sike,'3 1 Mr. Tytler explains this as follows: "Ye that have attained your highest bliss, by winning your mates." —See the last line of the next stanza. 2 A little time. 3 Stopped 4 Hopped. 5 Pecked. 6 Mates. " This seems to mean complain; but should it not rather be playen, to play or sport? S Started back. 5 Then a little. 10 More. 11 Admziifster? 12 If. 13 Make me sigh. 1422-1461.] JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 41 Why lestl God make you so, my dearest heart, To do a silly prisoner thus smart, That loves you all, and wote of nought but wo? And, therefore, mercy sweet! sen it is so." Of her array the form gif I shall write, Toward her golden hair and rich attire, In fret-wise couch'd2 with pearlis white, And greate balas3 lemyng4 as the fire, With many an emerant and fair sapphire, And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue Of plumys, parted red, and white, and blue. Full of quaking spangis5 bright as gold, Forged of shape like to the amorettis;6 So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold; The plumis eke like to the floure-jonettis,7 And other of shape like to the floure-jonettis; And above all this there was, well I wote, Beauty enough to make a world to dote! About her neck, white as the fyre amaille,9 A goodly chain of small orfeverye;10 Whereby there hung a ruby without fail, Like to an heart [y-] shapen verily, That as a spark of lowe," so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat; Now gif there was good party, God it wote. And for to walk, that freshe Maye's morrow, And hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen to-forrow,12 As I suppose; and girt she was a lyte;3 Thus halflingl4 loose for haste, to such delight It was to see her youth in goodlihead, That, for rudeness, to speak thereof I dread. In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport, Bounty, richess, and womanly featfire; God better wote than lmy pen can report: Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sure, In every point so guided her measure, In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, That Nature might no more her child avance. 1 Pleased: that is, "If thou art a goddess, I cannot resist thy power; but if only a mortal crcature, God surely cannot lest or incline you to grieve or give pain to a poor creature that loves you."-Tyller. 2 Inlaid like fret-work. 8 A sort of precious stone. 4 Shmmg. 5 Spangles. G,, Made in the form of a love-knot or garland." —Tytler. 7 A kind of lily. It is conjectured that the royal poet may here allude covertly to the name of his mistress, which, in the diminntive, was Janet or Jonet.-Thomson's Edition of King's Quhair. Ayr, 1824, 8 The repetition of this word is apparently a mistake of the original transcriber. 9 Qu. Is this an error for fair emnail, i. e. enamel? 10 Gold-work. 11 Fire, flame. 12 Before. 13 A little. 14 HEalf. 40 42 CAXTON. C[IENRY VII, And when she walked had a little thraw Under the sweete greene boughis bent, Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw, She turned has, and furth her wayis went; But tho began mine aches and torment, To see her part and follow I na might; Methought the day was turned into night.' WILLIAM CAXTON. 1413-1491. 0 Albion I still thy gratitude confess To CAXTON, founder of the BRITISH PRESS: Since first thy mountains-rose, or rivers flow'd, Who on thy isles so rich a boon bestow'd I M'CREERY. Lord I taught by thee, when CAXTON bade His silent words for ever speak: A grave for tyrants then was made — Then crack'd the chain which yet shall break. ELLIOT. THE name of William Caxton will ever be held in grateful remembrance by the world of letters, for he it was who introduced the art of printing into England. He was born in the county of Kent in the year 1413, and at the age of fifteen was put as an apprentice to a merchant of London. In consideration of his integrity and good behavior, his master bequeathed him a small sum of money as a capital with which to trade. He was soon chosen by the Mercer's Company to be their agent in Holland and Flanders, in which countries he spent about twenty-three years. While there, the new invention of the art of printing2 was everywhere spoken of; and Caxton, at a great 1 ", It would, perhaps, be difficult to select even from Chaucer's most finished works a long specimen of descriptive poetry so uniformly elegant as this: indeed somne of the verses are so highly finished, that they would not disfigure the compositions of Dryden, Pope, or Gray." —Ellis. 2 It is not a little singular that the history of printing, that art which commemorates all other inventions, and which hands down to posterity every important event, is so enveloped in mystery that the ablest minds in Europe have had long and acrimonious disputations respecting the question to what place and to what person the invention is rightfully due. There is not space here to give even an outline of these controversies; I can merely give the result. The two cities which claim tht discovery are Haarlem or Haerlem, a city of North Holland, and Mentz, in Germany on the Rhile. The dispute, however, as Mr. Timperley properly observes, has turned rather on words than facts, arising from the different definitions of the word rPINAIN G. If the honor is to be awarded from the discovery of the principle, it is unquestionably due to Lawrence Coster, of Haarlem, who first found out the method of impressing characters on paper, by means of blocks of carved wood, about 1430. If movable types be considered the criterion, as it seems to me they must, the merit of the invention is due to John Guttenburg, of Mentz, who used them about 1440: while'Schoeffer, in conjunction with Faust, was the first who founded types of metal. From all the arguments and opinions, therefore, which have been adduced in this important controversy, the following conclusion may be satisfactorily drawn. To JOHN GUTTENBURG, of lMentz, is due the appellation of FATHER O0 PRINTING; to PETER SCIOEFFER that of FATNERa Oc LETTER-FOUNDING; and to JOHN FAUST that of ENERGETIC PATRON, by whose pecuniary aid thle wonderful discovery was brought rapidly to perfection 1485-1509.3 CAXTON. 48 expense of time and labor, and with an industry to which all obstacles will ever give way, made himself complete master of it, as then known. He first employed himself in translating fiom French into English, The Recuyell I of the Histories of Troye, which was published at Cologne, 1471, and is the first book ever printed in the English language. The next year Caxton returned to England, and in 1474 put forth The Game of Chess, remarkable as being the first book ever printed in England. It was entitled, The Game and Playe of the Chesse: Translated out of the French, and imprynted by William Carton. Fynyshed the last day of Marche, the yer of our Lord God, a thousand foure hundred, lxxiiij. Caxton was a man who united great modesty and simplicity of character to indefatigable industry. He styled himself " simple William Caxton." He printed, in all, about sixty-four different works, a great number of which he translated as well as printed; and those which he did not translate, he often revised and altered; so that, in point of language, they may be considered as his own. He continued to prepare works for the press to the very close of his life; and. though of no brilliancy of talent, he exemplifies, in a remarkable degree, how much good one man may do, of even moderate powers, provided he industriously and faithfully employs all that has been given to him with an eye single to one great object.2 Among other worlks3 printed by Caxton were the Chronicles of England, which contained indeed some true history, but much more of romantic fable. As a specimen of the latter, the following may be given upon the ORIGIN OF THE NAME OF ALBION. Before that I will speak of Brute,4 it shall be shewed how the land of England was first named Albion, and by what encheson5 it was so named. Of the noble land of Syria, there was a royal king and mighty, and a man of great renown, that was called Dioclesian, that well and worthily him governed and ruled thro' his noble chivalry; so that he conquered all the lands about him; so that almost all the kings of the world to him were attendant. It befel thus that this Dioclesian spoused a gentle damsel that was wonder fair, that was his uncle's daughter, Labana. And she loved him as reason would; so that he had by her thirty-three daughters; of the which the eldest was called Albine. And these damsels, when they came unto age, became so fair that it was wonder. Whereof Dioclesian anon let make a summoning, and commanded by his letters, that all the kings that held of him, should come at a certain day, as in his letters were contained, to make a feast royal. At which day, thither they came, and brought with them admirals, princes, and dukes, and noble chivalry. The feast was royally arrayed; and there they lived in joy and mirth enough, that 1 Compilation-selection. 2 Read-" Life of Caxton," published by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. 3 For a full list of his works, see Ames's "Typographical Antiquities," or "' Timperley's History of Printing," page 155. 4 This Brute was the grandson of Alneas uold the old chronicles derived the descent of the Britons from the Trojans. 5 Chance 44 DUNBAR. [HENRY VIII. it was wonder to wyte.l And it befel thus, that Dioclesian thought to marry his daughters among all those kings that were of that solemnity. And so they spake and did, that Albine, his eldest daughter, and all her sisters, richly were married unto thirty-three kings, that were lords of great honour and of power, at this solemnity. And when the solemnity was done, every king took his wife, and led them into their own country, and there made them queens. The story then goes on to relate how these thirty-three wives conspired to kill their husbands, all on the same night, and canon, as their lords were asleep, they cut all their husbands' throats; and so they slew them all." When that Dioclesian, their father, heard of this thing, he became furiously wroth against his daughters, and anon would them all have brente.2 But all the barons and lords of Syria counseled not so for to do such straitness3 to his own daughters; but only should void the land of them for evermore; so that they never should come again; and so he did. And Dioclesian, that was their father, anon commanded them to go into a ship, and delivered to them victuals for half a year. And when this was done, all the sisters went into the ship, and sailed forth in the sea, and took all their friends to Apolin, that was their God. And so long they sailed in the sea, till at the last they came and arrived in an isle, that was all wilderness. And when dame Albine was come to that land, and all her sisters, this Albine went first forth out of the ship, and said to her other sisters: For as much, (said she,) as I am the eldest sister of all this company, and first this land hath taken; and for as much as my name is Albine, I will that this land be called Albion, after mine own name. And anon, all her sisters granted to her with a good will. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 1465-1530. WILLIAni DrNBAIR is pronounced by Ellis,4 to be c"the greatest poet Scotland has produced." His writings, however, with scarcely an exception, remained in the obscurity of manuscript, till the beginning of the last century; l)ut his fame since then has been continually rising. His chief poems are TiE TaISTLE AND TeH RosE, THE DANCE, and ThEa GOLDN TaItaE. The Thistle and the Rose was occasioned by the marriage of James IV. of Scotland with Margaret Tudor, the eldest daughter of Henry VII. of England, arn event in which the whole fuiture political state of both nations was vitally interested, and which ultimately produced the union of the two crowns and I Know. 2 Burnt. 3 Strictness. 4' Specimens of the Early English Poets," vol. i. i.,,'f7: but should he not have excepted Burns and Sir Walter Scott? 1'509-1547 ] DUNBAR. 45 kingdoms, in the person of James VI. of Scotland, and I. of England, 16031625. This poem opens with the following stanzas, remarkable for their descriptive and picturesque beauties: Qu&hen' Merche wes with variand windis past, And Appryll had with hir silver shouris Tane leif2 at Nature, with ane orient blast, And lusty May, that muddir3 is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris, Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt Quhois4 harmony to heir it wes delyt: In bed at morrow sleiping as I lay, Methocht Aurora, with her cristall ene In at the window lukit5 by the day, And halsit6 me with visage pale and grene; On quhois hand a lark sang, fro the splene,7 "Awak, luvaris,s out of your slemering,9 Se how the lusty morrow dois upspring!" Methocht fresche:May befoir my bed upstude, In weid'0 depaynt of mony diverse hew, Sober, benyng, and full of mansuetude, In bright atteir of flouris forgit"l new, Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, brown, and blew, Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus' bemys; Quhil al the house illLunynit of her lemys.'2 THE DAxCE of the Seven Deadly Sins thrmlgh Hell has much merit. On the eve of Lent, a day of general confession, the poet, in a dream, sees a display of heaven and hell. Mahomet,l3 or the devil, commands a dance to be performed by a select party of fiends, and immediately the Seven Deadly Sins appear. The following is a description of ENRvy — Next in the dance followit INvy, Fild full of feid'4 and fellony, Hid rzalyce and dispyte; For pryvie haterit 15 that tratour trymlit,16 Him followit mony freik dissymlit,'7 With feynit worlis quhyte. And flattereis into mens facis, And baclk-byttaris Is of sundry racis, To ley'9 that had delyte. With rownaris20 of fals lesingis:2I Allace! that courtis of noble lkingis Of tham can nevir be quyte!"22 As a specimen of one of his minor poems take the following, containing nuch wholesome advice —1 When. Qu has the force of w. 2 Taken leave. 8 Mother. 4 Whose. 5 Looked. 6 Hailed. 7 With good will. 8 Lovers. 9 Slumbering. 10 Attire. 11 Forged, made. 12 Brightness. 18 The Christians, in the crusades, were accustomed to hear the Saracens swear by their Prophet Mahomet, who then became, in Europe, another name for the Devil. 14 Enmity. 16 Hatred. 16 Trembled. 17 Dissembling gallant. 18 Backbiters. 19 Lie. 20 Rounders, whispers. To round in the ear, or simply to round, was to whisper in the ear. 91 Falsities. 22 Free. 46 DUNBAR. [HENR VIm. NO TREASURE WITHOUT GLADNESS. I. Be merry, man! and take not sair in mind The wavering of this wretchit world of sorrow! To God be humble, and to thy friend be kind, And with thy neighbours gladly lend and borrow. His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow. Be blithe in heart for any aventure; For oft with wysurel it has been said aforrow,2 Without gladness availis no treasure. IT. Make thee good cheer of it that God thee sends, For worldis wrak3 but welfare, nought avails: Na good is thine, save only but thou spends; Remenant all thou brookis but with bales.4 Seek to solace when sadness thee assails: In dolour lang thy life may not endure; Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails: Without gladness availis no treasiure. InI. Follow on pity;5 flee trouble and debate; With famous folkis hold thy company; Be charitable, and humble in thine estate, For worldly honour lastis but a cry;6 For trouble in earth take no melancholy; Be rich in patience, gif thou in goods be poor; Who livis merry, he livis mightily: Without gladness availis no treasure. IV. Though all the werk7 that ever had livand wight Were only thine, no more thy part does fall But meat, drink, cldais,8 and of the laif9 a sight! Yet, to the Judge thou shall give'compt of all. Ane reckoning right comes of ane ragment'0 small, Be just, and joyous, and do to none injure, AND TRUTH SHALL MIAKE THEE STRONfG AS ANY WALL: Without gladn6ss availis no treasure. I Wisdom. 2 A-fore, before. 8 Merchandise, treasure; that is, world's trash without health. Here we see the original, etymological meaning of the preposition but to be withott. 4 Thou canst enjoy all the remainder only with bale, or sorrow. 5 Originally pity and piety are the same. 6 No longer than a sound. 7 Possessions. 8 Clothes. 9 Remainder. 10 One accompt. 1509-1547.] MORE. 17 SIR THOMAS MORE. 1480-1535. MORE, Who, with a generous though mistaken zeal, Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage, Like Cato firm, like Aristides just, Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poorA dauntless soul erect, who smiled on death. THOMSON. SIR ToisrAs MORE was, without doubt, the most prominent character ol the reign of Henry VIII. He was born in London in the year 1480. When a boy he was in the family of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who used to say of him to his guests, " This boy who waits at my table, who lives to see it, will prove a marvellous man." He entered the University of Oxford at the age of seventeen, and at the age of twenty-two was elected member of Par. liament. In 1516 he was sent to Flanders on an important mission, and on his return, the king conferred on him the honor of knighthood, and appointed him one of his privy council. In 1529, on the disgrace of Cardinal Wolsey, lie was appointed Lord Chancellor, being the first layman who ever held the office. But he was soon to experience in himself the language which Shalk. speare puts into the mouth of Wolsey to Cromwell,"How wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors." Henry VIII. doubtless raised More to this high office, that he might aid him to obtain a divorce from his wife, and to marry Anne Boleyn. But More was sincerely attached to the Roman church, and looked with horror upon any thing that was denounced by the supreme head of the church, as the king's divorce was by the pope. He therefore begged that monster of wickedness, Henry VIII., to excuse him from giving an opinion. But the tyrant was relentless, and the result was, that when the Act of Supremacy was passed by Parliament, 1534, declaring Henry to be the supreme head of the church, More refused to take the oath required of him, and he died on a scaffold, a martyr to his adhesion to the papal church, and the supremacy of the pope, on the 5th of July, 1535. " Nothing is wanting," (says Mr. Hume,) " to the glory of this end but a better cause. But as the man followed his principles and sense of duty, however misguided, his constancy and integrity are not the less objects of our admiration." More was a man of true genius, and of a mind enriched with all the learning of his time, and no one had a greater influence over his contemporaries. He held continued correspondence with the learned men of Europe. The great Erasmus went to England on purpose to enjoy the pleasure of his con versation. It is said that their first meeting was at the lord mayor's table, at that time always open to men of learning and eminence, but they were unknown to each other. At dinner, a dispute arising on some theological points, Erasmus expressed himself with great severity of the clergy, and ridiculed, with considerable acrimony, the doctrine of transubstantiation. More rejoined with all his strength of argument and keenness of wit. Erasmus, thus assailed, exclaimed with some vehemence, " Aut tu Morus es, aut sullus;"'' to which More with great readiness replied, " lut tu es Erasmnus, aut Diabolus." 2 1 "o You are either More or no one." 2 "d Either you are Erasmus or the Devil.'" 43 MORE. [HENRY VII. In this contest Sir Thomas's wit, if not his arglments, rather prevailed; but not long after, Erasmus had a far greater advantage. More had lent Erasnus a horse, which he took over with him to Holland. Instead of returning it to the owner, he sent him the following epigram, intended as an answer to the former arguments of Sir Thomas on the subject of transubstantiation:Quod mihi dixisti De corpore Christi, Crede qaud edas, et edis: Sic tibi rescribo De tuo palfrido, Crede qubd habeas, et habes.l More was of a very cheerful or rather mirthful disposition, which forsook,tim not to the last, and he jested even when about to lay his head upon the ~,lock. The following couplet, which is attributed to him, indicates the state,of mind, which may have partially enabled him to meet his fate with a fortitude so admlirable: If evils come not, then our fears are vain; And if they do, fear but augments the pain. Tru;th however, compels me to add that his character presents many inconsistencies; for though he was a witty companion, he was a stern fanatic; though playful and affectionate in his own household, he lorded it with an iron rod over God's heritage; though an enlightened statesman, ably arguing in his study against sanguinary laws, from his chair of office he spared no pains to carry the most sanguinary into execution; and though ranked as a philosopher, he, every Friday, scourged his own body with whips of knotted cords, and by way of further penance, wore a hair shirt next to his lacerated skin. The most celebrated work of Sir Thomas More was his UToPIr.2 The title of it is as follows:,,,a A most pleasant, fruitful, and witty Work of the best State of the public Weal, and of the new Isle called Utopia." It is a philosophical romance, in which More, after the manner of Plato, erects an imaginary republic, arranges society in a form entirely new, and endows it with institutions more likely, as he thought, to secure its happiness, than any which mankind had hitherto experienced. But while there is much in it that is fanciful and truly Utopiaz, there is also much that is truly excellent and worthy to be adopted. Thus, instead of severe punishment for theft, the author would improve the morals and condition of the people, so as to take away the temptation to crime; for, says he, 4" if you suffer your people to be ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education exposed them, I For want of a better, I give the following version: Of Christ's body you said Believe that'tis bread, And bread it surely will be; Thus to you I write backBelieve that your hack Is with you, and with you is he. 2 More properly written Eutopia, from the Greek ezl (av) "well, happily," and topos (sorroS) "a place:" that is, " a land of perfect happiness." The Utopia was written in Latin, and not translated till a subsequent age, by Bishop Burnet. 1509-.1547.] MORE. 49 what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?" DESCRIPTION OF THE IsLAND UTOPIA. It is somewhere in the midst of the sea, of a crescent shape, like the new moon, but more curved, the two extremities coming nearer together. Hence the concave part forms an admirable harbor for ships, but the entrance is so full of rocks, that no one but a Utopian could steer a vessel safely into the harbor.' They are therefore secure from the attacks of an enemy. There are fifty-four cities in the island, about the same distance apart. They are surrounded by high walls; the streets twenty feet wide. All the houses have large gardens in the rear. cc Whoso will may go in," for there is nothing within the houses that is private, or any man's own. And every tenth year they change houses by lot. THEIR TADxEs AND MA31NER OF LIFE. Agriculture is that which is so universally understood among them all, that no person either man or woman is ignorant of it. The husbandmen labor the ground,breed cattle, hew wood, and convey it to the towns. They also raise a great deal of poultry, and that "b Iy a marvellous policy: for the hens do not sit upon the eggs; but by keeping them in a certain equal heat, they bring life into them and hatch them: and the chickens, as soon as they come out of the shell, follow men and women instead of hens." Besides agriculture, every man has some peculiar trade to which he applies himself. All the island over they wear the same sort of clothes, without any other distinction than that which is necessary for marking the difference between the two sexes, and the married and unmarried. The fashion never alters, and every family makes their own clothes. In TRAVELLING, though c" they carry nothing forth with them, yet in all their jourrneythey lack nothing: for wheresoever they come they be at home." There are no "wine taverns nor'ale-houses" there, so that the disgraceful business of manufacturing or selling intoxicating drinks is not known. Happy island! TaHin NOTIONS OF FINERRY AND WEALTH., The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel or stone, that can look up to a star, or to the sun itself: or how any should value himself because his cloth is made of finer thread; for, how fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that sheep was a sheep still for all its wearing it. They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed, that even man, for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than it is; so that a man of lead, w1ho has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men serving him, only because he had a great heap of that metal." THIEIR NOTIONs OF HUNTING. (" Among foolish pursuers of pleasure they reckon all those that deliglht in hunting, or birding, or gaming; of whose madness they have only heard, for they have no such things among them. What pleasure, they ask, can one find in seeing dogs run after a hare? It ought rather to stir pity, when a weak, harmless, and timid hare is devoured by a strong, fierce, and cruel dog. Therefore, all this business of hunting is, among the Utopians, turned over to their butchers; and they look on hunting as one of the basest parts of a butcher's work." 1 So graphic is Sir Thomas's description of Utopia, that many of ule learned o that day took It for true history, and thought it expedient that missionaries should be sent out to c-nvert so Awse a people to Christfanity. D 5 50 MORE. [HENRY VIII. OF LAWS AND LAWERts. " They have but few laws, and such is their constitution that they need not many. They do very much conclemn other nations whose laws, together with the comments on them, swell up so many volumes, for they think it an unreasonable thing to oblige men to obey a boidy of laws that are both of such a bulk and so dark that they cannot be read or understood by every one of the subjects.' They have no lawyers among them, for they consider them as a sort of people whose profession it is to disguise matters as well as to wrest laws; and, therefore, they think it is much better that every man should plead his own cause, and trust it to the judge." OF THEIR NOTIONS OF WAR. "They detest war as a very brutal thing; and which, to the reproach of human nature, is more practiced by men than any sort of beasts: and they, against the custom of almost all other nations, think that there is nothing more inglorious than that glory which is gained by war.2 They would be both troubled and ashamed of a bloody victory over their enemies; and in no victory do they glory so much, as in that which is gained by dexterity and good conduct, without bloodshed."3 Such are a few of the many admirable reflections to be found in the Utopia. No one can read it attentively without profit, and without acknowledging it to be full of those profound observations and shrewd insights into human nature, which show the author to be a man of singular wisdom, and far in advance of the spirit and practices of his own age.4 Besides the Utopia, Sir Thomas wrote a great number of theological treatises, the main design of which was to oppose the Reformation. He also wrote a 1" History of Edward V. and his Brother, and of Richard III." Of this, Hume speaks in the highest terms: &"No historian," (he says,) "neither of ancient or modern times, can possibly have more weight. He may justly be esteemed a contemporary with regard to the murder of the two princes; and it is plain from his narrative that he had the particulars from the eyewitnesses themselves." That wretch, Richard III., resolved, as the first step to his usurpation, to bet both the young princes into his hand. Accordingly he despatched Cardinal Bourchier, with other ecclesiastics, to the queen, to prevail upon her to give them up. After a long dialogue, the cardinal, perceiving the little progress he had made with her, finally assured her that if she would consent to deliver the Duke of York to him, he 4" durst lay his own body and soul both pledge, not only for his surety, but also for his estate." The queen, seeing longer resistance to be fruitless, taking the young duke by the hand, thus addressed the cardinal and other lords: My lord, (quod she,) and all my lords, I neither am so unwise to mistrust your wits, nor so suspicious to mistrust your truths Of which thing I purpose to make you such a proof, as if either 1 " This is a home thrust. Our laws are so numerous, that, together with their commentaries, they would have furnished sufficient solid reading for Adam, had he lived until now; and the best of it is, that he would probably have been as wise when he concluded as when he began." —.. A. St. John. 2 "d As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters."Gibbon. 8 Another home thrust; for modern generals, so they obtain the victory, care not a straw for the expense of human life by which it is purchased. 4 Read-the " Preliminary Discourse" to an excellent edition of the Utopia. by J. A. St. John, Esq. London, 1845: also, an admirably written life of More in LordCampbell's i' Lives of the clhancellors,"rone of the most interesting and instructive biographical works in the language. 1509-1547.] MORE. 51 of both lacked in you, might turn both me to great sorrow, the realm to much harm, and you to great reproach. For lo! here is, (quod she,) this gentleman, whom I doubt not I could here keep safe, if I would, whatsoever any man say. And I doubt not also, that there be some abroad so deadly enemies unto my blood, that if they wist where any of it lay in their own body, they would let it out. We have also had experience that the desire of a kingdom knoweth no kindred. The brother hath been the brother's bane. And may the nephews be sure of their uncle? Each of these children is other's defence while they be asunder, and each of their lives lieth in the other's body. Keep one safe, and both be sure; and nothing for them both more perilous, than to be both in one place. For what wise merchant ventureth all his goods in one ship? All this notwithstanding, here I deliver him, and his brother in him, to keep inte your hands, of whom I shall ask'them both afore God and the world. Faithful ye be, that wot I well; and I know well you be wise. Power and strength to keep him, if ye list, neither lack ye of yourself, nor can lack help in their cause. And if ye cannot elsewhere, then may you leave him here. But only one thing I beseech you, for the trust that his father put in you ever, and for the trust that I put in you now, that as far as ye think that I fear too much, be you well ware that you fear not as far too little. And therewithal, she said unto the child: Farewell, my own sweet son; God send you good keeping; let me kiss you once yet ere you go: for God knoweth when we shall kiss together again. And therewith she kissed him, and blessed him; turned her back and wept, and went her way, leaving the child weeping as fast.' Sir Thomas was twice married. His first wife was the daughter of a country gentleman of high standing, Mr. John Colt, who offered to More the choice of either of his daughters. He was more pleased with the second, and was about to bring matters to a close, when thinking how much it would grieve the elder sister to see the younger preferred before her, he at once addressed the elder, and married her out of pure benevolence. He was well rewarded for his kindness. She proved an excellent wife, sympathizing with him in all his labors and duties; but died after having been married six years, leaving three daughters and a son. For his second wife he married a widow, Mrs. Alice Middleton, of a very different character. He had not the least intention that way himself, but was addressing her in behalf of a friend, when she very plainly answered him, that "he might speed the better if he would speak in his own behalf." Upon that hint he spake —and married he -and, sorrowful to say, lived very uncomfortably with her. " Any heart bu More's " says one of his biographers, "would have been broken by this match, for she was one of the most loquacious, ignorant, and narrow-minded of women; but, like another Socrates, More endeavored to laugh away his con 1 The result is known: the king, (Edward V.) and his brother, the Duke of York, were murdered in the Tower by the usurper, Jruae, 1483. 52 MORE. [HENRY VIII. jugal miseries." The following letter to her has been deservedly commended for its spirit of gentleness, benevolence, and piety:Mistress Alice, in my most heartywise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein; albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is great pity of so much good corn lost; yet since it has liked him to send us such a chance, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost; and since he hath by such a chance taken it away again, his pleasure be fulfilled! Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth. and heartily thank him, as well for adversity as for prosperity. And peradventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss than for our winning, for his wisdom better seeth what is good for us than we do ourselves. Therefore, I pray you be of good cheer, and take all the household with you to church, and there thank God, both for that he has given us, and for that he has taken from us, and for that he hath left us; which, if it please him, he can increase when he will, and if it please him to leave us yet less, at his pleasure be it! I pray you to make some good onsearch what my poor neigh. bours have lost, and bid them take no thought therefore; for, if 1 should not leave myself a spoon, there shall no poor neighbour of mine bear no loss by my chance, happened in my house. I pray you be, with my children and your household, merry in God; and devise somewhat with your friends what way were best to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household, and for seed this year coming, if we think it good that we keep the ground still in our hands. And whether we think it good that we so shall do or not, yet I think it were not best suddenly thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk from our farm, till we have somewhat advised us thereon. Howbeit, if we have more now than ye shall need, and which can get them other masters, ye may then discharge us of them. But I would not that any man were suddenly sent away, he wot not whither. At my coming hither, I perceived none other but that I should tarry still with the king's grace. But now I shall, I think, because of this chance, get leave this next week to come home and see you, and then shall we farther devise together upon all things, what order shall be best to take. And thus as heartily fare you well, with all our children, as ye can wish. At Woodstock, the third day of September, by the hand of TuoMAs MlORE. 1509- 547.] TYNDALl]. 53 WILLIAM TYNDALE. 1477-1536. No sulbject is ilore interesting and instructive than the history of Biblical Literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. We have before spoken of the claims of John Wiclif to our lasting gratitude, for having given us the first English version of the Bible. But-that was made, not from the originals, but from the Latin Vulgate. Wiclif died 1384. About twenty-four years after his death, Archbishop Arundel, in a convocation of the clergy of his province assembled at Oxford, published a constitution, by which it was decreed, "c that no one should thereafter translate any text of Holy Scripture into English, by way of a book, a little book, or tract; and that no book of this kind should be read that was composed lately in the time of John Wiclif, or since his death." The Latin Bible, or Vulgate, was first printed on the continent in 1462; the Old Testament in Hebrew, 1488, and the New Testament in Greek about 1518. When these sacred oracles were brought into England, with the introduction of printing, the illiterate and terrified monks declaimed from their pulpits, that there was now a new language discovered, called Greek, of which people should beware, since it was that which produced all the heresies: that in this language was come forth a book called the ATew Testanzent, which was now in everybody's hands, and was full of thorns and briers: that there was also another language now started up, which they called Hebrew, and that they who learned it were tei'med Hebreews. One of the priests declared, with a most prophetic wisdom, c "We must root out printing, or printing will root out us." But, notwithstanding the clamors of the monks, and the persecutions of the secular clergy, William Tyndale, in the reign of Henry VIII., undertook to translate the Scriptures fiom the original Hebrew and Greelk into English, though he knew it would be done at the hazard of his life. Tyndale was born about the year 1477. At an early age he entered the University of Oxford, and while there was a most diligent student: thus he laid the foundation of that skill in the learned languages essential to the successful accomplishment of that enterprise which he was soon to take upon himself. Soon after leaving the University, he became tutor and chaplain in the family of Sir John Welsh, a knight of Gloucestershire, whose liberal table was sure to procure him the frequent visits of the neighboring prelates and clergy. On one occasion, being in company with a popish divine, he argued so conclusively in favor of a vernacular translation of the Biblle, that tle di vine, unable to answer him, exclaimed, "We had better lbe without God's law than the pope's." This fired the spirit of Tyndale, and he ind.,gnant ly replied, "I defy the pope and all his laws; and if God gives me life, ere maniy years the ploughboys in England shall know more of the Scriptures than you do;"-a pledge which, in a few years, he most nobly redeemed. Finding that he could not accomplish his plans at hllome, Tynldale, in the year 1523, became a voluntary exile from his lnative land, which he was never more to revisit. He went to Antwerp, and there, with great assiduity, prosecuted his design of translating the Scriptures into English. The New Testament was finished in 1526. It sold so rapidly that the following year another edition was published, and the year after another, each consisting of five thousand. Great numbers of these were imported into Englandl and, speedily sold, though the importers were prosecute:l with great rigor. 54 TYNDALE. [HENRY VIII. His retreat at Antwerp was hidden for some time from those who had marked him for their prey. But at length, in 1534, he was betrayed by the spies employed by Henry VIII., and imprisoned. Every thing was done by the English merchants at Antwerp to release him, and one of them, by the name of Thomas Pointz, was so ardent in his cause, that he went to England in person, to exert what influence he could in his favor. In the mean time the noble martyr was not inactive, but while in prison prepared another edition of the Testament, peculiarly adapted to the agricultural laborers; thus fulfilling his pledge that the "c ploughboys" should have it for themselves. But his invaluable life was now drawing to a close. The formalities of a trial were gone through; he was condemned for heresy; and in September, 1536, he was brought out of prison to suffer the dreadful sentence,-burning at the stake. In that appalling moment he exhibited the firmness and resignation only to be found in the certain confidence of having his portion with those "c shining ones" (in Bunyan's phrase) who had come out of great tribalation, and who had for Jesus' sake, Writhed on the rack, or blacken'd at the stake. While the horrid preparations of death and of burning were going on in full view around him, his last thoughts were turned upon the welfare of that country which had driven him forth a fugitive; and his dying voice was that of intercession for his royal persecutor. is O Lord, open the King of England's eyes," were his well-known last words at the stake. Rome thunder'd death, but Tyndale's dauntless eye Look'd in death's face and smiled, death standing by. In spite of Rome, for England's faith he stood, And in the flames he seal'd it with his blood. It rests on indubitable evidence that Tyndale's voice was hardly hushed in death, before his last prayer was answered in a remarkable manner; foi that capricious tyrant soon issued an injunction, ordering that the Bible should be placed in every church for the free use of the people. Tyndale's translation of the New Testament is admirable both for style and accuracy; and our present version has very closely followed it through out. To use the words of a profound modern scholar,l r" It is astonishing how little obsolete the language of it is, even at this day; and, in point of perspicuity and noble simplicity, propriety of idiom, and purity of style, no English version has yet surpassed it." The following is a fair specimen of this translation.2 And marke'a A Certayne Lawere stode vp' and tempted hym sayinge: Master what shall I do' to inheret eternall lyfe? He sayd vnto him: What ys written in the lawe? Howe redest thou? And he answered and sayde: Thou shalt love thy lorde god' wyth all thy hert' and wyth all thy soule' and with all thy strengthe' and wyth all thy mynde: and thy neighbour as thy tylfe. And he sayd vnto hym: Thou hast answered right. This do and thou shalt live. He willynge to iustifie hym sylfe' sayde vnto Jesus: Who ys then my neighbour? 1 Dr. Geddes. 2 See a beautiful edition of Tyndale's Testament, by Rev. -J. P. Dabney, with an interesting memoir, published at Andover, Mass. 8 Behold 1509-1547.] WVYATT. 55 Jesus answered and sayde: A certayne man descended from Jerusalem into Jericho' And fell into the hondes off theves' whych robbed hym off his rayment and wonded hym' and departed levynge him halfe deed. And yt chaunsed that there cam a certayne preste that same waye' and sawe hym' and passed by. And lyke wyse a levite' when he was come neye to the place' went and loked on hym and passed by. Then a certayne Samaritane as he iornyed cam neye vnto hym and behelde hym and had compassion on hym and cam to hym and bounde vppe hys wondes and poured in wyne and oyle and layed him on his beaste and brought hym to a common hostry* and drest him.2 And on the rnorowe when he departed he toke out two pence and gave them to the host and said vnto him, Take care of him and whatsoever thou spendest above this when I come agayne I will recompence the. Which nowe of these thre thynkest thou was neighbour unto him that fell into the theves hondes? And he answered: He that shewed mercy on hym. Then sayd Jesus vnto hym, Goo and do thou lyke wyse. SIR THOMAS WYATT. 1503-1542. SIR THioXrAs WYATT,3 whose poems are generally published with those of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, as they were contemporaries and warnm personal fiiends, as well as among the first improvers of the English language, was born in Allington Castle in Kent, in 1503, and educated at Cambridge. He was early distinguished as a polite and elegant scholar, and was remarkable alike for his uncommon beauty of person, for his dexterity and address in arms, and for his superior attainments in all the softer arts of peace. To a critical knowledge of the ancient classics, he added the French, Italian, and Spanish, which he spoke with fluency and elegance. But what distinguished him most was, his reputation as a poet, and the charm of' his conversation. His wit is said to have been inexhaustible, and his readiness at repartee such as astonished every one who heard him. Possessed of these advantages, it was no wonder that Wyatt should ingratiate himself with the king, and become a very general favorite at court. He was sent on some important foreign missions, and acquitted himself with great honor. The last, however, proved fatal to him: for having been sent by tile Iking to Falmouth to conduct the ambassador of the Emperor Charles V. to court, he rode too fast, took ill of a fever, and died in October, 1542, in the thirty-ninth year of his age. He was a man in every respect entitled to more than common admiration; and he obtained the praise of uniting in his character things in themselves seemingly discordant; brilliant wit and purity of thought; the ease of the 1 lnn. 2 Made provision for him. 8 See the admirable edition of the "Works of Surrey and Wyatt," by GTeorg.,e Nott,. D. D., two wolnlLmes, quarto, London, 1816. 56 W YATT. [EI IENY vIl. courtier and the gravity of the Christian. But what distinguished him more than even his talents or the powers of his wit, was a certain generous contempt of vice and an exalted love of virtue, which seem to have been tire great bond of union between the noble-hearted Surrey and himself. These were not with him qualities merely speculative; they were vital principles, perpetually pressing forward into action. "God and goodness," to use his own expression, " were ever the foundation of his condu6t;" so that it was not possible to know him, and converse with him, without feeling the same magnanimous longing after moral excellence by which he himself was animated. Thus he ennobled learning, and rendered poetry and polite attainments honorable, by making them subservient to the cause of Virtue and Religion. THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.t My lute, awake! perform the last Labor, that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun; For when this song is sung and past, My lute! be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none; As lead to grave in marble stone,2 My song may pierce her heart as soon: Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan I No, no, my lute! for I have done. The rock doth not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection; So that I am past remedy; Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts, thorough Love's shot, By whom unkind thou hast them won; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance may fall on thy disdain, That makest but game of earnest pain. Trow not alone under the sun, Unquit to cause thy lover's plain, Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie wither'c and old, The winter nights that are so cold, Plainiig in vain unto the moon: Thy wishes then dare not be told; Care then who list! for I have done. I This poem is of singular merit, and as Dr. Todd remarks, "is one of the most elegant amatory odes in our language." The lute corresponded nearly to the modern guitar, and every person of good education played upon it. 2 That is, it would be more easy for lead, which is the softest of metals, to engrave characters on bard marble, than it is for me to make impression on her obdurate heart. To grave-to make an impresslon uDon. 1509-1547.] WYATT. 57 And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh, and swoon: Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want, as I have done. Now cease, my lute! this is the last Labor, that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that I begun; Now is this song both sung and past: My lute! be still, for I have done. THE LOVER PRAYETH NOT TO BE DISDAINED, REFUSED, MISTRUSTED, NOR FORSAKEN. Disdain me not without desert, Nor leave me not so suddenly; Since well ye wot that in my heart I mean ye not but honestly. Refuse me not without cause why, Nor think me not to be unjust; Since that by lot of fantasy, This careful knot needs knit I must. Mistrust me not, though some there be That fain would spot my steadfastness. Believe them not, since that ye see The proof is not as they express. Forsake me not, till I deserve; Nor hate me not, till I offend, Destroy me not, till that I swerve; But since ye know what I intend.1 Disdain me not, that am your own; Refuse me not, that am so true; listrust me not, till all be known; Forsake me not now for no new.2 A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE. A face that should content me wond'rous well, Should not be fair,3 but lovely to behold; With gladsome chere, all grief for to expell; With sober looks so would I that it should 1 Dr. Nott says that but in this line means " unless," without at all explaining its whole difficulty. But, in old writers, is used in the sense of without, and since, or seethan as they spelled it, in the sense. of seeing that, for which it is a contraction: the full meaning of this line, in connection with the other, I take to be, "Unless you destroy me, seeing that or after that you know my honest inten tions." 2 An ellipsis, for no new lover. 3 "Fairc" here means regularly beautiful. The sense is, "The face that is to captivate me must not be regularly beautiful, but one that has a lovely turn of expression." 58 WYATT. [HENRY VIII. Speak without words, such words as none can tell; The tress also should be of crisped' gold. With wit, and these, might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide. OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE. Stand whoso list, upon the slipper top Of high estate; and let me here rejoice, And use me quiet without let or stop, Unknown in Court, that hath such brackish joys. In hidden place so let my days forth pass; That when my years be done withouten noise, I may die aged, after the common trace: For hlim death grip'th right hard by the crop, That is much known of other, and of himself, alas! Doth die unknown, dased with dreadful face. OF HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN. Tagus, farewell! that westward with thy streams T~urns up the grains of gold already tried;2 With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames, Gainward the sun that sheweth her wealthy pride; And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams,3 Like bended moon, doth lend her lusty side, My King, my Country, alone for whom I live, Of mighty Love the wings for this me give.4 What little prose Sir Thomas Wyatt has left us, consists chiefly of letters. The following extract from a letter to his only son presents, in its elevated sentiments and uncompromising spirit of Christian purity, a beautiful view of a true Christian father.:MY DEAR SON,-Inasmuch as now ye are come to some years of understanding, and that you should gather within yourself some fame of Honesty, I thought that I should not lose my labor wholly if now I did something advertise you to take the sure foundations and stablished opinions that leadeth to honesty. And here, I call not Honesty that, men commonly call Honesty, as reputation for riches, for authority, or some like thing; but that Honesty, that I dare well say your grandfather had rather left to me than all the lands he did leave me; that was, Wisdom, i " Crisped" means short curling ringlets, which were artificially produced by curling irons. Pop does not introduce these in his description of the toilet in the " Rape of the Lock," "Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux." We rather smile now at the taste for " golden" colored hair. 2 "C Gold already tried," pure gold. 3 This alludes to the old story, that Brutus, the third in descent from REneas, on quitting his native Land, sailed for parts unknown, landed at Albion, proceeded inland, and founded London on the forth side of the Thames, which he called Troynovante, as many early English writers call it. i The meaning of this is, " The love I bear my king and my country, give me wings for my jourAealt s 1509-1547.] WYATT. 59 Gentleness, Soberness, desire to do Good, Friendship to get the love of many, and Truth above all the rest. A great part to have all these things, is to desire to have them. And although glory and honest name are not the very ends wherefore these things are to be followed, yet surely they must needs follow them as light followeth fire, though it were kindled for warmth. Out of these things the chiefest and infallible ground is the dread and reverence of God, whereupon shall ensue the eschewing of the contraries of these said virtues; that is to say, ignorance, unkindness, rashness, desire of harm, unquiet enmity, hatred, many and crafty falsehoods, the very root of all shame and dishonesty. I say, the only dread and reverence of God, that seeth all things, is the defence of the creeping in of all these mischiefs into you. And for my part, although I do well say there is no man that would wish his son better than I; yet on my faith, I had rather have you lifeless, than subject to these vices. Begin therefore betimes. Make God and goodness your foundations. Make your examples of wise and honest men: shoot at that mark: be no mocker: mocks follow them that delight therein. He shall be sure of shame that feeleth no grief in other men's shames. Have your friends in a reverence, and think unkindness to be the greatest offence, and least punished among men; but so much the more to be dreaded, for God is Justiser upon that alone. Love well and agree with your wife; for where is noise and debate in the house, there is unquiet dwelling. Frame web yourself to love and rule well and honestly your wife as your fellow, and she shall love and reverence you as her head. Such as you are unto her, such shall she be unto you. Obey and reverence your father-in-law, as you would me; and remember that long life followeth them that reverence their fathers and elders; and the blessing of God, for good agreement between the wife and husband, is fruit of many children. Read oft this my letter, and it shall be as though I had often written to you; and think that I have herein printed a fatherly affection to you. If I may see that I have not lost my pain, mine shall be the contentation, and yours the profit; and upon condition that you follow my advertisement, I send you God's blessing and mine, and as well to come to hcn esty, as to increase of years. 6t0 HOWARD. [HENRY VIII. HENRY HOWARDpEARL OF SURREY. 1516-1547 HExYa HowARD, Earl of Surrey, the eldest son of Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, and Lady Elizabetli Stafford, was born about 1516. We say about that year, for we are as ignorant of the precise date of his birth as we are of all that relates to his early education, and the habits of his early life. In 1535 his marriage with the Lady Frances Vere was publicly solemnized, from which time what relates to his personal history is authentic. In 1540 he began to take an active part in public affairs, being sent by the king over to the continent, to see that the English towns and garrisons were in a proper state of defence against the threatened attack of the French. In April, 1542, he was made Knight of the Garter, which was esteemed a great mark of royal favor; and in October of the same year, he bore an active and leading part in the expedition against Scotland. In 1544 he acted as field-marshal of the English forces on the continent, and in that and the two succeeding years, he greatly distinguished himself by his valor and skill, at the sieges of Landrecy and Boulogne. But as his popularity increased, his interest declined with the king, whose caprices and jealousies grew more violent with his years and infirmities. The brilliancy of Surrey's character, the celebrity he had acquired in military science in his command on the continent, his general abilities, his wit, learning, and affability, were viewed with suspicion by the Earl of Hertford, the king's brother, who, as he saw the monarch's end approaching, was anxious to secure to himself the protectorship during Ecldward the Sixth's minority; and he saw that the only rival he had to fear was the great and good Earl of Surrey. Accordingly he did all he could to poison the mind of the king against him; and in April, 1546, he was recalled from the continent, imprisoned in Windsor Castle,' and in December of the same year was sent to the Tower. He was soon brought to trial. The accusations against him were of the most frivolous character, the chief of which was brought against him by his unnatural sister, the Duchess of Richmond. She said that he wore on his arms, instead of a duke's coronet, what c" seemed, to her judgment, much like a close crown;" and a cipher, "which she took to he the king's cipher, H. R." On this did she intimate that her brother was guilty of high treason. Surrey defended himself with great spirit and ability, and as to the main point in the indictment, showed conclusively that his ancestors had, of a long continuance, worn the same coat of arms, as well within the kingdom as without; and that it had constantly been borne by hLillself in Henry's presence. But all was of no. avail; the ruling influences, with Hertford at their head, determined that he should be convicted. Accordingly he was pronounced guilty, and was beheaded on the 19th of January, 1547. Thus fell, at the early age of thirty, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey; a man of such elevated virtues, and such rare endowments, that his untimely death must, with every one, be a subject of deep regret; for what might he not hlave done for English Literature, had his life been spared?2 The endow~ I Where he wrote the first poem here inserted. 2 Warton says, "For justness of thought, correctness of style, and purity of expression, he may Justly be pronounced the first English classical poet." L509-1547.] HOWARD. 61 ments of his mind were various; his acquirements great. There was no polite,or manly accomlplishmnent in which he did not excel. He was master of the Latin, the French, the Italian, and the Spanish languages. He had a vigorous intellect, and a quick and ready wit. He was fond of literary fame, and studious of literary excellence: but he beheld it in others without envy. His own genius was of a moral and contemplative cast. His noble mind never stooped to any thing that would inflame passion, or solicit improper Iesire. It is his peculiar praise that not a single thought nor a single expression can be found in all his writings, to wound the nicest sense of modesty, or to degra de the dignity of poetry. To crown all, he had the highest reverence for religion, and the Scriptures were equally his consolation and delight: by these he strengthened those moral principles which governed all his actions, and confirmed in his heart that generous contempt of vice which is experienced by none but men of noble minds. Such was the Earl of Surrey.' PRISONER2 IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED IN FORMER YEARS. So cruel prison how could betide, alas! As proud Windsor? where I in lust and joy, With a King's son, my childish3 years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. The large green courts, where we were wont to hove,4 l I cannot but insert here a portion of Dr. Nott's very discriminating and just comparison between Surrey and Wyatt:-1" They were men whose minds may be said to have been cast in the sanme mould; for they differ only in those minuter shades of character which always must exist in human nature. In their love of virtue, and their instinctive hatred and contempt of vice; in their freedom from personal jealousy; in their thirst after knowledge and intellectual improvement; in nice observation of nature, promptitude to action, intrepidity, and fondness for romantic enterprise; in magnificence and liberality; in generous support of others, and high-spirited neglect of themselves; in constancy in friendship, and tender susceptibility of affections of a still warmer nature, and in every thing connected with sentiment and principle, they were one and the same; but when those qualities branch out into particulars, they will be found in some respects to differ. "Wyatt had a deeper and more accurate penetration into the characters of men than Surrey had: hence arises the difflrence in their satires. Surrey, in his satire against the citizens of London, deals only in reproach; Wyatt, in his, abounds with irolly, and those nice touches of ridicule which mnake us ashamed of our faults, and therefore often silently effect amendment. Surrey's observation of nature was minute; but he directed it towards the works of nature in general, and the movements of the passions, rather than to the foibles and the characters of men; hence it is that he excels in the description of rural objects, and is always tender and pathetic. In Wyatt's complaints, we hear a strain of manly grief which commands attention; and we listen to it with respect, for the sake of himn that suffers. Surrey's distress is painted in such natural terms, that we make it our own, and recognise in his sorrows, emotions which we are ccnscious of having felt ourlselves." Read, also, a fine article on Surrey and Wyatt in the 2d vol. of D'Israeli's " Amenities of Literature." 2 This poem was written about 1546, when Surrey was imprisoned at Windsor, not long after his return from Boulogne. See notice of his life. "It is a poem," says Dr. Nott, "of singular beauty, and may be ranked among the most perfect compositions in our language." 3 The words "child," "childish," "lchildhood," had inl former times a much larger meaning than they now have. Both Chaucer and Spenser use them as applied to "early manhood." The phrase " childish years," therefore, means to describe the time when the Duke of Richmond and himself were just enitering on manhood. At the time of his residence in Windsor, 1534, Surrey was about eighteen and the Duke of Richmond about fifteen. i " To hove," to linger about a place in expectation or hope: same as "to hover." 6 62 HOWVARD. [HENRY VIII. With eyes cast up unto 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,2 Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palme-play,3 where, despoiled4 for the game, With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love, Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame, To baits her eyes, which kept the leads above.6 The gravel'd groand,7 with sleeves tied on the helml,8 On foaming horse with swords and friendly hearts; With chere,9 as though one should another whelm, Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. The secret groves, which oft we made resound Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise; Recording soft what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. The wild forest, the clothed bolts with green; 10 With reins avail'd,"1 and swift-ybreatheci horse, With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. The void walls12 eke that harbor'd us each night: Wherewith, alas! revive within my breast The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight; Tilhe pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest; The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust; The wanton talk,l3 the divers change of play; The friendship sworn, -each promise kept so just, Wherewith we past the winter nights away. O place of bliss! renewer of my woes! Give me account, where is lly noble fere 14 Whom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose' To other lief; 15 but unto me most dear. I s, Maiden's tower," that part of the castle where the ladies of the court had their apartments. 2 Such looks and entreaties as might have moved tigers to pity. 3," Palme-play," a game played with a ball and hand, so called because the ball was hit with the palm: it was also played with the bat, and similar to tennis. 4 " Despoiled," stripped for the game. 5," To bait," to allure, to attract. "6 " Which kept the leads above." The word "lead " is used by old writers for a flat:roof covered with lead, and the plural "leads" is therefore probably used for the walks or galleries (covered with lead) around the upper stories of the building, where the ladies might sit and see the game played in safety. 7,The gravel'd ground," the space enclosed, made level with fine gravel. 8 It was a general practice among ancient knights to tie to their helmets a sleeve or glove, received from their lady-love, which they wore not only in tilts and tournaments, but even in battle. 9," Chere" is used by all the old poets for the look, the expression of the countenance. 10,, The clothed holts with green," the high hills clothed with verdure. 11 ", Reins availed," mean slackened, so as to allow the horse to go at full speed. 12 "Void walls," the walls of those chambers now desolate, which were wont each night to receive us. 13,"Wanton talk," playful conversation. The word "wanton" was used by early writers as descriptive of the sportiveness and innocence of infancy. 14," Fere," companion. 06,, Lief," spelled also leef and leve, is an adjective, meaning " dear." The person here alluded to by Surrey was probably his sister, the Lady Mary who was married to the Duke of Richmnond. 1509-1547.] HOWARD. 63 THE FRAILTY AND HURTFULNESS OF BEAUTY. Brittle beauty, that Nature made so frail, Whereof the gift is small, and shorter is the season; Flow'ring to-day, to-morrow apt to fail; Tickle1 treasure, abhorred of reason: Dangerous to deal with, vain, of none avail; Costly in keeping, past, not worth two peason;2 Slipperer in sliding than is an eel's tail; Hard to obtain, once gotten never geason;3 Jewel of jeopardy,4 that peril doth assail; False and untrue, enticed oft to treason; En'my to youth, that most men bewail; Ah! bitter sweet, infecting as the poison, Thou farest as the fruit that with the frost is taken; To-day ready ripe, to-morrow all to shaken. IN PRAISE OF HIS LADY-LOVE COMPARED WITH ALL OTHERS.5 Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well say'n,s Than doth the sun the candle light, Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair; For what she saith ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were; And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfit mould, The like to whom she could not paint:7 With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it, I. I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain; "She could not make the lilre againl." I "Tickle," having no foundation, liable to sudden downfall. 2 "Peason," the plural oi peas. o The word "geason," of which the derivation is unknown, is used by the old writers with differ rat shades of meaning. Spenser employs it in the sense of "rare and uncommon." Here it seems to mean " something worth possessing:" for the sense of the passage is " once gotten not worth potFessing." t " Jewel of jeopardy;" that is, a jewel which there is much danger of losing. 5 Warton says that this ode " possesses almost the ease and gallantry of Waller; the versification toy correct, the language polished, and the modulation musical." "6 Say'n" for say, often thus used by the old writers. 7 To "paint" in Surrey's age meant to mould, to form or fashion as the sculptor does. 64 HOWARD. LMARY, Sith Nature thus gave her the praise To be the chiefest work she wrought; In faith, rethink! some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun. DESCRIPTION OF SPRING.1 The soote2 season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and elke the vale. The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make3 hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale,4 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete5 with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;6 The busy bee her honey now she mings;7 MTinter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. OF THE HAPPY LIFE AND THE MEANS TO ATTAIN IT. MARTIAL, the tlhings that do attain The happy life, be these, I find; The riches left, not got with pain: The fruitful ground, the quiet mind: The equal friend, no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule, nor governance; Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance:8 The mean diet, no delicate fare; True wisdom join'd with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Wrhere wine the wit may not oppress: The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night. Content thee with thine own estate Ne wish for Death, ne fear his might. 1 "This sonnet is perhaps the most beautiful specimen of descriptive poetry in our language."~Dr. Nott. 2,, Soote" was continued in use long after its substitute sweet was introduced. 3 ", Make," synonymous with mate. 4 The uneasiness experienced by this animal before he sheds his horns, leads hism to rub his forehead against the paling of the park. 6 " Flete" is not fltet, to "pass rapidly by," but nearer to our " float," except that it means what swims through the water as well as on its surface. 6 This was not only the old way of spelling small, but also of pronouncing it, with the long a, as in hate. 7 Mingles. 5 This line probably means, a "household" or family that is not of recent establishment, and pronnses to be of duration. 1553-1558.] LATIMER. 65 HUGH LATIMER. 1475-1555. HTaEu LATInREI, bishop of Worcester, was born about the year 1475. Being an only son, and of quick parts, his father, a respectable yeoman, resolved to make him a scholar, and after clue preparation he entered Cambridge. He was a zealous papist till the age of thirty, when he was converted by Thomas Bilney,1 and began with great zeal to propagate the opinions of the reformers. During the reign of Edward VI., (1547-1553,) he was pre-eminent among his zealous contemporaries in spreading the doctrinles of the Reformation, and, in conjunction with Cranmer, was one of the principal instrument* in effecting its establishment. But in the persecutions of Mary, he was singled out as one of the most desired victims of popish vengeance. He might have made his escape, and the opportunity which was given him seems to have been designed; but Latimer had the true spirit of a martyr, and determined to remain at his post of'duty. As he passed tihrough Smithfield on his way to London after his arrest, he exclaimed, " This place has long groaned for me." After a tedious imprisonment he persisted [n refusing to subscribe to certain articles which were submLitted to him, and be was led forth to his horrid death, October 16, 1555. With a staff in his hand, a pair of spectacles hanging at his breast, and a Bible at his girdle, he walked to the place of execution, with his fellow amartyr, Nicholas Ridley, bishop of London. On their way Ridley outwent Latimer some way before; but he, looking back, espied Latimer coming after, and said to him, "0 be ye there?" "Yea," said Latimer, " have after as fast as I can follow." Ridley first entered the lists, dressed in his clerical habit; and soon after, Latimer, as usual, in his prison garb. Latimer now suffered tihe keeper to pull off his prison-garb, and then he appeared in a shroud. Being ready, he fervently recommnended his soul to God, and then delivered himself to the executioner, saying to Riclley these prophetical words: "Be of good cheer, master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day kindle such a torch in England as I trust in God shall never be extinguished." Two bags of gunpowder were fastened under his arms, the explosion of which instantaneously deprived him of life. At this moment a quantity of blood seemed to gush from his heart, as if all the bloocl in his body had been there collected. But poor Ridley was less fortunate. His extremities were consumed to the trunk before the fire affected his vitals, and he died in lingering anguish.2 A YEOMAN OF HENRY SEVENTH S TIME. My father was a yeoman, and had no lands of his own, only he had a farm. of 31. or 41. by year at the uttermost, and hereupon he tilled so much as kept half a dozen men. He had walk for an 1 At first himself also a Romish priest; but he was afterwards burnt for heresy. 2 "Nor were the labors and constancy of our reformers at all inferior to those of the early propagators of the Gospel. Whoever has admired the faith and heroic sufferings of Ignatius or Polycarp, must look with no less satisfaction on those of Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, and Hooper. It is impos. sible not to venerate their glowing piety, their profound hunmility, their patience under sufferings, their praises of God under distresses and privations of every kind, their players for their persecutors, their exemplaryv and triumphant death."-Lectueres on Paganism and Chsritianity compcared, by John Ireland, D. D. —a most admirable work. E Ce 66 LATIMIER. MARY, hundred sheep, and my mother milked 30 kine. IHe was able, and did find the king a harness, with himself and his horse, while he came to the place that he should receive the king's wages. I can remember that I buckled his harness when he went to Blackheath field. He kept me to school, or else I had not been able to have preached before the king's majesty now. He married my sisters with 51. or 20 nobles apiece, so that he brought them up in godliness and fear of God. He kept hospitality for his poor neighbours. And some alms he gave to the poor, and all this did he of the said farm. Where he that now hath it, payeth 161. by the year, or more, and is not able to do any thing for his prince, for himself, nor for his children, or give a cup of drink to the poor. In my time my poor father was as diligent to teach me to shoot, as to learn me any other thing, and so I think other men did their children: he taught me how to draw, how to lay my body in my bow, and not to draw with strength of arms as divers other nations do, but with strength of the body. I had my bows bought me according to my age and strength; as I increased in them, so my bows were made bigger and bigger, for men shall never shoot well, except they be brought up in it: it is a worthy game, a wholesome kind of exercise, and much commended in physic. HIS EXAMINATION BEFORE THE BISHOPS. I was once in examination before five or six bishops, where I had much turmoiling; every week thrice I came to examination, and many snares and traps were laid to get something. Now (God knoweth, I was ignorant of the law, but that God gave me answer and wisdom what I should speak. It was God indeed, for else I had never escaped them. At the last I was brought forth to be examined, into a chamber hanged with arras, where I was wont to be examined, but now at this time the chamber was somewhat altered. For whereas before there was wont ever to be a fire in the chimney, now the fire was taken away, and an arras hanging hanged over the chimney, and the table stood near the chimney's end: so that I stood between the table and the chimney's end. There was among these bishops that examined me, one with whom I have been very familiar, and took him for my great friend, an aged man, and he sate next the table's end. Then among all other questions he put forth one, a very subtle and crafty one, and such a one indeed as I could not think so great danger in. And I should make answer: I pray you, master Latimer, saith he, speak out: I am very thick of hearing, and here be many that sit far off. I marvelled at this, that I was bid. den speak out, and began to misdeem, and gave an ear to the chimney. And, sir, there I heard a pen walking in the chimney 1553-1558.] LATIMER, 67 behind the cloth. They had appointed one there to write all my answers, for they made sure work that I should not start from them: there was no starting from them. God was my good Lord, and gave me answer; I could never else have escaped it. The question was this: Master latimer, do you not think on your conscience, that you have been suspected of heresy? A subtle question a very subtle question. There was no holding of peace woulO serve. To hold my peace had been to grant myself faulty. To answer it was every way full of danger. But God, which alway had given me answer, helped me, or else I could never have escaped it, and delivered me from their hands. CAUSE AND EFFECT. Here is now an argument to prove the matter against the preachers. Here was preaching against covetousness all the last year, and the next summer followed rebellion: Ergo, preaching against covetousness was the cause of the rebellion-a goodly argument. Here now I remember an argument of master More's which he bringeth in a book that he made against Bilney; and here by the way I will tell you a merry toy. Master More was once sent in commission into Kent, to help to try out (if it might be) what was the cause of Goodwin Sands, and the shelf that stopped up Sandwich haven. Thither cometh master More, and calleth the country afore him, such as were thought to be men of experience, and men that could of likelihood best certify him of that matter concerning the stopping of Sandwich haven. Among others came in before him an old man, with a white head, and one that was thought to be little less than a hundred years old. When master More saw this aged man, he thought it expedient to hear him say his mind in this matter, (for being so old a man, it was likely that he knew most of any man in that presence and company.) So master More called this old aged man unto him, and said: Father, (said he,) tell me, if you can, what is the cause of this great arising of the sands and shelves here about this haven, the which stop it up, that no ships can arrive here? Ye are the eldest man I can espy in all this company, so that if any man can tell any cause of it, ye of likelihood can say most to it, or at leastwise, more than any man here assembled. Yea forsooth, good master, (quoth this old man,) for I am well nigh a hundred years old, and no man here in this company any thing near unto mine age. Well then, (quoth master More,) how say you in this matter? What think you to be the cause of these shelves and flats that stop up Sandwich haven? Forsooth sir, (quoth he,) I aln an old man; I think that Tenterton-steeple is the cause of Good 68 CHEKE. [MARY, wvin Sands. For I am an old man, sir, (quoth he,) and I may remember the building of Tenterton-steeple, and I may remember when there was no steeple at all there. And before that Tenterton-steeple was in building, there was no manner of speaking of any flats or sands that stopped the haven; and therefore I think that Tenterton-steeple is the cause of the destroying and decay of Sandwich haven. And so to my purpose, is preaching of God's word the cause of rebellion, as Tenterton-steeple was cause that Sandwich haven was decayed. SIR JOHN CHEKE. 1514-1557. IN the year 1540, Henry VIII. founded a Greek professorship at Cambridge, of which Cheke was elected the first professor, when only twenty-six years of age; so early was he distinguished for his classical attainments. In 1544 he was appointed tutor to Prince Edward,1 who, on his accession to the throne, rewarded him with a pension of a hundred marks and a grant of several lands and manors; and in 1551 conferred on him the honor of knighthood. Sir John was a zealous protestant; in consequence of which he was severely persecuted by the bigoted Mary, twice imprisoned in the Tower, stript of his whole substance, and ultimately reduced to that dilemma which tried the stoutest hearts —" Either turn or burn." His religious zeal was not proof against this fiery ordeal, and he recanted. His property Twas now restored; but his recantation was followed by such bitterness of remorse, that he survived it but a short time, dying in 1557, at the early age of forty-three. The period in which Chllelke flourished is highly interesting to letters. His influence was very great in promoting a taste for classical and philological learning. He introduced a new method of pronouncing Greek, which, not withstanding the violent fulminations of the papal clergy, ultimately prevailed and still prevails. We are also very much indebted to hinm for the improvement of our own language. He recommended and practised a more minute attention to the meaning of words and phrases, and adopted a more skilful arrangement of them in composition. Before him, the sentences were long, and often involved. He used short sentences, and wrote with greater precision, perspicuity, and force of style than his predecessors. His works were numerous, but they chiefly consisted of Latin translations from the Greek. Almost his only English work extant is his tract, entitled [h The Hurt of Sedition." In the summer of 1549 a formidable rebellion broke out in miany of the counties in England. The rebels in the western part favored tile papal religion, which they were desirous to restore. These Sir John addresses thus: I To this MUilton alludes in one of his sonnets: " Thy age like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheke, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge and Kinlg Edward Greek." 1553-1558.] CHEKE. 69 THE NEW AND THE OLD RELIGION CONTRASTED. Ye rise for religion. What religion taught you that? If ye were offered persecution for religion, ye ought to flee. So Christ teacheth you, and yet you intend to fight. If ye would stand in the truth, ye ought to suffer like martyrs; and ye would slay like tyrants. Thus for religion, ye keep no religion, and neither will follow the counsel of Christ nor the constancy of martyrs. Why;ise ye for religion? Have ye any thing contrary to God's book? Yea, have ye not all things agreeable to God's word? But the new [religion] is different from the old; and therefore ye will have the old. If ye measure the old by truth, ye have the oldest. If ye measure the old by fancy, then it is hard, because men's fancies change, to give that is old. Ye will have the old stile. Will ye have any older than that as Christ left, and his apostles taught, and the first church did use? Ye will have that the canons do establish. Why that is a great deal younger than that ye have of later time, and newlier invented; yet that is it that ye desire. And do ye prefer the bishops of Rome afore Christ? Men's inventions afore God's law? The newer sort of worship before the older? Ye seek no religion; ye be deceived; ye seek traditions. They that teach you, blind you; that so instruct you, deceive you. If ye seek what the old doctors say, yet look what Christ, the oldest of all, saith. For be saith, " before Abraham was made, I am." If ye seek the truest way, he is the very truth If ye seek the readiest way, he is the very way. If ye seek everlasting life, he is the very life. What religion would ye have other how than his religion? You would have the Bibles in again. It is no mervail; your blind guides should lead you blind still. e e But why should ye not like that [religion] which God's word establisheth, the primitive church hath authorized, the greatest learned men of this realm have drawn the whole consent of, the parliament hath confirmed, the king's majesty hath set forth? Is it not truly set out? Can ye devise any truer than Christ's apostles used? Ye think it is not learnedly done. Dare ye, commons, take upon you more learning than the chosen bishops and clerks of this realm have? e i e Learn, learn to know this one point of religion, that God will be worshipped as he hath prescribed, and not as we have devised. And that his will is wholly in the Scriptures, which be full of God's spirit, and profitable to teach the truth. 70 HEYWOOD. [ELIZABETH, JOHN HEYWOOD. Died 1565. THE DRAMIA.1 THE naqme of John Heywvood introduces us at once to that department of L]iterature, in which the English have excelled all the other nations of the world-the Drama. It is impossible to fix any precise date for the origin of the English Drama. In tracing its history, however, we must make four divisions-the Miracle Plays-the Moral Plays-the Interludes-and the Legitimate Drama. THE MIRACLE PLAYS. It would appear that, at the dawn of modern civilization, most countries of Europe possessed a rude kind of theatrical entertainnment, consisting of the principal supernatural events of the Old and New restaments, and of the history of the saints; whence they were called Miracles, or Miracle Plays. Some of their subjects were The Creation-The Fall of Man-The Flood-Albraham's Sacrifice-The Birth of Christ-His Baptism, &c. These plays were acted by the clergy, and were under their immediate management, for they maintained that they were favorable to the cause of religion. On the contrary, the language and the representations of these plays were indecorous and profane in the highest degree: and what must have been the state of society, when ecclesiastics patronised such scenes of blasphemy and pollution! Let us hear no more about 4"the good old times," for " times" were doubtless far worse then than now. MORAL PLAYS. The next step in the progress of the Drama was the.Moral Play. The Moral Plays were dramas of which the characters were chiefly allegorical or abstract. They were certainly a great advance upon the Miracles, as they endeavored to convey sound moral lessons, and at the same time gave occasion to some poetical and dramatic ingenuity, in imaging forth the characters, and assigning appropriate speeches to each. The only scriptural character retained in them, was the Devil. He was rendered as grotesque and hideous as possible by the mask and dress he wore. We learn that his exterior was shaggy and hairy, one of the characters mistaking hlim for a dancing bear. That he had a tail, if it required proof, is evident from the circumstance, that in one play, the other chief character, called Vice, asks him for a piece of it to make a fly-trap. Thus, what would otherwise have been quite a sober performance, was rendered no little entertaining. 1 We now enter upon the age of Queen Elizabeth, and I cannot but insert here the following fine remarks from the 18th vol. of the Edinburgh Review:-" We cannot resist the opportunity of here saying a word or two of a class of writers, whom we have long worshipped in secret with a sort of idolatrous veneration, and now find once more brought forward as candidates for public applause The era to which they belong, indeed, has always appeared to us by far the brightest in the history of English literature, or indeed of human intellect and capacity. There never was, anywhere, any thing like the sixty or seventy years that elapsed from the middle of Elizabeth's reign to the period of the Restoration. In point of real force and originality of genius, neither the age of Pericles, nor the age of Augustus, nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis XIV., can come at all into comparison; for, in that short period, we shall find the names of almost all the very great men that this nation has ever produced,-the names of Shakspeare, and Bacon, and Spenser, and Sidney, and Hooker, and Taylor, and Barrow, and Raleigh, and Napier, and Milton, and Cudworth, and Hobbes, and many others;-men, all of them, not merely of great talents and accomplishments, but of vast compass and reach of understanding, and of minds truly creative and original;-not perfecting art by the delicacy of their taste, or digesting knowledge by the justness of their reasonings; but making vast and substantial additions to the materials upon which taste and reason must hereafter be employed,-and enlarging, to an incredible and unparalleled extent, both the stores and the resources of the human faculties' 1558-1603.] HEYWOOD. 71 INTERLUDES.! The Interludes were something between the Moral Piay, and the modern ])rama. The Moral Plays were frequent in the reign of Henry VI. (1422-1461.) In the reign of H'nry VII. (1485-1509) they flourished in all their glory, and continued in force clown to the latter half of the sixteenth century. But it was at length found that a real human being with a human name, was better calculated to awaken the sympathies, and keep alive the attention of an audience, and not less so to impress them with moral truths, than a being who only represented a notion of the mind. The substitution of these for the symbolical characters, gradually took place during the earlier part of the sixteenth century, and before its close the English drama, in the writings of Shakspeare, reached its highest excellence. One of the most successful writers of Interludes was John Heywood, or as he was commonly called, t"Merry John Heywood." He was a native of London, but the year of his birth is unknown. He studied for some time at Oxford, but did not take his degree. He was of a social, festive genius, the favorite of Henry VIII., and afterwards of his daughter, Queen Mary, who were delighted with his dramatic representations. It is rather singular that the latter should have been so much pleased, as Heywood exposed, in terms of great severity, the vicious lives of the ecclesiastics. The play which per. haps best illustrates the genius of Heywood, is that called the "I Foun P's," which is a dialogue between a Palmer,2 a Pardoner, a Poticary,3 and a Pedler. Four such khaves afforded so humorous a man as Heywood was, abundant materials for satire, and he has improved them to some advantage. The piece opens with the Palmer, who boasts of his peregrinations to the Holy Land, to Rome, to Santiago in Spain, and to a score of other shrines. This boasting was interrupted by the Pardoner, who tells himl that he has been foolish to give himself so much trouble, when he might have obtained the object of his journey-the pardon of his sins-at home. For at your door myself doth dwell, Who could have saved your soul as well, As all your wide wandering shall do, Though ye went thrice to Jericho. The Palmer will not hear his labors thus disparaged, and he thus exclaims to the impostor, the relic-vender: Right seldom is it seen, or never, That truth and Pardoners dwell together. The Pardoner then rails at the folly of pilgrimages, and asserts in strong terms the virtues of his spiritual nostrums; With small cost, and without any pain, These pardons bring them to heaven plain. The Poticary now speaks, and is resolved to have his share of the merit. Of what avail are all the wanderings of the one or the relics of the other, until the soul is separated from the body? And who sends so many into the 1 A species of farce, so called because they were played at the intervals of festivity. 2 Every Palmer was a Pilgrim, but every Pilgrim was not a Palmer. The Pilgrim so called was one who had visited any foreign shore, and who on his return wore some badge peculiar to the place visited. Those, for instance, who visited the statue of St. James at Santiago (Spain) wore, on their return, the scallop-shell so frequent in that neighbourhood. But the term Palmer was applied to those only who had visited the holy places of Palestine, in token of which he bore in his hat a small portion of the palm, which so much abounds in that region. 8 In early times the apothecary and physician were united in the same person. 72 HEYWOOD. [ELIZABETH, other world as the apothecary? Except such as may happen to be hanged, (whiech, for any thing he knows, may be the fate of the Palmer and Pardoner,) who dies by any other help than that of the apothecary? As, therefore, it is he, he says, who fills heaven with inmates, who is so imuch entitled tc the gratitude of mankind? The Pardoner is here indignant, and asks what is the benefit of dying, and what, consequently, the use of an apothecary, even should he kill a thousand a day, to men who are not in a state of grace? And what, retorts the other, would be the use of a thousand pardons round the neck, unless people died? The Poticary, who is the most sensible of the three,. concludes that all of them are rogues, when the Pedler makes his appearance. He, like his companions, commends his wares. How can there lie any love without courtship? And how can women be won without such tempting gifts as are in his sack? Who liveth in love and love would win, Even at this pack he must begin. He then displays his wares, and entreats them to buy: but the churchmen of that day were beggars, not buyers; and the Poticary is no less cunning. At length the Pardoner reverts to the subject of conversation when the Pedler entered, and, in order to draw out the opinion of the last comer, states the argumlent between himself and his two companions. The Pedler seems, at first, surprised that the profession of an apothecary is to kill men, and thinkls the world may very well do without one; but the other assures him he is under a mistake; that the Poticary is the most useful, and for this notable reason, that when any man feels that his " conscience is ready," all he has to do is to send for the practitioner, who will at once despatch him. Weary of their disputes for pre-eminence of mierit and usefulness, the Pedler proposes that the other three shall strive for the mastery by lying, and that the greatest liar shall be recognised as head of the rest. The task lie imposes on them cannot, he says, be a heavy one, for all are used to it. They are each to tell a tale. The Poticary conimnences, and the Pardoner follows. Their lies are deemed very respectable, but the Palmer is to be victorious, as he ends his tale in these words: — Yet have I seen many a mile, And many a woman in the while; And not one good city, town, or borough, In Christendom but I have been thorough: And this I would ye should understand, I have seen womlsen, five hundred thousand: Yet in all places where I have been, Of all the women that I have seen, I never saw nor knew in my conscience, Any one woman out of patience. Nothing can exceed the surprise of the other three at this astounding assertion, except the ingenuity with which they are made to express-unwillingly yet involuntarily-the Palmer's superiority in the c" most ancient and notable art of lying." Poticary. By the mass, there's a great lie! Pardoner. I never heard a greater-by our Lady! Pedler. A greater! nay, knew you any one so great? &nd so ends the old interlude of 1" Merry John Heywood," of the," Four P's." 1558-1603.] STILL. 73 JOHN STILL, AND HIS GAMMIER GURTON S NEEDLE. To John Still, master of arts of Christ's College, Cambridge, and subse quently archdeacon of Sudbury, and lastly bishop of Bath and Wells, is ascribed the first genuine comedy in our language. It was first acted in 1566, and was printed in 1575, under the following title: "A ryght pithy, pleasant, and merie Comedy, intytuled Gammer Gurton's Nedle; played on the stage not longe ago in Christe's Colledge, in Cambridge. Made by Mr. S., master of art." As the first comedy in our language, it would demand attention, independent of its merit. But it has a sort of merit in its way. It is written in rhyme. The humor is broad, familiar, and grotesque. The characters are sketched with a strong, though coarse outline, and are to the last consistently supported. Some of the language, however, and many of the incidents, are such as give us no very favorable view of the manners of the times, when the most learned and polished of the land, the inmates of a university, could listen with delight to dialogue often tinctured with phrases of the lowest and grossest character, and that, too, written by a prelate. But, as a curiosity, we will give the outline of this old piece. The characters consist of Diccon, a cunning wag, who lives on stolen bacon and mischief; Hodge, a mere bumpkin; Gammer Gurton, and Dame Chat, two brawling old wives; Mas Doctor Rat, an intermeddling priest, who would rather run the risk of a broken head than lose a tithe-pig; and Gib, the cat. The plot turns upon the loss of the Gammer's only needle, A little thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any siller, Small, long, sharp at the point, and straight as any pillar. Fhe disaster happens while tile dame is mending an article of clothing of her man Hodge. In the midst of the operation, Gib, the cat, who is no unimportant personage in the play, disturbs the Gammer's serenity by making a furtive attempt on a pan of milk. The Gaminmer, in a passion, throws the before-mentioned article of apparel at Gib, and that valuable instrument of female economy is most unhappily lost. After a fruitless search in all imaginable places, Diccon, the bedlam, seeing that this affair would afford some sport, straightway hies him to Dame Chat, and tells her how Gammer Gurton has accused her of stealing her poultry. He next applies to the Ganimer, and vows he saw Dame Chat pick up the needle at the Gammer's door. This brings the two old ladies together. The one accuses the other of stealing her goods, and froni words they soon proceed to blows, in which Dlame Chat comes off victorious. In this extremity the Gammer applies for relief to the curate, Doctor Rat. Here again Diccon interposes, and persuades the learned ecclesiastic to creep in the silent hour of night into Dame Chat's house, when he will see her at work with the aforesaid needle. Meanwhile Diccon gives Dame Chat notice that Hodge will that night pay an evil-inten. tioned visitation to her poultry. The dame accordingly prepares for his reception, and instead of the needle, the doctor meets with a door-bar, wielded by the masculine hand of the Dame, (who conceives it to be Hodge,) to the no small detriment of the said Doctor's skull. To the baily Gammer Gurtoei hlas now recourse; when, after a long argument, the author of the mischief is discovered, and enjoined a certain ceremony by way of expiation; and as a 7 74 ASCIIAM. [ELIZABETH., preliminary step, gives Hodge a smart thump on a part of his person, that, to the recipient's great discomfiture, leads to the detection of the invaluable needle, which it seems had been securely lodged in that aforemnentioned article of clothing on which the Gammer had been at work. Hodge's preparation for the pursuit of the fugitive needle, and his attempt to elicit a friendly spark from Gib's eyes to help him to light his candle, is described with great humor. The Gammer's boy says: — Gammer, if ye will laugh, look in but at the door, And see how Hodge lieth tombling and tossing amiids the floor, Raking there,-some fire to find among the ashes dead, Where there is not one spark so big as a pin's head: At last in a dark corner two sparks he thought he sees, Which were indeed nought else, but Gib our cat's two eyes. Puff, quod Hodge, thinking thereby to have fire without doubt; With that Gib shut her two eyes, and so the fire went out; And by and by them opened, even as they were before, With that the sparks appeared even as they had done of yore; And ever as Hodge there blew the fire as he did think, Gib, as she felt the blast, straightway began to wink; Till Hodge fell to swearing, as came best to his turn, The fire was sure bewitcht, and therefore would not burn: At last, Gib up the stairs among the old posts and pins, And Hodge he hied him after, till broke were both his shins. And so ends the humorous old comedy of Gammer Gurton's Needle. ROGER ASCHAM. 1515-1568. THE name of Roger Ascham deservedly ranks high in English literature. He was born in 1515, and took his degree at the University of Cambridge at the age of nineteen.1 That he was pre-eminently skilled in the Greek language, is evident from the fact, that a few years after he left the University he was invited by Sir John Cheke to become preceptor of the learned languages to Elizabeth; which office he discharged for two years with great credit and satisfaiction to himself, as well as to his illustrious pupil. Soon after this, he went abroad, and remained about three years in Germany. On his return he was selected to filn. the office of Latin secretary to Edward VI., but on the death of the king he retired to the University. On the accession of Elizabeth he was immediately distinguished, and read with the queen, some hours every day, 1,, Ascham entered Cambridge at a time when the last great revolution of the intellectual world was filling every academical mind with ardor or anxiety. The destruction of the Constantinopolitan empire, (1453,) had driven the Greeks with their language into the interior parts of Europe, the art of printing had made the books easily attainable, and Greek now began to be taught in England. The doctrines of Luther had already filled all the nations of the Romish communion with controversy arid dissension. New studies of literature, and new tenets of religion, found employment for all who were desirous of truth, or ambitious of famne. Learning was at that time prosecuted with that eagerness and perseverance which in this age of indifference and dissipation it is not easy to conceive. To teach,, or to learn, was at once the business and the pleasure of academical life; and an emulation of study was raised by Cheke and Smith, to which even the present age perhaps owes many advantages, without remembering or knowing its benefactors." Read-Johnson's " Life of Ascham," xii. 308, of Murphy's edition. 1558-1603.] ASCHAM. 75 in the Latin and Greek languages. In this office, and in that of Latin Secretary, he continued at court for the remainder of his life. He died in September, 1568, at the age of fifty-three. The two principal works of Ascham are the 1"Toxophilus" and,"The School Master." The Toxophilus' is, as its name imports, a treatise upon archery; and the main design of Ascham in writing it was to apologize for the zeal with which he studied and practised the art of shooting, and to show the honor and dignity of the art in all nations and at all times, and its acknowledged utility not only in matters of war, but as an innocent and engaging pastime in times of peace. The whole work is in the dialogue form, the speakers being Toxophilus, a lover of archery, and Philologus, a student. After a very graceful introduction, Toxophilus proceeds to show that some relaxation and pastime are to be mingled with 9" sadde matters of the minde," a position which the studious Philologus endeavors to controvert.2 Philologus. —How much is to be given to the authority either of Aristotle or Tully, I cannot tell; this I am sure, which thing this fair wheat (God save it) maketh me remember, that those husbandmen which rise earliest, and come latest home, and are content to have their dinner and other drinkings brought into the field to them, for fear of losing of time, have fatter barns in the harvest than they which will either sleep at noon time of the day, or else make merry with their neighbours at the ale. And so a scholar that purposes to be a good husband, and desireth to reap and enjoy much fruit of learning, must till and sow thereafter. Our best seed time, which be scholars, as it is very timely and when we be young, so it endureth not over long, and therefore it may not be let slip one hour. Toxophilus.-For contrarywise, I heard myself a good husband at his book once say, that to omit study some time of the day, and some ncme of the year, made as much for the increase of learning, as to let the land lie some time fallow, maketh for the better increase of corn. This we see, if the land be ploughed every year, the corn cometh thin up; the ear is short, the grain is small, and when it is brought into the barn and threshed, giveth very evil faule.3 So those which never leave poring on their books, have oftentimes as thin invention as other poor men have, and as small wit and weight in it as in other men's. And thus your husbandry, methink, is more like the life of a covetous snudge that oft very evil proves, than the labour of a good husband, that knoweth well what he doth. And surely the best wits 1 From tozon -(rogov), "a bow," and philes (Frios), "a friend." The original title runs thus"Toxophilus, the Schole or Partitions of Shobtinge, contayned in II Bookes. Written by Rotger Ascham 1544, and now newly perused. Pleasaunt for all Gentlemen and Yeomen of Englande, for theyr pastime to reade, and profitable for theyr use to followe, both in Warre and Peace." 2 For an admirable criticism of the works of Roger Ascham, see Retlrospective Review, iv. 76. also, Johnson's Life, just quoted from: also, a well-written life in Hartley Coleridge's " Lives of Mnis tinguished Northerns." 8 Produce. 76 ASCHAM. [ELIZABETH, to learning must needs have much recreation and easing from their book, or else they mar themselves; when base and dumpish wits can never be hurt with continual study; as ye see in luting, that a treble minikin string must always be let down, but at such time as when a man needs play, when' the base and dull string needeth never to be moved out of his place. The work also goes fully into the practical part of the art, so that the cc Schole for Shootinge" is a complete manual of archery, containing not only a learned history of the art, and the highest encomiums on its excellence and utility, but likewise the most minute practical details, even down to the species of goose from the wing of which the best feathers are to be plucked for the shaft. The following is a specimen of his lively and entertaining manner:IN PRAISE OF THE GOOSE. Toxophilus.-Yet well fare the gentle goose, which bringeth to a man so many exceeding commodities! For the goose is man's comfort in war and in peace, sleeping and waking. What praise soever is given to shooting, the goose may challenge the best part of it. Htow well doth she mnake a manrfare at his table! How easily doth she make a man lie in his bed! How fit, even as her feathers be only for shooting, so be her quills for writing. Philologus.-Indeed, Toxophile, that is the best praise you gave to a goose yet, and surely I would have said you had been to blame if you had overskipt it. Toxophilus. —The Romans, I trow, Philologe, not so much because a goose with crying saved their capitolium, with their golden Jupiter, did make a golden goose, and set her in the top of the capitolium, and appointed also the censors to allow, out of the common batch, yearly stipends for the finding of certain geese; the Romans did not, I say, give all this honor to a goose for that good deed only, but for other infinite mro,2 which come daily to a man by geese; and surely if I should declaim in the praise of any manner of beast living, I would choose a goose. But the goose hath made us flee too far from our matter. But Ascham had another object in writing the Toxophilus: it was with the view of presenting to the public a specimen of a purer and more correct English style than that to which they had hitherto been accustomed; and with the hope of calling the attention of the learned from the exclusive study of the Greek and Latin, to the cultivation of their vernacular language.s Consequently, he was one of the first founders of a style truly English in 1 Whereas. 2 More. 3 May he not, in his kind and benevolent heart, have had another motive in writing the Toxophiinus, namely, to divert attention of the people from many of the barbarous sports which existed in his day. such as bear-baiting and bull-baiting. It is on record that Queen Elizabeth, soon after she ascended the throne, entertained the French ambassadors with bear and bull-baiting, and stood, herself, a alectatress of the anmusement until six in the evening 1 I 1558-16031 ASCIAT 77 prose composition; and was amlong the first to reject the use of foreign words and idioms; a fashion which, in the time of Henry VIII., began to be very prevalent. The following is HIS APOLOGY FOR WRITING IN ENGLISH. If any man would blame me either for taking such a matter in band, or else for writing it in the English tongue, this answer 1 may make him, that when the best of the realm think it honest for them to use, I, one of the meanest sort, ought not to suppose it vile for me to write: and though to have written it in another tongue had been both more profitable for my study, and also more honest for my name, yet I can think my labour well bestowed, if with a little hinderance of my profit and name may come any furtherance to the pleasure or commodity of the gentlemen and yeomen of England, for whose sake I took this matter in hand. And as for the Latin or Greek tongue, every thing is so excellently done in them, that none can do better; in the English tongue, contrary, every thing in a manner so meanly, both for the matter and handling, that no man can do worse. For therein the least learned, for the most part, have been always most ready to write. And they which had least hope in Latin have been most bold in English: when surely every man that is most ready to talk is not most able to write. He that will write well in any tongue, must follow this counsel of Aristotle, to speak as the common people do, to think as wise men do: as so should every man understand him, and the judgment of wise men allow him. Many English writers have not done so, but, using strange words, as Latin, French, and Italian, do make all things dark and hard. Once I communed with a man which reasoned the English tongue to be enriched and increased thereby, saying, Who will not praise that feast where a man shall drink at a dinner both wine, ale, and beer? Truly (quoth I) they be all good, every one taken by himself alone, but if you put malvesye 1 and sack, red wine and white, ale and beer, and all in one pot, you shall make a drink not easy to be known, nor yet wholesome for the body. The other principal work of Roger Ascham is his " School M aster."2 Of 1 Mahnsey. 2 The title is, "The School Master, or plain and perfect way of teaching children to understand, write, and speak the Latin tongue; but specially purposed for the private bringing up of youth in gentlemen and noblemen's houses, and commodious also for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, and would by themselves, and without a school master, in short time and with small pains, recover a sufficient hability to understand, write, and speak Latin." One of the most curious titles of old books is the following, which I will give in full for the humor of it. a Drinke and Welcome: or the famous Historie of the most part of Drinks in use now in the kinlg domes of Great Brittaine and Ireland: with an especiall declaration of the potency, vertue, and opt. ration of our English Ale: With a description of all sorts of Waters, from the Ocean Sea to the teares of a Woman. As also, the causes of all sorts of Weather, faire or foule, sleet, raine, haile. frost, snow, fogges, mists, vapours, clcuds, stormes, windes, thunder and lightning. Compiled first 78 ASCiHAM. [ELIZABETIU this) Dr. Johnson says: "It is conceived with great vigor, aDl. finished with great accuracy: and perhaps contains the best advice that was ever given for the study of languages." He thus recolmmends an INTERMIXTURE OF STUDY AND EXERCISE. I would wish, that beside some good time, fitly appointed, and constantly kept, to increase by reading the knowledge of the tongues, and learning, young gentlemen should use, and delight in all courtly exercises, and gentlemanlike pastimes. And good cause why: for the self-same noble city of Athens, justly commended of me before, did wisely, and upon great consideration, appoint the muses, Apollo and Pallas, to be patrons of learning to their youth. For the muses, besides learning, were also ladies of dancing, mirth, and minstrelsy: Apollo was god of shooting, and author of cunning playing upon- instruments; Pallas also was lady mistress in wars. Whereby was nothing else meant, but that learning should be always mingled with honest mirth and comely exercises; and that war also should be governed by learning and moderated by wisdom; as did well appear in those captains of Athens named by me before, and also in Scipio and Cesar, the two diamonds of Rome. And Pallas was no more feared in wearing.Egidall, than she was praised for choosing Olivam;2 whereby shineth the glory of learning, which thus was governor and mistress, in the noble city of Athens, both of war and peace. That the schoolmaster was not so well rewarded at this period, notwithstanding the high value placed on classical literature, may be drawn from the following complaint of Ascham, on THE CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTED EDUCATION. It is pity that, commonly, more care is had, yea, and that among very wise men, to find out rather a cunning man for their horse, than a cunning man for their children. They say nay in word, but they do so in deed. For to the one they will gladly give a stipend of two hundred crowns by year, and loth to offer to the other two hundred shillings. God, that sitteth in heaven, laugheth their chdice to scorn, and rewardeth their liberality as it should; for he suffereth them to have tame and well-ordered horse, but wild and unfortunate children; and, therefore, in the end, they find more pleasure in their horse than comfort in theii children. in tne nmgn Dutch tongue, by the painefull and industrious Ituldricke Van Speagle; a grammaticall brewer of Lubeck; and now most learnedly enlarged, amplified, and translated into English prose and verse: By J3hn Taylor. London: Printed by Anne Griffin, 1637, 4to." 1 The JEgis, the shield of Minerva. 2 The olive, which she is said to have produced, and thus had the right to give her name (Athene) to Athens. I How true it is, and ever must be —"as ye sow, so shall ye also reap." 1558-1603.] ASCHAM. 79 DANGERS OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. I know divers noble personages, and many worthy gentlemen of England, whom all the syren songs of Italy could never untwine from the mast of God's word; nor no inchantment of vanity overturn them from the fear of God and love of honesty. But I know as many, or mo, and some, sometime my dear friends, (for whose sake I hate going into that country the more,) who, parting out of England fervent in the love of Christ's docLrine, and well furnished with the fear of God, returned out of Italy worse transformed than ever was any in Circe's court. 1 know divers, that went out of England men of innocent life, men of excellent learning, who returned out of Italy, not only with worse manners, but also with less learning; neither so willing to live orderly, nor yet so hable to speak learnedly, as they were at home, before they went abroad. *'e But I am afraid that over many of our travellers into Italy (ldo not eschew the way to Circe's court, but go, and ride, and run, and fly thither; they make great haste to come to her; they make great suit to serve her; yea, I could point out some with my finger, that never had gone out of England, but only to serve Circe in Italy. * e * If you think we judge amiss, and write too sore against you, hear what the Italian sayeth of the Englishman; what the master reporteth of the scholar, who uttereth plainly what is taught by him, and what is learned by you, saying, EEnglese Italianato, e un Diabolo incarnato: that is to say, " you remain men in shape and fashion, but become devils in life and condition." * * * * * If some do not well understand what is an Englishman Italianated, I will plainly tell him: "He that by living and travelling in Italy, bringeth home into England, out of Italy, the religion, the learning, the policy, the experience, the manners of Italy." That is to say, for religion, papistry, or worse; for learning, less commonly than they carried out with them; for policy, a factious heart, a discoursing head, a mind to meddle in all men's matters; for experience, plenty of new mischiefs never known in England before; for manners, variety of vanities, and change of filthy lying. Then they have in more reverence the triumphs of Petrarch, than the Genesis of Moses; they make more account of'Fully's Offices, than of St. Paul's Epistles; of a tale in Boccacio, than a story of the Bible. Then they count as fables the holy mysteries of Christian religion. They make Christ and his Gospel only serve civil policy. Then neither religion cometh amiss to them. In time they be promoters of both openly; in place, again, mockers of both privily, as I wrote once in a rude rhyme: Now new, now old, now both, now neither; To serve the woTrlds course. they care not with whether. 80 SID NEY. [ELIZABETH, SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554-1586. "FEw characters," says an able writer,l c"appear so well fitted to excite enthusiastic admiration, as that of Sir Philip Sidney. Uniting all the accomplishments which youthful ardor and universality of talent could acquire or bestow; delighting nations by the witchery of his powers, and courts by the fascination of his address; leaving the learned astonished at his proficiency, and'he ladies enraptured with his grace; and communicating, wherever he went, the love and spirit of gladness, he was and well deserved to be the idol of the age in which he lived. So rare a union of attraction, so ulnaccustomed a concentration of excellence, such a compound of military renown with literary distinction, and courtly refinement with noble frankness, gave him a passport to every heart, and secured him, at once, universal sympathy and esteem." He was born in 1554. At the age of thirteen he entered Oxford, and on leaving the University, though only eighteen, commenced his travels abroad. He was at Paris at the time of the horrible popish massacre of St. Bartholomew, on the night of the 24th of August, 1572, and took refuge with many others at the house of Sir Francis Walsingham, at that time ambassador there from England. Leaving Paris soon after, he pursued his route through Germany and Italy, and returned to England in 1575, at the age of twenty-one. He was soon sent by Elizabeth as ambassador to Vienna, where, though so young, he acquitted himself with great credit. In 1583 he married the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and was knighted. Two years afterwards he was named as a candidate for the throne of Poland; but his sense of the duty which he owed to his country, led him to acquiesce fully in the remonstrance of Elizabeth against the proposal,,"who," says the historian,'" refused to further the advancement, out of fear that she should lose the jewel of her times." The United Provinces having previously declared their independence, England resolved to assist them to throw off the yoke of Spain, and in 1586, Sidney was sent into the Netherlands, as general of the horse. On the 22d of September of that year, in a skirmish near Zutphen, Sidney beat a superior force of the enemy, which he casually encountered, but lost his own life. After his horse had been shot under himn he mounted another, and continued to fight till he received his death-wound. The anecdote recorded of him in his dying moments, though it has been told a thousand times, must ever be repeated when Sidney's character is considered; evincing, as it does, characteristics infinitely more to be honored and loved than all the glory ever acquired in the bloody, and soon, in the progress of Christian sentiment, to be considlered the disgraceful and wicked work of the battle-field. After he had received his death-wound, being overcome with thirst from excessive bleeding, he called for drink. It was brought to him immediately; but the moment he was lifting it to his mouth, a poor soldier was carried by mortally wounded, who fixed his eyes eagerly upon it. Sidney, seeing this, instantly delivered it to him, with these memlorable words: "Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." All England wore mourning for his death, and volumes eof laments and elegies were poured forth in all languages.2 1 zee Retrospective Review, ii. 1, and x. 43; also the Quarterly, i. 67. 2 Lord Brook says of him, that "his end was not writing, even while he wrote; nor his knowledge rloutded for tAbles or schools; but both his wit and understanding bent upon his heart to make himself and others, not iln words or opinion, but in life and action, good and great." 1558-1603.] SIDNEY. 81 Sir Philip Sid.ney's literary reputation rests on his two prose works-the i" Arcadia" and the ", Defence of Poesy.' He wrote a few sonnets, but though they contain much that is truly poetical, they are disfigured by coro-eits. That,6 To Sleep" is the best of them. But his best poetry is his prose; 1 and as a prose writer he may justly be regarded as the first of his time.2 The Arcadia" is a mixture of what has been called the heroic ansi the pastoral romance. The scene of it is laid in Arcadia, that province of the Peloponnesus, celebrated in olden times as the abode of shepherds, and the scene of most of the pastoral poetry of Greece. Musidorus and Pyrocles are the heroes of the romance, and are united together in a firm league of friendship. They go forth in quest of adventures, and after killing the customary quantum of giants and monsters, set sail for Greece. The ship is wrecked, and Musidorus is thrown upon the shores of Laconia. He is seen by two shepherds, who offer to conduct him to Kalander, a wealthy inhabitant of Arcadia, the province north of Laconia. As they er-Ier into Arcadia, its beautiful appearance strikes the eyes of Musidorus. DESCRIPTION OF ARCADIA. There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees: humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers: meadows, enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers: thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade were witnessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds: each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the dam's comfort: here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. After being at the house of Kalander a few days, Pyrocles mysteriously arrives. The Prince of Arcadia had two daughters, with whom, of course, the two young heroes fall in love. The following is a description of their characters: PAM:EELA AND PHILOCLEA. The elder is named Pamela, by many men not deemed inferior to her sister: for my part, when I marked them both, methought there was (if at least such perfections may receive the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela: methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, and threatened in Pamela's: methought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela's beauty used violence, 1 Cowper very felicitously calls him a " warbler of poetic prose;" and he himself says, in his " Defence of Poesy," "It is not rhyming and versing that maketllh poesy: one may be a poet without versing, and a versifier without poetry." 2 I say this notwithstanding the criticisms of Hazlitt, as ungcnerlas as they are unjust. See his "Lectures on the Drasmatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth." F 82 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETH, and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such proportion is between their minds: Philoclea so bashful, as though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware: so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance; in short, such proceedings as will stir hope, but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making that one of her excellencies to be void of pride; her mother's wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more constant temper. The following is A DESCRIPTION OF A STAG-HUNT. Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertain-. ing them with pleasant discoursing —how well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a young man; how much in the comparison thereof he disdained all chamber-delights; that the sun (how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deers' feeding. O, said he, you will never live to my age, without you keep yourself in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness; too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much Arcadia was changed since his youth; activity and good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the nature of the old-growing world, still worse and worse. Then would he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known; and so, with pleasant company, beguiled the time's haste, and shortened the way's length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were in couples, staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty; many of them in color and marks so resembling, that it showed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as though they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a fault, and with horns about their necks, to sound an alarm upon a silly fugitive. The hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodging; but even his feet betrayed him; for, nowsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of theiri enemies, who, one taking it of another, and sometimes believing the wind's advertisements, sometimes the view of (their faithful counsellors) the huntsmen, with open mouths then denounced war, when the war was already begun. Their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths, that any man would 1558-1603.] SIDNEY. 83 perceive therein some kind of proportion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight and variety of opinion drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and horn, kept still, as it were, together. The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his quarters; and even the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and became a hunter. But the stag wtas in the end so hotly pursued, that, leaving his flight, he was driven to make courage of despair; and so turning his head, made the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay: as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a parley. After passing through many severe trials of their love, the two princesses are married to Musidorus and Pyrocles, and so ends the "Arcadia." The other great work of Sir Philip Sidney is his "Defence of Poesy," which may be truly pronounced to be tlre roost beautiful as well as the most truthful essay upon the subject in our language, and one from whvich many have borrowed, without acknowledging their obligations. " It may be regarded as a logical discourse, from beginning to end, interspersed here and there with a few of the more flowery parts of eloquence, but everywhere keeping in view the main objects, indeed, of all logic and eloquence-proof and persuasion. It is evidently the result of deep conviction in the mind of the writer, and a strong desire to impress that conviction upon others: to impress it, however, in a manner that shall render it not merely a sentiment of the heart, but a settled belief of the reason and judgment." 2 In what a skillful and highly eloquent manner does he contrast " Poesy" with all the other arts and sciences, in his CHARACTER OF THE POET. There is no art delivered to mankind, that hath not the works of nature for its principal object, without which they could not consist, and on which they so depend, as they become actors and players, as it were, of what nature will have set forth. So doth the astronomer look upon the stars, and by that he seeth, set down what order nature hath taken therein. So doth the geometrician and arithmetician, in their divers sorts of quantities. So doth the musician, in tunes tell you which by nature agree, which not. The natural philosopher thereon hath his name, and the moral philosopher standeth upon the natural virtues, vices, or passions of man: And follow nature, saith he, therein, and you shall not err. The lawyer saith what men have determined: the historian, what men have done. The grammarian speaketh only of the rules of speech, and the rhetorician and logician, considering 1 "The great praise of Sidney in this treatise is, that he has shown the capacity of the Engllsh language for spirit, variety, gracious idiom, and masculine firmness." Read-Hallam's "Introduction to the Literature of Europe." 2 Retrospective Revie,v, x. 45. 84 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETIH, what in nature will soonest prove and persuade, thereon give artificial rules, which are still compassed within the circle of' a question, according to the proposed matter. The physician weigheth the nature of man's body, and the nature of things hurtful or helpful to it. And the metaphysic, though it be in the second and abstract notions, and therefore be counted supernatural, yet doth he indeed build upon the depth of nature. Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, doth grow, in eflect, into another nature; in making things either better than nature bringeth forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the heroes, demigods, cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like, so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too-much-loved earth more lovely: her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden. Neither let it be deemed too saucy a comparison, to balance the highest point of man's wit with the efficacy of nature; but rather give right honor to the HEAVENLY MAKER of that maker,l who, having made man to his own likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that second nature, which in nothing he showed so much as in poetry —when, with he force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth surpassing her doings; with no small arguments to the incredulous of that first accursed fall of Adam.-Since our erect wit maketh us know what perfection is, and yet our infected will keepeth us from reaching unto it. Again, he contrasteth the Philosopher, the Historian, and the Poet:2 — The philosopher, therefore, and the historian are they which would win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example; but both, not having both, do both halt. For the philosopher, sitting down with the thorny arguments, the bare rule is so hard of utterance, and so misty to be conceived, that one that hath no other guide but him shall wade in him until he be old, before he shall find sufficient cause to be honest. For his knowledge stand1 The word poet means maker, being from the Greek 1roar7)as, (poietes) " a maker," "a poet." Hence Warton remarks, "The man of rhymes may be easily found; but the genuine poet, of a lively, plastic imagination, the true MAxER or CREATOR, is SO uncommon a prodigy, that one is almost tempted to subscribe to the opinion of Sir William Temple, who says, that of all the numbers of mankind that live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man that is born capable of making a great 0oct, there may be a thousaTia Dorn capable of making as great generals, or ministers of state, as the most fenowned in story." —Essay on Pope, i. 111. 2 One cannot fail to see many of these same ideas in the first lecture of that most instructive hook, Bishop Lowth's "Lectures on Hebrew Poetry." 1558-1603.] SIDNEY. 85 eth so upon the abstract and general, that happy is that man who umay understand him, and more happy that can apply what he doth understand. On the other side, the historian, wanting the precept, is so tied, not to what should be, but to what is-to the particular truth of things, and not the general reason of thingsthat his example draweth not necessary consequence, and therefore a less fruitful doctrine. Now doth the peerless poet perform both; for whatsoever the philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a perfect picture of it, by some one by whom he pre-supposeth it was done; so as he coupleth the general notion with the particular example. A perfect picture, I say, —for he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth neither strike, pierce, nor possess the sight of the soul, so much as that other doth.-So, no doubt, the philosopher with his learned definitions, be it of virtues or vices, matters of public policy or private government, replenisheth the memory with many infallible grounds. of wisdom, which, notwithstanding, lie dark before the imaginative and judging power, if they be not illuminated and figured forth by the speaking picture of poesy. Tully taketh much pains, and many times not without poetical helps, to make us know what force the love of our country hath in us: let us but hear old Anchises, speaking in the midst of Troy's flames; or see Ulysses, in the fulness of all Calypso's delights, bewailing his absence from barren and beggarly Ithaca! Anger, the Stoics said, was a short madness; let but Sophocles bring you Ajax on a stage, killing or whipping sheep and oxen, thinking them the army of the Greeks, with their chieftains Agamemnon and Menelaus; and tell me if you have not a more familiar insight into anger than finding in the schoolmen its genus and difference? The philosopher teacheth, but he teacheth obscurely, so as the learned only can understand him; that is to say, he teacheth them that are already taught. But the poet is the food for tender stomachs; the poet is indeed the right popular philosopher. After having gone through many particulal comparisons, he thus comes out with a fine burst of enthusiasm IN PRAISE OF POETRY. Now therein-(that is to say, the power of at once teaching and enticing to do well)-now therein, of all sciences-I speak still of human and according to human conceit —is our poet the monarch. For he doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth, as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first give you a cluster of grapes, that, full of that taste, you may long to pass further. He beginneth S 86 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETIr, not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margent with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness;'but he cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well-enchanting skill of music; and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimneycorner; I and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue, even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things, by hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste. For even those hard-hearted evil men, who think virtue a school name, and know no other good but indulgere genio,5 and therefore despise the austere admonitions of the philosopher, and feel not the inward reason they stand upon, yet will be content to be delighted; which is all the good-fellow poet seems to promise; and so steal to see the form of goodness-which, seen, they cannot but love ere themselves be aware, as if they had taken a medicine of cherries. By these, therefore, examples and reasons, I think it may be manifest that the poet, with that same hand of delight, doth draw the mind more effectually than any other art doth. And so a conclusion not unfitly ensues, that as virtue is the most excellent resting-place for all worldly learning to make an end of, so poetry, being the most familiar to teach it, and most princely to move towards it, in the most excellent work is the most excellent workman. Since, then, poetry is of all human learning the most ancient, and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence other learnings have taken their beginnings;-Since it is so universal that no learned nation doth despise it, no barbarous nation is without it;Since both Roman and Greek gave such divine names unto it, the one of prophesying, the other of making; and that, indeed, that name of making is fit for it, considering that whereas all other arts retain themselves within their subject, and receive, as it were, their being from it,-the poet, only, bringeth his own stuff, and doth not learn a conceit out of the matter, but maketh matter for a conceit; —Since, neither his description nor end containing any evil, the thing described cannot be evil;-Since his effects be so good as to teach goodness and delight the learners of it;Since therein (namely, in moral doctrine, the chief of all knowledge) he doth not only far pass the historian, but, for instructing, is well nigh comparable to the philosopher, and for moving, leavI We leave hlere, undoubtedly, the origin of Shakspeare'sThat aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished,So sweet and voluble is his discourse, &c. Love's Labor Lost, Act ii. Scene 1 I'o indulge one's appetite. 1558-1603.] MARLOW. 87 eth him behind;-Since the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no uncleanness) hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Shaviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it;-Since all its kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their severed dissections fully commendable:-I think —(and I think I think rightly)-the laurel crown appointed for triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other learnings, honor the poet's triumph. SONNET' TO SLEEP. Come, sleep, 0 sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The. poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make me in those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bcld; A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; A rosy garland, and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. 1562-1592. CeRIsTOPraVER MARLOW2 was a contemporary with Shakspeare, and celebrated in his day as an actor and dramatic writer. He wrote seven tragedies, one of which, Doctor Faustus, has considerable merit.3 But he was a man of loose principles and morals, and came to a tragical end, being killed in a dlunken brawl. He is now chiefly known as the author of the beautiful song quoted by honest old Izaalk Walton, entitled A PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That grove or valley, hill or field, Or wood and steepy mountain yield. 1 The sonnet is a short poem of fourteen lines, two stanzas of four verses each, and two of three each, the rhymes being adjusted by a particular rule. It was first introduced into our language by the Earl of Surrey, and continued to be a favorite species of writing till the Restoration, when it began to decline. Within the present ce;tury, however, it has'"vived, and has been rendered pol-'lar by a series of distinguished writers, especially by Mr. Wordsworth. Readl-" Specimens of Englslh Sonnets," by Rev. Alexander Dyce,-a little book of gems. 2 He was generally called Kit Mallow, according to old Heywood:Marlow, renown'd for his rare art and wit, Could ne'er attain beyond the name of KIT. 3 Read-two articles in the 3d and 4th volumes of the Retrospective Review, on "The Rally English Drama:" also, Lamb's "Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets." 88 SOUTHWELL. CELIZ &BETIT, Where we will sit on rising rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flockeBy shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.1 Pleased will I make thee beds of roses, And twine a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and rural kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A jaunty2 gown of finest wool, Wrhich from our pretty lambs we pull; And shoes lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold: A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; If these, these pleasures can thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1562-1595. ROBERT SOUTHWELL was descended from an ancient and respectable ca tholic family in Norfolk, and was born about the year 1562. At an early age he was sent to the English College at Douay,3 and thence he went to Rome where he entered the " Order of the Society of Jesus." After finishing his course of study there, the Pope sent him, in 1584, as a missionary to England. He had not been at home but a few years when he was apprehended by some of Elizabeth's agents, for being engaged in a conspiracy against the government. He was sent to prison, where he remained three years. He was repeatedly put upon the rack, and, as he himself affirmed, underwent very severe tortures no less than ten times. Wearied with torture and solitary imprisonment, he begged that he might be brought to trial, to answer for himself. At his trial he owned that he was a priest and a Jesuit, but denied that he ever entertained any designs against the queen or kingdom; alleging that he came to England simply to administer the sacraments according to the catholic church to such as desired them. The jury found him guilty of treason, and when asked if he had any thing to say why sentence should not be pronounced against him, he replied, c" Nothing; but from my heart I forgive all who have been any way accessible to my death." Sentence was pronounced, and the next day he was led to execution.4 1 A madrigal is a little amorous poem, of free and unequal verses, differing from the regularity of the sonnet and the subtilty of the epigram, and containing some tender and simple thought suitably expressed. 2 Showy. 3 In the northernmost province of France, where was made the celebrated papal version of the Scriptures-the " Douay Bible." 4 The best account of Southwell may be found in the " Gentleman's Magazine" for Nov. 1798. Read, also, an excellent article in the Retrospective Review, iv. 267. "So perished father Southwell, at thirty-three years of age; and so, unhappily, have perished many of the wise and virtuous of the earth. Conscious of suffering in the supposed best of causes, he seems to have met death without terror. Life's uncertainty and the world's vanity, the crimes and follies of humanity, and the con 15 58-1603.j SOUTHWELL. 89:ihls whole proceeding should cover the authors of it with everlasting infamy. It is a foul stain Upon the garments of the maiden queen that she can never wipe off. There was not a particle of evidence at his trial that this pious and accomplished poet nmeditated any evil designs against the government. He did what he had a perfect right to do; ay, what it was his duty to do, if he conscientiously thought he was right,-endeavor to make converts to his faith, so far as he could without interfering with the rights of others. If there be any thing that is to be execrated, it is persecution for opinion's sake. There is an excess of meanness, as well as wickedness, in striving to put down opinions by physical force. Those who do it thereby tacitly acknowledge that they have no other arguments, for truth has no reason ever to fear in any combat with error.1 Southwell's poems are all on moral and religious subjects. Though they have not many of the endowments of fancy, they are peculiarly pleasing for the simplicity of their diction, and especially for the fine moral truths and lessons they convey. TIMES GO BY TURNS. The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favors to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest webNo joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. solations 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 character are diffused alike over both." I Truth crush'd to earth shall rise again, The eternal years of God are hers; But error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies amid his worshippers.-Brya ot. 90 SOUTHIWELL. [ELIZABETH, SCORN NOT THE LEAST. Where wards are weak, andl 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 ainencl: Yet, higher powers must 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 sleep. The merlin cannot ever soar on high, Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase; The tender lark will find a time to fly, And fearful hare to run a quiet race. He that high growth on cedars did bestow, Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow. In Haaman's pomp poor Mordocheus wept, Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe. The Lazar pin'd, 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. CONTENT AND 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; That 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 fear no care for gold, 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 honor slide. 1558-1603.] SOUTHWELL. 91 Since sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear, I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear. I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late enraged 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 envy not their hap Whom favor 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. No change of Fortune's calm Can cast my comforts down: When Fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown. A.nd when, in froward mood, She proved an angry foe, Small gain, I found, to let her comneLess loss to let her go. But the prose of Southwell is no less charming than his poetry, as the fcllowing beautiful extracts will fully show.MARY MAGDALENE S TEARS.1 But fear not, Blessed Mary, for thy tears will obtain. They are too mighty orators to let thy suit fall; and though they pleaded at the most rigorous bar, yet have they so persuading a silence 1 This goes upon the supposition that the "woman that was a sinner," whose act of love to the Saviour is recorded in Luke vii. 37-50, was Mary Magdalene; but of this there is not only no proof put very little probability. 92 SOUTTIWELL. [ELIZABETIH, and so conquering a complaint, that, by yielding, they overcome, and, by entreating, they command. They tie the tongues of all accusers, and soften the rigor of the severest judge. Yea, they win the invincible and bind the omnipotent. When they seem most pitiful they have greatest power, and being most forsaken they are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the cellars of angels, and penitent tears their sweetest wines, which the savor of life perfumeth, the taste of grace sweeteneth, and the purest color of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of devotion never faileth, but the sun of justice draweth it up, and upon what face soever it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in God's eye. For this water hath thy heart been long a limbeck, sometimes distilling it out of the weeds of thy own offences with the fire of true contrition; sometimes out of the flowers of spiritual comforts with the flames of contemplation; and now out of the bitter herbs of thy master's miseries with the heat of a tender compassion. This water hath better graced thy looks than thy former alluring glances. It hath settled worthier beauties in thy face than all thy artificial paintings. Yea, this only water hath quenched God's anger, qualified his justice, recovered his mercy, merited his love, purchased his pardon, and brought forth the spring of all thy favor. * * * Till death dam up the springs, thy tears shall never cease running; and then shall thy soul be ferried in them to the harbor of life, that, as by them it was first passed from sin to grace, so, in them it may be wafted from grace to glory. LIFE HATH NO "'UNMEDDLED" JOY. There is in this world continual interchange of pleasing and greeting accidence, still keeping their succession of times, and overtaking each other in their several courses; no picture can be all drawn of the brightest colors, nor a harmony consorted only of trebles; shadows are needful in expressing of proportions, and the bass is a principal part in perfect music; the condition here alloweth no unmeddled joy; our whole life is temperate between sweet and sour, and we must all look for a mixture of both: the wise so wish: better that they still think of worse, accepting the one if it come with liking, and bearing the other without impatience, being so much masters of each other's fortunes, that neither shall work them to excess. The dwarf groweth not on the highest hill, nor the tall man loseth not his height in the lowest valley; and as a base mind, though most at ease, will be dejected, so a resolute virtue in the deepest distress is most impregnable. 1558-1603.] SPENSER. 93 EDMUND SPENSER. 1553-1599. Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget, The gentle Spenser, Fancy's pleasing son, Who, like a copious river, pour'd his song O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground. THOMSON. EDn3rxND SPENSER,1 the illustrious author of the," Faerie Queene," was born in London, 1553. Of his parentage little is known. c"The nobility of the Spensers," says Gibbon, " has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies of Marlborough: but I exhort them to consider the Faerie Queen as the most precious jewel of their coronet." But his parents were undoubtedly poor, as he entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, 1569, as a sizar.2 After taking his master's degree in 1578, he went to reside with some' relations in the north of England. He remained there but a short time, for in the latter part of the same year he went to London, and published his i" Shepherd's Kalendar," a series of twelve eclogues, named after the twelve months of the year. It gave him great reputation at the time as a pastoral poet,3 for it contains many spirited and beautiful passages; but it was written in a language even then too obsolete, and could not have been understood without a commentary. It soon, therefore, lost its popularity, and is now but little read. In the summer of 1580 he went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Grey, who had been appointed lord lieutenant. On that nobleman's being recalled in 1582, the poet returned with him to England, and in 1586 received a grant of 3028 acres of land forfeited to the crown, as a reward for his services, provided he would return to Ireland to cultivate them. He accepted the conditions. The Castle of Kilcolman, in the county of Cork, was his residence; and the river Mulla, which he frequently mentions in his poems, flowed through his grounds. Here he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh, whom he styles 4" the Shepherd of the Ocean," with whom he had become acquainted during his former residence in Ireland. He persuaded the poet to accompany him to England, and by hlim he was presented to Queen Elizabeth, an event which he celebrates in his poem, entitled " Colin Clouts come Home againe." ", Raleigh's visit," remarks Mr. Campbell,4 ", occasioned the first resolution of Spenser to prepare the first books of c The Faerie Queene' for immediate publication. Spenser has commemorated this interview, and the inspiring influence of Raleigh's praise, under the figurative description of two shepherds tuning their pipes beneath the alders of the Mulla-a fiction with which the Ynind, perhaps, will be much less satisfied, than by recalling the scene as it really existed. When we conceive Spenser reciting his compositions to Raleigh, in a scene so beautifuilly appropriate, the mind casts a pleasing retrospect over that influence which the enterprise of the discoverer of Virginia, 1 The works of Spenser are now made accessible to every one, in that beautiful Boston edition, hi five volumes, edited by G. S. Hillard, Esq. 9 That is, a " charity student." They had certain allowance made in theih college blls, and received that name from the size, as it was called, or portion of bread, meat, &c. allotted uo a student. 3 Drayton says, "Master Edmund Spenser had done enough for the immortality of his name load he only given us his Shepherd's Kalendar, a masterpiece, if any." 4," Specimens of British Poets," ii. 173. A second edition of this valuable work has lately been republished in one large octavo. Read, particularly, the "Essay on English Poetry," preceding the extracts. M4 SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, tnd the genius of the author of The Faerie Queene,' have respectively produced on the fortune andi language of England. The fancy might even be pardoned for a momentary superstition, that the genius of their country covered, unseen, over their meeting, casting her first look of regard on tlhe poet that was destined to inspire her future Milton, and the other on the,naritime hero who paved tie way for colonizing distant regions of the earth, where the language of England was to be spoken, and the poetry of Spenser,o be admired." In 1590 Spenser published the first three books of c" The Faerie Queene,' tnd in 1591, he received a pension of ~50 a year from Queen Elizabeth. rhe favorable manner in which "c The Faerie Queene" was received, induced she publisher to collect and print the author's minor poems, which may be round in the editions of his works. In 1595 the second part of 4" The Faerie Queene," consisting of three more books, appeared. The poet intended to complete the work in twelve books, and it is said that the last six were lost Dn his way from Ireland to England. But of this there is no proof, and icarcely any probability. " It is much more likely," says Mr. Hillard, c" that the sorrows and misfortunes which clouded the last three years of the poet's life, deprived him of both the will and the power to engage in poetical composition." In September, 1598, the rebellion of O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, drove him and his family from Kilcolman. In the confusion of flight, one of the poet's children was unfortunately left behind, and perished in the house, which was burnt by the rebels. He arrived in England, harassed by these misfortunes, and died in London on the 16th of January, 1599, at the age of forty-five, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Thus died Spenser, at the early age of forty-five. But how little is there of the great and good that can die! He still lives, to delight, to charm, to instruct mankind. He still lives, and, as far as his writings are read, lives to exert the most salutary influence in inspiring a love for the just, the beauLtiful, the true; in purging the soul from the grovelling propensities and, ppetites that continually clog it here, and in filling it with ardent aspirations for those high and holy things that claim kindred with its origin.l Had Spenser never written c"The Faerie Queene," many of his minor poems, and especially his "-Divine Hymns," would have given hinm a high, a very high rank in English literature. But "The Faerie Queene," from its unequalled richness and beauty, has thrown the rest of his writings comparatively into the shade. Two things, however, have prevented its being generally read; one is its antiquated diction, and the other its allegorical character. The latter "r has been" (remarks Mr. Hillard) "c a kind of bugbear-a vague image of terror brooding over it, and deterring many from ever attempting its perusal. To borrow a lively expression of Hazlitt's, they are afraid of the allegory, as if they thought it would bite them.' But though it be an allegorical poem, it is only so to a certain extent and to a limited degree. The interest which the reader feels is a warm, flesh-and-blood interest, not in the delineation of a virtue, but in the adventures of a knight or lady. It is Una-the trembling, tearful woman-for whom our hearts are moved with pity, and not forsaken Truth. We may fairly doff the allegory aside, and let it pass, and 1 I would earnestly recommend to the reader's attention the "Introductory Observations on the Faerie Queen," by Mr. Hillaid, prefixed to the edition just spoken of. They are written with that discriminating taste, justness of thought, and felicity of style, which characterize all his writings. Peiad, also, an excellent article on Spenser in the 2d vol. of D'Israeli's " Amenities of Literature:" also, some very just critical remarks in Hallam's " Literature of Europe 1558-1603.J SPENSER. 95 the poem will lose little or not.zig of its charm. The grand procession of stately and beautiful forms, the chivalrous glow, the stirring adventures, the noble sentiments, the picturesque descriptions, the delicious poetry, would all be left unimpaired."' The poet, in a letter to Sir Walter Raleigh, gives thile plan of his work. "-The general end of all the book," he says, c"is to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline." He takes the history of King Arthur, " as most fit for the excellency of his person," whom he conceives to have seen in a vision the Faerie Queene, c" with whose excellent beauty ravished, he awaking resolved to seek her out." By this Faerie Quedne, Glorciana, he means Glory in general, but in particular, her majesty, Queen Elizabeth; and by Faerie Land, her kingdom. So in Prince Arthlr he sets forth Iagnificence or Magnanimity, for " that is the perfection of all the rest, and containeth in it them all; therefore," he says, 4 in the whole course I mention the deeds of Arthur applicable to that virtue which I write of in thlat book." Of the twelve books he makes or intended to make twelve knights the isatrons, each of twelve several virtues. The first, the knight of the Red (toss, expressing Holiness: the second, Sir Guyon, or Temperance: the third, shr-tomartis, a c"Lady Knight," in whom he pictures Chastity: the fourth, [.arnbell and Triamond, or Friendship: the fifth, Artegal, or Justice: the sixth, Sir Calodore, or Courtesy: what the other six books would have been, we have no means of knowing. The first canto of the first book thus opens:THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. I. A gentle Knight' was pricking on the plaine, Ycladd2 in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, The cruel markes of many' a bloody fielde; Yet armes till that time did he never wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: Full iolly3 knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts4 and fierce encounters fitt. II. And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead, as living ever, him ador'd: Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had. Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word; But of his cheere5 did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.6 1 A gentle Knight.-Spenser comes at once to the action of the poem, and describes the Red-cross knight as having already entered upon the adventure assigned him by the Faerie Queene, which l as to slay the dragon which laid waste the kingdom of Una's father. The Led-cross knight is St. GeoIge the patron saint of England, and represents holiness or Christian purity, and is clothed in the " whole armor of God," described by St. Paul in the sixth chapta' of the Epistle to the Epheslans. 2 Ycladd-clad. 3 Iolly-handsome. 4 Giusts-tournaments 5 Cheere —air, or mien. 6 Ydrad —dreaded. SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, III. Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave, (That greatest glorious queene of Faerie loud,) To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave: And ever, as he rode, his hart did earne To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne; Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. IV. A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly asse more white then snow: Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide Under a vele, that whimpled2 was full low; And over all a blacke stole shee did throw: As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow; Seemed in heart some hidden care she had; And by her in a line a milke-white lamb she lad. V. So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and every vertuous lore; And by descent from royall lynage came Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, And all the world in their subjection held; Till that infernal Feend with foule uprore Forwasted 3 all their land, and them expeld; Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld. VI. Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd, in being ever last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, And angry love an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his lemans lap so fast, That everie wight to shrewd it did constrain; And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain.4 VII. Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; WT5hose loftie trees, yclad with somrners pride, Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starr: And all within were pathes and alleies wide, I Earne-yearn. 2 Whimpled-gathered, or plaited. 8 Forwasted —much wasted. The prefix for is an intensive, from the Saxon and German Ver. t Fain-glad 1558-1603.] SPENSER. 97 With footing worne, and leading inward farr: Faire harbour that them seems; so ill they entred ar. YIII. And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, Ioying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise' the trees so straight and hy, The sayling pine; the cedar proud and tall; The vine-propp elme; tile poplar never dry; The builder oake, sole king of forrests all; The aspine good for staves; the cypresse funerail; IX. The laurell, meed of rightie conquerours And poets sage; the firre that weepeth still; The willow, worne of forlorne paramours; The eugh,2 obedient to the benders will; The birch for shaftes; the sallow for the mill; The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound; The warlike beech; the ash for nothing ill; The fruitfull olive; and the platane round; The carver holme; the maple seeldom inward sound. X. Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustering storme is overblowne; When, weening to returne whence they did stray, They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne: So many pathes, so many turnings seene, That, which of thlem to take, in diverse doubt they been, UNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION. I. Nought3 is there under heaven's wide hollowness6 That moves more deare compassion of mind, Then beautie brought t' unworthie wretchednesse Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes unkind, I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd, Or through allegeance, and fast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womanlrynd, Feele my hart perst with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. II. And now it is empassioned4 so deepe, For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 1 Can they praise-Much they praised. This form of expression is frequently used by 8peuser. Some. however, consider' can' to be put for' gan,' or' began. 2 Eugh-yew. 8 Nought, Szc. In this canto the adventures of Una are resumed, from the ninth stanza of the pre ccdtng canto. 4 Empassioned-moved. G 9 98 SPENSER. [ELIZABTElI, That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe. To think how she through guyleftul handeling, Though true as touch,' though daughter of a king, Though faire as ever living wight was fayro, Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, Is from her Knight divorced in despayre, And her dew loves deryv'd2 to that vyle Witches shayre. III. Yet she, most faithfull Ladie, all this while Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd, Far from all peoples preace,3 as in exile, In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd, To seeke her Knight; who, subtily betrayd Through that late vision which th' Enchaulnter wrought, Had her abandond: She, of nought affirayd, Through woods and wastness wide him daily sought, Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. IV. One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight; From her fayre head her fillet she undight,4 And layd her stole aside: Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And make a sunshine in the shady place; Did ever mortall eye behold such heavenly grace! V. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon5 rushed suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood: Soone as the royall Virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have attonce devourd her tender corse: But to the pray when as he drew more ny, His bloody rage aswaged with remorse, And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. VI,. Instead thereof he kist her wearie feet, And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong; As6 he her wronged innocence did weet.7 O how can beautie maister the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, 1 Trule as touch-i. e. true as the touchstone by which other substances are tried. 2 Deryv'd-transferred. 3 Preace-press or throng. 4 Undight-took off. b A ramping lyon. —Upton conjectures the lion to be the English monarch, the defender of the faith. He seems rather to represent a manly and courageous people, like the English, and the homage he pays to Una betokens the respect which would be felt by such a people to beauty and innocence. 6 As-as i. 7 Weet-understand. 1558-1603.] SPENSERo 99 Her hart gan melt in great compassion; And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. VIE. "The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth abate, And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate:But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her, that him lov'd, and ever most adord As the god of my life l why hath he me abhord i" VIII. Redounding' tears did choke th' end of her plaint, Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood; And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood, At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, Arose the Virgin borne of heavenly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, To seek her strayed Champion if she might attayne. IX. The lyon would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong gard Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward; And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard: From her fayre eyes he took command6ment, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. Book I. Canto IlL DESCRIPTION OF PRINCE ARTHUR. XXIX. At last she chaunced by good hap to meet A goodly Knight,2 faire marching by the way, Together with his Squyre, arrayed meet: His glitterand armour shined far away, Like glauncing light of Phcebus brightest ray; From top to toe no place appeared bare, That deadly dint of steele endanger may: Athwart his brest a bauldrick brave he ware, That shind, like twinkling stars, with stones most pretious rare: XXX. And, in the midst thereof, one pretious stone Of' wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights,' 1docuding-flowing. X A:loely KnIight.-This is Prince Arthur, in whose faultless excellence Spenser is supposed to have ye.,resented his illustrious friend, Sir Philip Sidney, whose beautiful character and splendid acuoonp'l.sh nents kindled a warmth of admiration among his contemporaries, of which we find it dificula to once've in our colder and more prosaic age. 100 SPENSER. [ELIZABETIH, Shapt like a Ladies head, exceeding shone, Like Hesperus emongst the lesser lights, And strove for to amaze the weaker sights: Thereby his mortall blade filll comely hong In yvory sheath, ycarv'd with curious slights,' Whose hilts were burnisht gold; and handle strong Of mother perle; and buckled with a golden tong. XXXI. His haughtie helmet, horrid all with gold, Both glorious brightnesse and great terrour bredd: For all the crest a dragon did enfold With greedie pawes, and over all did spredd His golden winges; his dreadfull hideous hedd, Close couched on the bever, seemod to throw From flaming mouth bright sparckles fiery redd, That suddeine horrour to faint hartes did show; And scaly tayle was stretcht adowne his back full low. xxxII. Upon the top of all his loftie crest, A bounch of heares discolourd diversly, With sprincled pearle and gold full richly tirest, Did shake, and seemd to daunce for iollity; Like to an almond tree ymounted hye On top of greene Selinis2 all alone, With blossoms brave bedecked daintily; Whose tender locks do tremble every one At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne. Book I. Canto V1U DESCRIPTION OF BELPHCEBE. XXI. Eftsoone3 there stepped foorth A goodly Ladie4 clad in hunters weed, That seemd to be a woman of great worth, And by her stately portance5 borne of heavenly birth. XXII. Her face so faire, as flesh it seemed not, But hevenly pourtraict of bright angels hew, Cleare as the skye, withouten blame or blot, Through goodly mixture of complexions dew; And in her cheekes the vermeill red did shew Like roses in a bed of lillies shed, The which ambrosiall odours from them threw, 1 Slights-devices. 2 Greene Selinis.-Selinis is evidently the name of some hill or mountain, which I do not find in any book of reference within reach. Upton, strangely enough, supposes it to be Selinus, a city in Cilicia, to which he applies an epithet, "Palmosa," applied by Virgil to another city of the same name in Sicily. After this double blunder, he remarks, with amusing simplicity, "1 The simile of the almondtree is exceeding elegant, and much after the cast of that admired image in Homer," &c. Todd copies the whole without comment.-Hillard. 8 Eftsoone-immediately. 4 A goodly Ladie, &c.-In the beautiful and elaborate portrait of Belphcebe, Spenser has drawn a lattered likeness of Queen Elizabeth. 5 Portance-demeanor. .558-160: |. SPENSER. 101 And g izers sence with double pleasure fed, Hable to heale the sicke and to revive the ded. XXIII. In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame, Kindled above at th' Hevenly Makers light, And darted fyrie beames out of the same, So passing persant,' and so wondrous bright, That quite bereavd the rash beholders sight; In them the blinded god his lustful fyre To kindle oft assayd, but had no might; For, with dredd maiestie and awfull yre She broke his wanton darts, and quenched bace desyre. XXIV. Her yvoire forhead, full of bountie brave, Like a broad table did itselfe dispred, For Love his loftie triumphes to engrave, And write the battailes of his great godhed: All good and honour might therein be red; For there their dwelling was. And, when she spake, Sweete wordes, like dropping honny, she did shed; And twixt the perles and rubins2 softly brake A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to make. XXV. Upon her eyelids many Graces sate, Under the shadow of her even browes, Working belgardes3 and amorous retrate;4 And everie one her with a grace endowes, And everie one with meekenesse to her bowes: So glorious mirrhour of celestiall grace, And soveraine moniment of mortall vowes, How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face, For feare, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace! XXV1I. So faire, and thousand thousand times more faire, She seemd, when she presented was to sight; And was yclad, for heat of scorching aire, All in a silken camus5 lilly whight, Purfled6 upon with many a folded plight,7 Which all above besprinclkled was throughout With golden aygulets,s that glistred bright Like twinckling starres; and all the skirt about Was hemd with golden fringe. XXX. Her yellow lockes,9 crisped like golden wyre, About her shoulders weren loosely shed, And, when the winde emongst them did inspyre,10 They waved like a penon wyde dispred. 1 Persaant-piercing. 2 Rubins-rubies. 3 Belgardes-sweet looks. i Retrate-picture. b Camus —thin dress. 6 Purfied-enmbroidered. 7 Plight-plait. 8 Aygulets-tagged polr.ts. 9 The yellow locks of Queen Elizabeth enter largely into the descriptions of beauty by the poets of her reign. 10 Inspyre-brea+he. 102 SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, And low behinde her backe were scattered: And, whether art it were or heedlesse hap, As through the flouring forrest rash she fled, In her rude heares sweet flowres themselves did lap,1 And flourishing fresh leaves and blossomes did enwrap. Book II. Canto III. THE CARE OF ANGELS OVER MIEN. I. And is there care in heaven l And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, That may compassion of their evils move? There is: —else much more wretched were the cace Of men then beasts: But 0! th' exceeding grace Of Highest God that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessed Angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! II. How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pineons cleave The flitting2 skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love and nothing for reward: 0, why should Hevenly God to men have such regard! Book II. Canto VIII. THE SEASONS. XXVIII. So forth issew'd the Seasons of the yeare: First, lusty Spring all dight3 in leaves of flowres That freshly budded and new bloosmes did beare, In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, That sweetly sung to call forth paramours; And in his hand a iavelin he did beare, And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures4) A guilt5 engraven morion0 he did weare; That as some did him love, so others did him feare. xxIX. Then came the iolly Sommer, being dight In a thin silken cassock colored greene, That was unlyned all, to be more light: And on his head a girlond well beseene He wore, from which, as he had chauffed7 been, The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene a Lap-entwine themselves. 2 Yielding. 8 Adorned. 4 Encounters. Gilded, e Helmet. 7 Chafed, heated. -558-1603.3 SPENSER. 103 Had hunted late the libbard' or the bore, And now would bathe his limbes with labor heated sore. XXX. Then came the Auturnne all in yellow clad, As though he ioyed in his plentious store, Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad That he had banisht hunger, which to-fore Had by the belly oft him pinched sore: Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold With ears of come of every sort, he bore; And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.2 XXXI. Lastly, came Winter cloathed all in frize, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freese, And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill3 As from a linmbeck4 did adown distill: In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, With which his feeble steps he stayed still; For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbes he able was to weld.6 Book VII. Canto VII.7 The chief prose work of Spenser is his " View of the State of Ireland." It gives an excellent account of the customs, manners, and national character of the Irish, and there is no contemporary piece of prose to compare with it in purity. Froml it we have room to select the following short extract, only upon 1 Leopard. 2 Yielded. 8 Nose. 4 Retort. 6 Old age. 6 Wield, move. 7 "I have just finished' The Faerie Queen.' I never parted from a long poem with so much regret. He is a poet of a most musical ear-of a tender heart-of a peculiarly soft, rich, fertile, and flowery fancy. His verse always flows with ease and nature, most abundantly and sweetly; his diffusion is not only pardonable, but agreeable. Grandeur and energy are not his characteristic qualities. He seems to me a most genuine poet, and to be justly placed after Shakspeare and Milton, and above alu other English poets."-Sir James Mackintosh. "t Spenser excels in the two qualities in which Chaucer is most deficient-invention and fancy. The invention shown in his allegorical personages is endless, as the fancy shown in his description of them is gorgeous and delightful. He is the poet of romance. He describes things as in a splendid and voluptuous dream."-Hazlitt. "His command of imagery is wide, easy, and luxuriant. He threw the soul of harmony into omu verse, and made it more warmly, tenderly, and magnificently descriptive than it ever was before, or, with a few exceptions, than it ever has been since. It must certainly be owned that in description he exhibits nothing of the brief strokes and robust power which characterize the very greatest poets; but we shall nowhere find more airy and expansive images of visionary things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer flush in the colors of language, than in this Rubens of English poetry.' - Camspbell's Specimens, i. 125. The best, or variorumn edition of Spenser, (so called because it has all the notes of the various commentators,) is that of Todd, 8 vols. 8vo. London, 1805. Read-an article on Spenser's MinorPoelms in Retrospective Review, xii. 142: also, Edinburgh Review, xxiv.: also, a brilliant series of paperl on the Faerie Queene, in Blackwood's Magazine, 1834 and 1835, by Professor Wilso:: also, "Observations on the Faerie Queene," by Thomas Warton. 1.04 HOOKERlt [ELIZABETHI THE IRISH BARDS. There is amongst the Irish a certain kind of people called Bards, which are to them instead of poets, whose profession is to set forth the praises or dispraises of men, in their poems oI rithmes; the which are had in so high regard and estimation amongst them, that none dare displease them for fear to run into reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the mouths of all men. For their verses are taken up with a general applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings by certain other persons, whose proper function that is, who also receive for the same great rewards and reputation amongst them. * * Such poets as in their writings do labor to better the manners of men, and through the sweet bait of their numbers to steal into the young spirits a desire of honor and virtue, are worthy to be had in great respect. But these Irish bards are for the most part of another mind, and so far from instructing young men in moral discipline, that they themselves do more deserve to be sharply disciplined: for they seldom use to choose unto themselves the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems, but whomsoever they find to be most licentious of life, most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of disobedience and rebellious disposition; him they set up and glorify in their rithmes, him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow. RICHARD HOOKER. 1553-1600 ONrE of the most learned and distinguished prose writers in the age of Elizabeth, was RICHARD HoOKER. He was born near Exeter ino 1553. His parents, being poor, destined him for a trade; but he displayed at school so much aptitude for learning, and gentleness of disposition, that through the efforts of the bishop of Salisbury he was sent to Oxford. Here he pursued his studies with great ardor and success, and became much respected for his modesty, learning, and piety. In 1577 he was elected fellow of his college, and in 1581 took orders in the Episcopal church. Soon after this he went to preach in London, at Paul's Cross, and took lodgings in a house set apart for the reception of the preachers. The hostess, an artful and designing woman perceiving Hooker's great simplicity of character, soon inveigled him into a marriage with her daughter, which proved a source of disquietude and vexation to him throughout his life. He was soon advanced in ecclesiastical preferment, and made master of the Temple, where he commenced his labors as forenoon preacher. But this situation accorded neither with his temper nor his literary pursuits, and he petitioned the archbishop of Canterbury to remove him to "some quiet parsonage." He obtained his desire, and was presented by Elizabeth to the rectory of Bishop's Bourne, in Kent, where 1558-1603.] HOOKER. 105 lie spent the remainder of his life. He died in 1600, of pulhnonic disease, brouglit on by an accidental cold, when only forty-seven years of age. Hooker's great work is his "Ecclesiastical Polity," a defence of the Church of England against the Puritans. It doubtless owes its origin to the fact that the office of afternoon lecturer at the Temple was filled by Walter Travers, of highly Calvinistic views; while the views of Hooker, both on church government and doctrines, were different. Indeed, so avowedly did they preach in opposition to each other, that the remark was frequently made that "the forenoon sermons spoke Canterbury, and the afternool, Geneva." Such was the beginning of this great work, which is a monument of the learning, sagacity, and industry of the author, and contains the most profound and the ablest defence of ecclesiastical establishments which has ever appeared. The style of the work, too, possesses some of the highest characteristics, perspicuity, purity, and strength; though generally, from the author's great familiarity with the classics, savoring a little too much of the idiom and construction of the Latin. The work, however, is not to be regarded simply as a theological treatise; for it is still referred to as a great authority on questions in the whole range of moral and philosophical subjects. The praise that Hallam has given him, is well deserved. "The finest, as well as the most philosophical writer of the Elizabethan period is Hooker. The first book of the Ecclesiastical Polity is at this day one of the masterpieces of English eloquence. His periods, indeed, are generally much too long and too intricate, but portions of them are often beautifully rhythmical: his language is rich in English idiom without vulgarity, and in words of a Latin sense witlout pedantry. He is more uniformly- solemn than the usage of later times permits, or even than writers of that time, such as Bacon, conversant with mankind as well as books, would have reckoned necessary; but the example of ancient orators and philosophers upon themes so grave as those which he discusses, may justify the serious dignity from which he does not depart. Hooker is, perhaps, the first in England who adorned his prose with the images of poetry; but this he has done more judiciously and with more moderation than others of great name; and we must be bigots in Attic severity before we can object to some of his figures of speech."' The following is the letter which he wrote to the archbishop when he desired to retire to the country:MY LORDWhen I lost the freedom of my cell, which was my college, yet I found some degree of it in my quiet country parsonage. But I am weary of the noise and oppositions of this place; and indeed, God and nature did not intend me for contentions, but for study and quietness. And, my lord, my particular contests here with 1 ", Literature of Europe," i. 381, Harper's edition. Read, also, "a biography which cannot be excelled," in old Izaak Walton's Lives of Donne, Hooker, Herbert, &c.-one of Dr. Johnson's most favorite books. " Lowth, in the preface to his Grammar, expresses an opinion, thlat, in correctness and propriety of language, Hooker has never been surpassed, or even equalled by any of his contemporaries. But amply as he enriched his native tongue, he frequently presents the cumbrous gait and the rough aspect of a pioneer. Taylor surpassed him in all the charms of imagination; Hall, in the sweetness and color of his thoughts; Barrow, in the illumination of his argument. But Hooker excelled them all in muscular vigor. To his controversy with Travers we owe the immortal Polity. We turn to his works, as to some mighty bulwark against infidelity, icpregnable to the assazlts of successive generations."- Willmoltt. 106 HOOKER. [ELIZABETH, Mr. Travers, have proved the more unpleasant to me, because I believe him to be a good man; and that belief hath occasioned me to examine mine own conscience concerning his opinions. And to satisfy that, I have consulted the Holy Scripture, and other laws, both human and divine, whether the conscience of him, and others of his judgment, ought to be so far complied with by us, as to alter our frame of church-government, our manner of God's worship, our praising, and praying to Him, and our established ceremonies, as often as their tender consciences shall require us. And in this examination I have not only satisfied myself, but have begun a treatise, in which I intend the satisfaction of others, by a demonstration of the reasonableness of our laws of ecclesiastical polity. But, my lord, I shall never be able to finish what I have begun, unless I be removed into some quiet parsonage, where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy: a place where I may, without disturbance, meditate my approaching mortality, and that great account, which all flesh must give at the last day to the God of all spirits. THE NECESSITY AND MAJESTY OF LAW,. The stateliness of houses, the goodliness of trees, when we behold them, delighteth the eye; but that foundation which beareth up the one, that root which ministreth unto the other nourishment and life, is in the bosom of the earth concealed; and if there be occasion at any time to search into it, such labor is then more necessary than pleasant, both to them which undertake it, and for the lookers, on. In like manner, the use and benefit of good laws all that live under them may enjoy with delight and comfort, albeit the grounds and first original causes from whence they have sprung be unknown, as to the greatest part of men they are. Since the time that God did first proclaim the edicts of his law upon the world, heaven and earth have hearkened unto his voice, and their labor hath been to do his will. He made a law for the rain; he gave his decree unto the sea, that the waters should not pass his commandment. Now, if nature should intermit her course, and leave altogether, though it were for a while, the observation of her own laws; if those principal and mother elements of the world, whereof all things in this lower world are made, should lose the qualities which now they have; if the frame of that heavenly arch erected over our heads should loosen and dissolve itself; if celestial spheres should forget their wonted motions, and by irregular volubility turn themselves any way as it might happen; if the prince of the lights of heaven, which now, 1558-1603.] HOOKER. 107 as a giant, doth run his unwearied course, should, as it were, through a languishing faintness, begin to stand and to rest himrnself; if the moon should wander fromn her beaten way, the times and seasons of the year blend themselves by disordered and confused mixture, the winds breathe out their last gasp, the clouds yield no rain, the earth be defected of heavenly influence, the fruits of the earth pine away, as children at the withered breasts of their mother, no longer able to yield them relief; what would become of man himself, whom these things do now all serve? See we not plainly, that obedience of creatures unto the law of nature is the stay of the whole world? Of Law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God; her voice the harmony of the world. All things in heaven and earth do her homage; the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power. Both angels and men, and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy. SUDDEN DEATH NOT DESIRABLE. Death is that which all men suffer, but not all men with one mind, neither all men in one manner. For being of necessity a thing common, it is through the manifold persuasions, dispositions, and occasions of men, with equal desert both of praise and dispraise, shunned by some, by others desired. So that absolutely we cannot discommend, we cannot absolutely approve, either willingness to live, or forwardness to die. And concerning the ways of death, albeit the choice thereof be only in his hands who alone hath power over all flesh, and unto whose appointment we ought with patience meekly to submit ourselves, (for to be agents voluntarily in our own destruction, is against both God and nature;) yet there is no doubt, but in so great variety, our desires will and may lawfully prefer one kind before another. Is there any man of worth and virtue, although not instructed in the school of Christ, or ever taught what the soundness of religion meaneth, that had not rather end the days of this transitory life, as CrEvus in Xenophon, or in Plato, Socrates, is described, than to sink down with them, of whom Elihu hath said, Momento morientur,l there is scarce an instant between their flourishing and not being! But let us which know what it is to die as Absalom, or Ananias and. Sapphira died, let us beg of God, that when the hour of our rest is come, the patterns of our dissolution may be Jacob, Moses, Joshua, David; who, leisureably ending their lives in peace, prayed for the mercies of God to come upon their posterity; reI Job xxxiv. 20: "In a moment shall they die" 108 00OOKER. [ELZABETII, plenished the hearts of the nearest unto them with words of memorable consolation; strengthened men in the fear of God; gave them wholesome instructions of life, and confirmed them in true religion; in sum, taught the world no less virtuously how to die, than they had done before how to live., THE EXCELLENCY or THE PSALMS. The choice and flower of all things profitable in other books, the Psalms do both more briefly contain, and more movingly also express, by reason of that poetical form wherewith they are written. The ancients, when they speak of the Book of Psalms, used to fall into large discourses, showing how this part above the rest doth of purpose set forth and celebrate all the considerations and operations which belong to God; it magnifieth the holy meditations and actions of divine men; it is of things heavenly an universal declaration, worlking in them whose hearts God inspireth with the due consideration thereof, an habit or disposition of mind whereby they are made fit vessels, both for receipt and for delivery of whatsoever spiritual perfection. What is there necessary for man to know which the Psalms are not able to teach? They are to beginners an easy and familiar introduction, a mighty augmentation of all virtue and knowledge in such as are entered before, a strong confirmation to the most perfect amongst others. Heroical magnanimity, exquisite justice, grave moderation, exact wisdom, repentance unfeigned, unwearied patience, the mysteries of God, the sufferings of Christ, the terrors of wrath, the comforts of Grace, the works of Providence over this world, and the promised joys of that world which is to come, all good necessarily to be either known, or done, or had, this one celestial fountain yieldeth. Let there be any grief or disease incident unto the soul of man, any wound or sickness named, for which there is not in this treasure-house a present comfortable remedy at all times ready to be found. Hereof it is, that we covet to make the Psalms especially familiar unto all. This is the very cause why we iterate the Psalnls oftener than any other part of Scripture besides; the cause wherefore we inure the people together with their minister, and not the minister alone, to read them as other parts of Scripture he doth.2 1 The reader here is reminded of the lines of Tickell on the death of Addison"He taught us how to live, and O! too high The price of knowledge, taught us how to die." 2 The best edition of Hooker's works is that by Keble, 2 vols., the author of the " Christian Year," and the writer of a valuable article on sacred poetry in the 32d vol. of the Quarterly Review. For an account of the tracts which gave rise. to Hooker's great work-his Ecclesiastical Polity —see Belm's "Anecdotes of Literature," i. 19-23. 1558-1603.] ENGLISH MIINSTRELSY. 109 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY.' THE Minstrels were a class of men in the middle ages, who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music; who went about fiom place to place, and offered their poetical and musical wares wherever they could find a market. They appear to have accompanied their songs with'minmicry and action, and in short to have practised such various means of diverting, as were much admireti in those rude times, and supplied the want of more refined entertainalent. These arts rendered them extremely popular and acceptable wherever dley went. No great scene of festivity was considered complete that was not set off with the exercise of their talents; and so long as the spirit of chivalry existed, with which their songs were so much in keeping, they were protected and caressed. Of the origin of the Minstrels, it is difficult to find any thing satisfactory. the term seems to be derived from the Latin minister or nninzistellus, "an attendant," " an assistant," as the Minstrels were attendant upon persons of rank, and assistants at their entertainments. But whatever may be said of their origin, the Minstrels continued a distinct order of men till centuries after the Norman conquest, and there is but little doubt that most of the fine old ballads in English Literature, were not only sung, but in many cases written by the professed Minstrel. There are many incidents in early English history which show how numerous was this body of men, and in what high estimation they were held. The one most familiar, is that of King Alfred's entering the Danish camp, in tile disguise of a harper. Though known by his dialect to be a Saxon, the character he assumed procured him a hospitable reception. He was admitted to entertain the Danish princes at their table, and stayed among them long enough to observe all their movements, and to plan that assault which resulted in their overthrow. So also the story of Blondell's going unharmed over Europe, in search of Richard I., goes to prove the same fact-the high estimation in which the Minstrel in early times was held. In the reign of Edward II. (1307-1327) such extensive privileges were claimed by Minstrels, and by dissolute persons assuming their character, that they became a public grievance, and their liberties were restricted by express statute. Finally, in the 39th year of the reign of Elizabeth, (1597,) this class of persons had so sunk in public estimation, that a statute was passed by which "i Minstrels, wandering abroad, were included among rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars," and were adjudged to be punished as such. SIR PATRICK SPENS. This ballad lays claim to a high and remote antiquity. There are different opinions as to its origin, which the reader may see stated in Sir Walter Scott's 6"lMinstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The probability is, that it is founded on authentic history, and that it records the melancholy and disastrous fate of that gallant band which, about the year 1280, followed in the suite of Margaret, daughter of Alexander the Third of Scotland, when she was espoused 1 Read-Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry"-Motherwell's "Ancient and Modern Minstrelsy'"-Sir Walter Scott's " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border"-The "Beok of the British Ballads' -Irerd's "Collection of Songs and Ballads.:' LO 110 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, to Eric of Norway. According to Fordun, the old Scottish historian, many distinguished nobles accompanied her in this expedition to Norway, to grace her nuptials, several of whom perished in a storm while on their return to Scotland. The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the lblude-red wine: "0 where will I get a skeely skipperl To sail this new ship of mine?" O up and spake an eldern lmight, Sat at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea." Our king has written a braid2 letter, And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame!" The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blindit his e'e. "0 wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us but at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sle.t, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame." They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say: "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd3 And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fiu' loud I hear ye lie! I Skilfu] mariner. 2 Broad, large. S Gold. 1558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 111 "For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and mIe,And I hae brought a half-fou2 o' gude red gowd Out owre the sea wi' me. Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a' I Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift3 grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,4 It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. "0 where will I get a gude sailor To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast, To see if I can spy land?" "0 here am I, a sailor gnde, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast,But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a boult5 flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in."6 They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them roun' that gude shilp's side, -But still the sea came in. 1 Suffice. 2 The eighth part of a peck. 8 Sky. Sprang. 5 If a "bolt flew out," of course a plank must have started. 6 In one of Cook's voyages, when a leak could not be got at inside, a sail was brought under toe vessel, which by the pressure of the sea was forced into the hole, and prevented the entry of more water, 11.2 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, O laith 1 laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon!2 But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon.3 And mony was the feather-bed That floated on the faem; And molly was the gude lord's son That never mair came hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair; A' for the sake of their true loves,For them they'll see na mair. O lang lang may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see na mair. O forty miles off Aberdeen'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. CHEVY-CHASE. One of the most celebrated of the English Ballads, is that of c" Chevy-Chase." Like one of the paintings of the old masters, the more it is read the more it is admired. Sir Philip Sidney, in his "Defence of Poesy," says, 1"I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet." 4 Its subject is this. It was a regulation between those who lived near the borders of England and Scotland, that neither party should hunt in the other's domains without leave. There had long been a rivalship between the two martial families, Percy of Northumberland and Douglas of Scotland, and the former had vowed to hunt for three days in the Scottish border, without asking leave of Earl Douglas, who was lord of the soil. Douglas did not fail to resent the insult, and endeavor to repel the intruders by force, which brought on the sharp conflict which the ballad so graphically describes. It took place in the region of the Cheviot Hills, whence its name. 1 Loath. 2 Shoes. s Another reading is-" Their hair was wat aboon;" that is, they who were at first loath to wet their shoes, were entirely immersed in the sea and drowned. 4 The ballad of which Sidney here speaks is the ancient one, beginningThe Perso owt of Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he. But the spelling is so very antiquated that I have given the more modern one, the same that Addison has criticised in numbers 70 and 14 of the Spectator. 1t558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 118 God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall; To drive the deer with hound and horn, Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn, The hunting of that day. The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take; The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay: Who sent Earl Percy present word, He would prevent his sport. The English Earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, To chase the fallow-deer: On Monday they began to hunt, Ere daylight did appear; And long before high noon they had An hundred fat bucks slain; Then having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again. The bow-men muster'd on the hills, Well able to endure; Their backsides all, with special care, That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deer to take, That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter'd deer; Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here: But if I thought he would not come, No longer would I stay. With that, a brave young gentleman TI is to the Earl did sayH an! 114 ENGLISH MINTSTRELSY. [ELIZABETE, Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, His men in armor bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight; All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweed: 0 cease your sports, Earl Percy said, And take your bows with speed: And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For there was never champion yet, In Scotland or in France, That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear. Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armor shone like gold. Show me, said he, whose men you be That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer. The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he; Who said, We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be: Yet we will spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay. Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say, Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die: I know thee well, an earl thou art; Lord Percy, so am I. But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill. Let thou and I the battle try, And set our men aside, Accurst be he, Earl Percy said, By whom this is denied. Then stepp'd a gallant squire forth, *Witherington was his name, Who said, I would not have it told To Henry our king for shame, 1558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 115 That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on; You be two earls, said Witherington, And I a squire alone: I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand. Our English archers bent their bows, Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew. They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. O dear! it was a grief to see, And likewise for to hear, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scatter'd here and there. * S S # * * * This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell, The battle scarce was done. With stout Earl Percy, there was slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold baron: And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wail, As one in doleful dumps; For when his legs were smitten off, He foulght upon his stumps. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; 1 i. e. "I, as one in deep concern, must lament." The construction here has generally been mul understood. The old MSS. read "woful dumps." The corresponding verse in the old ballad Is as follows:"For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne." 116 ENGLISH MIIISTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, The rest were slain in Chevy-Chase, Under the greenwood tree. Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies, bathed in purple gore, They bare with them away: They kiss'd them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. God save our king, and bless this land With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foul debate'Twixt noblemen may cease. THE TWO CORBIES.1 There were two corbies sat on a tree Large and black as black might be; And one the other gan say, Where shall we go and dine to-day? Shall we go dine by the wild salt sea? Shall we go dine'neath the greenwood tree? As I sat on the deep sea sand, I saw a fair ship nigh at land, I waved my wings, I bent my beak, The ship sunk, and I heard a shriek; There they lie, one, two, and three, I shall dine by the wild salt sea. Come, I will show ye a sweeter sight, A lonesome glen, and a new-slain knight; His blood yet on the grass is hot, His sword half-drawn, his shafts unshot, And no one kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame, Hts lady's away with another mate, So we shall make our dinner sweet; Our dinner's sure, our feasting free, Come, and dine by the greenwood tree. Ye shall sit on his white hause-bane,2 I will pick out his bony blue een; Ye'll take a tress of his yellow hair, To theak yere nest when it grows bare; The gowden3 down on his young chin Will do to sewe my young ones in. 1 One of the most poetical and picturesque ballads existing. 2 The neck-bone-a phrase for the neck. 8 Golden. 1558-1603.] QUEEN ELIZABETH. 117 0, cauld and bare will his bed be, When winter storms sing in the tree; At his head a turf, at his feet a stone, He will sleep, nor hear the maiden's moan; O'er his white bones the birds shall fly, The wild deer bound, and foxes cry. QUEEN ELIZABETH.1 1533-1.603. TAE pretensions of Queen Elizabeth to poetic genius are about as valid as her pretensions to beauty; yet she loved to be flattered for both, as much as for her classical attainments, which she really possessed. The desire of shining as a poetess was one of her weaknesses; and her vanity, no doubt, made her regard as tributes justly paid, the extravagant praises which the courtiers and writers of her age lavished on her royal ditties. We have but very little of her poetry: the best piece, perhaps, is one which shows that, notwithstanding her maidenly stateliness and prudery, she was not altogether a stranger to the tender passion. VERSES ON HER OWN FEELINGS.2 I GRIEVE, and dare not show my discontent, I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate; I It would of course be impossible here to give a mere outline of Elizabeth's life, so full of important events. Any good history of England may be read for the requisite information. Of the smaller histories, Keightley's is the best. Read, also, a well-written life in Mrs. Strickland's "Lives of the Queens of England." In Dr. Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," will be found some interesting particulars of her attainments, domestic habits, love of dress, vanity, jealousy, and her fondness for the drama and the brutal show of bear-baiting, &c. &c. 2 These verses first appeared in print in "Headley's Anc. Eng. Poet." They were transcribed from a manuscript in the Ashmolean Museum. Unfortunately, the most important word is half obliterated-" upon Moun-s departure;" but the following account from the old chronicler Stow shows pretty conclusively that it refers to the Duke of Alencon. "These Lords (the Ambassadors from France,) after divers secret conferences amongst themselves, and return of sundry letters into France, signifying the queen's declination from marriage, and the people's unwillingness to match that way, held it most convenient that the duke should come in proper person, whose presence they thought in such affairs might prevail more than all their oratory: and, thereupon, the first of November, the said prince came over in person, very princely accompanied and attended, though not in such glorious manner as were the above-named commissioners, whose entertainment, in all respects, was equivalent unto his estate and dignity. By this time his picture, state, and titles were advanced in every stationer's shop, and many other public places, by the name of Frauncis of Faco,, Dutke of Aanson, heir apparent of France, and brother to the French king: but he was better known by the name of Monsicur, unto all sorts of people, than by all his other titles. During his abode in England, he used all princely means to prefer his suit, and in his carriage demeaned himself like a true born prince, and the heir of France: and when he had well observed the queen's fsll determination to continue a single life, he pacified himself, admiring her rare virtues and high perfections. The queen in all respects showed as great kindness unto the duke and all his retinue, at their departure, as at any time before, and for period of her princely favors, in that behalf, she, with great state, accompanied the duke in person to Canterbury; where she feasted him and all his train very royally, and then returned. The next day, being the sixth of February, the duke, with his French lords and others, embarked at Sandwich." "As dead queens rank but with meaner mortals, we may assert, without much fear of contradic. tion, that little else can now be gratified by the perusal of Elizabeth's poetry than mere curiosity."Ieadley. 118 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. [JAMES I. I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate: I am, and not, I freeze, and yet am burn'd, Since from myself my other self I turn'd. My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it; Stands and lies by me, does what I have done, This too familiar care does make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be suppress'd. Some gentler passions slide into my mind, For I am soft, and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind, Let me or float or sink, be high or low. Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant. Signed, ".Finis, Eliza. Regina, upon Moun —s departure." TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.1 No literary undertaking in any age of English Literature has proved to be as important in its results, as the Translation of the Bible under the direction of King James I. Of the labors of Wiclif in translating the Bible from the Latin Vulgate, and of the successful exertions of Tyndale, in face of every danger and even of death, in giving to his countrymen a version of the New Testament in their vernacular tongue, short accounts are given under the lives of those scholars, together with specimens of their respective translations. Subsequently, very many versions appeared, of which the following are the most important: — 1. COVERDALE'S BIBLE. This was printed in Zurich, in 1535, because the translator, Miles Coverdale, a native of Yorkshire, was obliged to fly from his native land. To him, therefore, must be awarded the honor of being the first to give the whole Bible in English, translated out of the original tongues. It was printed in double columns, folio. 2. MATTEEWE.'s BIBLE. This appeared in 1537. But the name, Thomas Nlattlewe, which appeared in the title-page, and from which it has received its name, was undoubtedly fictitious, and the real editor was John Rogers, who was burned at the stake in the reign of Mary. 1 In mentioning the several causes that made the age of Elizabeth so distinguished for its great names in literature, Hazlitt, in his "Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," thus writes:-" The trans, lation of the Bible was the chief engine in the great work. It threw open, by a secret spring, the rich treasures of religion and morality which had been there locked up as in a shrine. It revealed the visions of the prophets, and conveyed the lessons of inspired teachers to the meanest of the people. It gave them a common interest in a common cause. Their hearts burnt within them as they read. It gave a mind to the people, by giving them common subjects of thought and feeling. it cemented their union of character and sentiment; it created endless diversity and collision of opinion. They found objects to employ their faculties, and a motive in the magnitude of the consequences attached to them, to exert the utmost eagerness In the pursuit of truth, and the most daring Intrepidity in maintaining it." 1603-1625.] TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 119 3. CRANrIER's, or TIE GREAT BIBLE, in large folio. This appeared in 1539. The preface was written by Cranmner, then archbishop of Canterbury, but the translation or revision was by liany hands, the chief of whom was Coverdale. 4. TAVERNER's BIBLE. This appeared in 1539, edited by Richard Taverner, the text being formed on Matthewe's Bible. In May, 1541, Henry VIII. issued a decree that the great volume of the Bible should be set up in every parish church in England, and all curates, not already furnished, were commanded to procure Bibles, and place them conveniently in their respective churches, and all the bishops were required to take especial care to see the said command put in force. "It was wonderful," says the old historian John Strype, "to see with what joy this book of God was received, not only among the learneder sort, but generally all England over, among all the people; and with what greediness God's word was read, and what resort to places where the reading of it was." During the reign of Edward VI. (1547-1553) eleven impressions of the English Bible were published, but they were merely reprints of one or other of the editions mentioned above. 5. THEE GENEVA BIBLE. This was translated, with notes, by.Miles Coverdale and others, who during the reign of Mary fled to Geneva. On the accession of Elizabeth, 1558, some returned, and others remained to finish the work, which appeared in 1560. This long continued to be the favorite Bible of the English Puritans and of the Scotch Presbyterians. Fifty impressions of it, at least, are known. 6. THE BisHOP's BIBLE, which appeared in 1568, so called from Matthew Parker, archbishop of Canterbury, who employed others to prepare it. 7. TIIE DouAY BIBLE, of which the New Testament was printed at Rheims' in 1582, and the Old at Douay2 in 1609-10. 8. KINGr JAnrES'S BIBLE. We are now brought to our own translation. At the, accession of James I., 1603, many complaints were made of the discrepancies then existing among the several versions of the Bible. At the great conference held in 1604, at Hampton Court, between the Established and Puritan clergy, all parties agreeing in their disapprobation of the version of the Scriptures then most generally used, the king commissioned fifty-four men, the most learned in the universities and other places, to commence a new translation. At the same time he required the bishops to inform themselves of all the learned men within their several dioceses, who had acquired especial skill in the Greek and Hebrew languages, and who had taken great pains in their private studies to investigate obscure passages and to correct mistakes in former English translations, and to charge them to communicate their observations to the persons thus employed to translate the whole Scriptures. Before the work was begun, seven of the persons nominated for it were either dead or declined to engage in the task; the remaining forty-seven were classed under six divisions, a certain portion of Scripture being assigned to each. They proceeded to their task at Oxford, Cambridge, and Westininster, each individual translating the portion assigned to his division, and when all in any one division had finished, they met together, compared their several translations, and decided all differences, and settled upon what they 1 Ahout 50 miles N. E. of Paris. 2 About 100 miles N of Paris. 120 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. [JAMES I. deemed the best translation. When the several divisions had finished, they all met together, and one and another by turns read the new version, while all the rest held in their hands either copies of the original or some valuable version. If any one objected to the translation of any passage, the reader stopped to allow time for discussion, comparison, and final decision. The labor appears to have commenced in the spring of 1604, and the result was published in 1611, under the following title, " The Holy Bible, conteyning the Old Testament and the New, newly translated out of the Originall Tongues, and with the former Translations diligently compared and revised by his M7ajesties speciall Commandement." As a translation, this is generally most faithful, and an excellent specimen of the language of the time. Dr. Adam Clarke remarks, "-The translators have seized the very spirit and soul of the original, and expressed this, almost everywhere, with pathos and energy: they have not only made a standard translation, but have made this translation the standard of our language." This is eminently true, for in all human probability this translation will never be changed. Still, strict truth and justice require us to say that there are some defects and errors, in our present version, which a more advanced state of biblical science enables us to detect. The translators had not access to the various sources of biblical criticism and elucidation which we enjoy at the presen* day; such as the collation of ancient manuscripts and versions; the multiplication of grammars and lexicons; the enlarged comparison of kindred dialects; and the researches of travellers into the geography, manners, customs, and natural history of the East.l But after all, instead of dwelling upon errors and discrepancies, which are really unimportant, we must ever wonder that there are so few, and admire the fidelity, the learning, and the wisdoml of the great and good men that executed the work.2 I have felt it a duty, in entering upon the reign of James I., when the present version of our Bible was made, to give this short historical view of the sacred volume, because, to say nothing of its divine origin, nothing of its inspired contents, nothing of its being the foundation of all morality, the groundwork of our religion, and our unerring rule of faith and practice, it has done so much for English mind, English literature, and English character. To say nothing of its heavenly influences, wherever faithfully and honestly followed, in elevating and blessing man, and in removing every wicked practice 1 For some very able remarks on our present version, see Professor Bush's Introduction to his "Notes on Genesis." 2 One of the greatest defects in our translation is a want of uniformity in rendering, both in regard to single words and to phrases. To give a few instances of what I mean. The Greek adverb sv0sS (euthus), which means "directly," "immediately," is translated in Matt. iii. 16, by "straightway;" xiii. 20, by "anon;" xiii. 21, by "by and by;" Mark i. 12, by "immediately;" John xix. 34, by " forthwith." In all these places, "immediately" would have better expressed the original: "by and by' is peculiarly infelicitous. So the verb 1ppLt/VaTEr (merimnate) in Matt. vi. 25, is rendered "take no tho-.ght;" in Phil. iv. 6, "be careful." The latter comes nearer the true meaning, which is, "be not distracted about," "be not over anxious about." In justice, however, to the translators, I should say that in King James's day, the phrase "take no thought" had a much stronger meaning than it now has, being nearly equivalent to "let not your thoughts be unduly exercised." In many other cases also, the present translation fails to express the sense, owing to changes which our language has undergone. One more instance will suffice. David says, (Psalm cxix. 147,) "I prevented the dawltilg or the morning," where "prevent" is used in its original Latin sense of "going before," " anticipating," and in King James's day it was so understood. Now, we know, it is used in the sense of to "hinder." This, though a most interesting subject of inquiry, cannot appropriately be pursued any further here. 1603-1625.] SACKVILLE. 121 and institution that tend to crush, debase, and brutalize him, it has done more to refine the taste, to kindle the imagination, to enlarge the understanding, to give strength to the reasoning powers, and to supply the mind with images of beauty, tenderness, and sublimity, than all other books which have been borne down to us on the stream of time: while our present permanent version has secured for our language what Tithonus begged of Aurora — immortality; and secured, besides, what he forgot to ask-perpetual youth. But above all and beyond all this, it is T1HE GREAT LEVER FOR ELEEVATIIfT THE XORAL WORLD.1 THOMAS SACKVILLE. 1536-1608. Tao0IAs SACKVILLE, Lord Buckhurst, and ultimately Earl of Dorset and lord high treasurer of England, deserves consideration, if for no other reason, as the author of the first regular English tragedy, entitled "Ferrex and Porrex." It is also called 4" The Tragedie of Gorboduc," and was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1561. The story is this. Gorboduc, an aicient king of Britain, divided, in his lifetime, his kingdom between his sons Ferrex and Porrex. They quarrel for sovereignty, and Porrex kills his brother. Their mother Viden, who loved Ferrex best, revenged his death by entering Porrex's chamber in the night and murdering him in his sleep. The people, exasperated at this, rose in rebellion, and killed both Viden and Gorboduc. The nobility then assembled, collected an army, and destroyed the insurgents. Every act of this play is closed by something like the chorus of the Greek tragedy, namely, an ode in long-lined stanzas, drawing back the attention of the audience to the substance of what has just passed, and illustrating it by moral reflections. The following ode closes the third act, the moral beauties as well as the spirit of which must strike every reader. Sir Philip Sidney, in his "Defence of Poesy," says that this whole tragedy is 4"full of notable morality." 1 I cannot but give room to the following just and beautiful remarks of Mrs. Ellis, in her work entitled the "Poetry of Life:"" With our established ideas of beauty, grace, pathos, and sublimity, either concentrated in the minutest point, or extended to the widest range, we can derive from the Scriptures a fund of gratification not to be found in any other memorial of the past or present time. From the worm that grovels in the dust beneath our feet, to the track of the leviathan in the foaming deep-from the moth that corrupts the secret treasure, to the eagle that soars above his eyrie in the clouds-from the wild ass in the desert, to the lamb within the shepherd's fold-from the consuming locust, to the cattle on a thousand hills-from the rose of Sharon, to the cedar of Lebanon-from the clear crystal stream, gushing forth out of the flinty rock, to the wide waters of the deluge-from the barren waste, to the fruitful vineyard, and the land flowing with milk and honey-from the lonely path of the wanderer, to the gatherer of a mighty multitude-from the tear that falls in secret, to the din of battle and the shout of a triumphant host-from the solitary in the wilderness, to the satrap on the throne-from the mourner clad in his sackcloth, to the prince in purple robes-from the gnawings of the worm that dieth not, to the seraphic vision of the blessed-from the still small voice, to the thunders of Omnipotence-from the depths of hell, to the regions of eternal glory, there is no degree of beauty or deformity, no tendency to good or evil, no shade of darkness or gleam of light, which does not come within the cognizance of the Holy Scriptures; and, therefore, there is no expression or conception of the mind that may not here find a corresponding picture; no thirst for excellence that here may not meet with its full supply; and no condition of humanity excluded from the unlimited scope of adaptation and sympathy comprehended in the language and spirit of the Bible," 11 122 SACKVILLE. [JAAIMES I. The lust of kingdom knows no sacred faith, No rule of reason, no regard of right, No kindly love, no fear of Heaven's wrath: But with contempt of God's and man's despight, Through bloody slaughter doth prepare the ways To fatal sceptre, and accursed reign: The son so loathes the father's lingering days, Nor dreads his hand in brother's blood to stain! O wretched prince! nor dost thou yet record The yet fresh murders done within the land Of thy forefathers, when the cruel sword Bereft Morgain his life with cousin's hand! Thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race, Whose murderous hand imbrued with guiltless blood, Asks vengeance still before the Heaven's face, With endless mischief on the cursed brood. The wicked child thus brings to woful sire The mournful plaints, to waste his weary life: Thus do the cruel flames of civil fire Destroy the parted reign with hateful strife: And hence doth spring the well, from which doth flow The dead black streams of mourning, plaint, and woe. But the poem by which Sackville is best known, is entitled "c The Mirror for Magistrates." In it, most of the illustrious but unfortunate characters of English history, from the Conquest to the end of the fourteenth century, are made to pass in review before the poet, who, conducted by Sorrow, descends, like Dante, into the infernal regions. Each character recites his own misfortunes in a separate soliloquy. But Sackville finished only the preface called the "c Induction," and one legend, the Life of the Duke of Buckingham. He left the completion of the whole to Richard Baldwyne and George Ferrers. These called in others to aid them, and the whole collection or set of poems was published in 1559, with this title, 4"A Mirror for Magistrates, wherein may be seen, by example of others, with how grievous plagues vices are punished, and how frail and how unstable worldly prosperity is found, even of those whom fortune seemeth most highly to favor." The whole poem is one of a very remarkable kind for the age, and the part executed by Sackville exhibits a strength of description and a power of drawing allegorical characters scarcely inferior to Spenser, and had he completed the whole, and with the same power as that exhibited in the coin nrencement, he would have rankled among the first poets of England. ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS IN HELL. And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep REmroRsE or CONscIENCE, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain: Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, 1603-1625.] SACIKVILLE. 123 So was her mind continually in fear, Tost and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the skly, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. Next, saw we DRaEAD, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and with a ghastly look, Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair;'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need. And, next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell REVENGE, gnashing her teeth for ire: Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or'veng'd by death to be. When fell REVENGE, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, Wiith trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another sight we met; When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Rueing, alas, upon the woful plight Of MISERY, that next appear'd in sight: His face was lean, and some-deal pined away, And eke his hands consumed to the bone; But, what his body was, I cannot say, For, on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast: His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream; his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was MISERY ybound. Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his fears, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy CArE, still brushing up the briers; His knuckles knobb'd, his flesh deep dinted in, With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin: The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But he is up, and to his work yrun; 124 SACKVILLEo. FJA VES 1, But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil. By him lay heavy SLEEP, the cousin of Death. Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath; Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned orn, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown; but as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath: And next in order sad, OLD-AGE we found: His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him assign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life: There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past, And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek! Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door; Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. And fast by him pale MifALADY was placed: Sore sick in bed, her color all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savor, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see! We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of FAMnrIE mought we see: With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; Hter body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone. And that, alas, was gnawen every where, All full of holes; that I me mought refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, 1603-1625.] OVEIRBURg. 125 When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seeml'd a shade Than any substance of a creature made: Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. Lastly, stood WAR, in glittering arms yclad, VWith visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued: In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns and threw down towers and all: Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd; His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 1581-1613. SIR THo)AS OVERBURY, a miscellaneous writer, and " one of the most finished gentlemen about the court" of James I., is well known by the tragic circumstances of his death. Born of an ancient family in Gloucestershire, after taking his degree at the University of Oxford, he entered the Middle Temple as a law student. But his inclinations turning more to polite literature, he made an effort to advance his fortune at the court, and was successful. But opposing the infamous Countess of Essex in one -of her criminal schemes, he was, by her influence. thrown into the Tower, and was soon after taken off by poison administered to him by her means, with the knowledge of her husband. The murder, though committed on the 13th of September, 1613, was not discovered till two years after, when all was brought to light, and four of the parties concerned were executed. But James, to his lasting disgrace, pardoned the two principals, the Countess of Essex and her husband, that base favorite of James, the Earl of Somerset. The murder of this accomplished man is one of the most disgraceful passages in the history of England, and the sympathy which his fate excited is demonstrated by the many elegies and tributes of grief which were poured forth from all quarters "on the untimely death of Sir Thomas Over. bury, poysoned in the Tower." Sir Thomas is known in letters, both as a poet and prose writer. In the former character, his chief productions are his once famous poem called " The Wife," and a smaller one called " The Choice 11* 126 OVER-tBURY. [JAMES I. of a Wife." The ", Wife"' is didactic in its nature, and though containing many good precepts, has little grace, fancy, or ornament. Two verses will suffice to give an idea of his manner:Give me, next good, an understanding wife, By nature wise, not learned by much art; Some knowledge on her part will, all her life More scope of conversation impart, Besides her inborn virtue fortify; They are most firmly good that best know why. Woman's behavior is a surer bar Than is their no; that fairly doth deny Without denying; thereby kept they are Safe ev'n from hope: —in part to blame is she, Which hath without consent been only tried; He comes too near, who comes to be denied. But as a prose writer, Sir Thomas Overbury takes higher rank. His " Characters or Witty Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons," display the fertile and ingenious character of his mind. Of the following beautiful picture of,' A Fair and Happy Milkmaid," a judicious critic remarks: I" We hardly know any passage in English prose which inspires the mind of the reader with so many pleasing recollections, and which spreads so calm and purifying a delight over the spirit, as it broods over the idea of the innocent girl whose image Sir Thomas has here bodied forth:-' It will scent all the year long of June, like a new-made hay-cock.'" A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocence, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions: nature hath taught her too, immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with Chanticlere, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk whiter or sweeter; for never came almond-glore or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall arnd kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made haycock. She makes her hand hard with labor, and her heart soft with pity; and when cwinter evenings fall early, sitting at her 1603-1625.] SHnAKSPEARE. 127 merry.wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next fair, and in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-she,. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 1564-1616. Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled.' This pencil take," she said, " whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy I This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." GRAS'S PROGRESS OF POESY. WILLIA3M SHAKSPrEARE,1 the great dramatic poet, not of England only, but of the world, was born at Stratford on the Avon, in the county of Warwick, April 23, 1564. Of his early life, of his education, of his personal appearance, manners, and habits, we know scarcely any thing. " No letter of hi.,i writing," says Hallam, c"no record of his conversation, no character of him drawn with any fulness by a contemporary, can be produced." He was sent for a short period to the free-school at Stratford, where, in the language.I' Ben Jonson,, "he acquired small Latin and less Greek." But that he was early a 1 Read-Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," full of most instructive and interesting matterJohnson's " Preface to Shakspeare," Hazlitt's " Characters of Shakspeare's Plays," Campbell's " Essay on English Poetry," Richardson's " Analysis ofShakspeare," Schlegel's " Lectures on Dramatic Iitera ture," Pope's "Prefaceto Shakspeare," Dodd's "Beauties," Price's "Wisdom and Genius of Shakspeare." The best family edition is Bowdler's "Family Shakspeare," 8 vols. 8vo, recently printeld.n one large octavo. The best critical edition is the varirUom of Isaac Reed, London, 1813, 23 vols.. with the Prolegomena and Addenda. "The proof-sheets of this edition were corrected by Mr. HIar ris, Librarian of the Royal Institution."-Lowsndes. Especially, read Mrs. Jameson's "t Characteristic, of Women, moral, political, and historical," the most tastefiul and discriminating analysis of Shano peare's female characters ever written. The preliminary remarks to each play. and the laotes in Knight's "Pictorial Shakspeare," are also replete with instruction. 128 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. very earnest, though, it may be, an irregular student, no one can doubt: the numerous felicitous allusions, throughout his dramas, to the history and mythology of the ancients, prove that, if not a critical scholar, he was deeply inmbued with the true spirit of classical literature, and possessed a most discriminating taste to seize upon their beauties, and make them his own.1 In 1582, when but eighteen years of age, he married Anne Hathaway, a farmer's daughter, who was seven years older than himself, and who resided near Stratford. In this place he continued for a few years, probably engaged in the business of his father, that of a woolstapler; but an increasing family and pressing wants2 obliged him to move beyond the limits of Stratford for subsistence and for fame; and, accordingly, in 1586 or 1587 he removed to London.3 On his arrival at London, his first employment was that of an actor, a profession which he continued to exercise more or less for at least seventeen years. He soon, however, began to write for the stage, his first effort, c" Pericles, Prince of Tyre," being written about 1590;4 and such was the unexampled success of his unequalled dramas, that he soon became proprietor of several theatres, 1,' If it were asked from what sources Shakspeare drew his abundant streams of wisdom, carrying with their current the fairest and most unfading flowers of poetry, I should be tempted to say, that he had what would now be considered a very reasonable portion of Latin; he was not wholly ignorant of Greek; he had a knowledge of French so as to read it with ease, and I believe not less of the Italian. He was habitually conversant in the chronicles of his country. He lived with wise and highly cultivated men; with Jonson, Essex, and Southampton, in familiar friendship. HE HAD DEEPLY IMBIBED THE SCRIPTURES: and his own most acute, profound, active, and original genius must take the lead in the solution." Croft's Preface to his "Aphorisms from Shakspeare." 2 I have said nothing of the traditional story of his deer-stealing, because there is not a particle of historical evidence of its truth. 3 " It is impossible to contemplate Shakspeare's removal from his native town, without pausing to reflect upon the consequences that followed that event. Had he not left his humble occupation in Warwickshire, how many matchless lessons of wisdom and morality, how many unparalleled displays of wit and imagination, of pathos and sublimity, had been buried in oblivion; pictures or emotion, of character, of passion, more profound than mere philosophy had ever conceived, more impressive than poetry had ever yet embodied." Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," i. 412. 4 The following is a chronological list of his plays, taken from Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," omitting of course Titus Andronicus: CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 1. Pericles,...... 1590. 19. Much Ado about Nothing,... 1599. 2. Comedy of Errors,... 1591. 20. As You Like It,..... 1600. 3. Love's Labor's Lost,.. 1591. 21. Merry Wives of Windsor,.. 01. 4. King Henry the Sixth, PartI.. 1592. 22. Troilus and Cressida, 1601. 5. King Henry the Sixth, Part II.. 1592. 23. King Henry the Eighth,... 1602. 0. Midsummer-Night's Dream, ~ 1593. 24. Timon of Athens,.... 1602. i. Romeo and Juliet,.. 1593. 25. Measure for Measure,.. 1603. s Taming of the Shrew,. 1594. 26. King Lear,. 1604. 9. Two Gentlemen of Verona,. 1595. 27. Cymbeline,.. 1605. 10. King Richard the Third,.. 1595. 28. Macbeth,..... 1606.'ll. King Richard the Second,... 1596. 29. Julius Caesar,. ~... 1607. 12. King Henry the Fourth, Part I.. 1596. 30. Antony and Cleopatra,... 1608. 13. King Henry the Fourth, Part II.. 1596. 31. Coriolanus,.... 1609. 14. The Merchant of Venice,... 1597. 32. The Winter's Tale,.... 1610. 15. Hamlet,.... 1597. 33. The Tempest,..... 1611. 16. King John,.... 1598. 34. Othello,.. 1612.;7.. Afl's Well that Ends Well,.. 1598. 35. Twelfth Night,.. 1613 18. King Henry the Fifth,... 1599.'Trough Titus Andronicus is bound up in all the editions of Shakspeare, yet there is no probability that he wrote it. Drake says it should be expunged from every edition of the great bard. 1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 129 from which he received a very ample income-estimated{ as equivalent tj about five thousand dollars of our money now. Though he lived in familiar intercourse with the nobles, the wits, and the poets of his day, he looked forward to the time when he should retire to his native town, and with this view he purchased New Place, the principal house in Stratford, with more than a hundred acres of ground attached. " The year 1612 has been assigned as the date of his final retirement to the country. In the fulness of his fame, with a handsome competency, and before age had chilled the enjoyment of life, the poet returned to his native town to spend the remainder of his days among the quiet scenes and the friends of his youth. Four years were spent by Shakspeare in this dignified retirement, and the history of literature scarcely presents another such picture of calm felicity and satisfied ambition. He died on the 23d of April, 1616, having just completed his fifty-second year. His widow survived him seven years. He had three children, one son and two daughters. The former died in 1596. Both the latter were married, and one had three sons, but all these died without issue, and there now remains no lineal representative of the great poet." So many authors having written upon Shakspeare and his dramas, some of whom are referred to in the note, it is deemed unntecessary here to go into a critical examination of his character. Indeed it woUlt be hardly possible to say any thing new. The subject seems to be exhausted. And to write in eulogy would be somewhat presumptuous, when he has so excxruisitely pronounced his own:To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,.To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. One of his contemporaries, ]Ben Jonson, thus characterizes him: —" I loved the man, and do honor to his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature: had an excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions; wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary it should be stopped. His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so too! But he redeemed his vices with his virtues; there was even more in him to be praised than pardoned." But Dryden has portrayed his genius in the following nervous and masterly lines, which have been served up to us in a diluted state by many a modern critic: —, To begin, then, with Shakspeare. He was the man who, of all modern and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not labo. riously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it-you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards and found her there. I canlnot say le is everywhere alike; were he so, I should do him injury to corn. pare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when sorme great occasion is presented to hlim: no r 130 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. 1 The consideration of this, made Mr. Hales of Eaton say,'that there was no subject of which any poet ever wrote, but he would produce it much better done in Shakspeare,' " The difficulty of making selections from Shakspeare must be obvious to every one. So numerous and diversified are his characters, so varied his style, suited to every description of poetry and of fiction, and so many gems of wit, humor, satire, and pathos, everywhere present themselves, that the mind is perplexed what to choose. But we must begin. THE THREE CASKETS. Portia, a beautiful and accomplished heiress, is sought in marriage by a large number of suitors, whose fate is to be determined by the choice they makie of one of three caskets, "gold, silver, and base lead." The following are the comments of three of the suitors:Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco. Por. Now make your choice. M~or. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears;Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. The second, silver, which this promise carries;Who chooseth me, shall get as mutch as he deserves. This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt;2_ Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.How shall I know if I do choose the right? Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince: If you choose that, then I am yours withal. Mor. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see, I will survey the inscriptions back again: What says this leaden casket? Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath. Must give-For what for lead hazard for lead? This casket threatens: Men, that hazard all, Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; i'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver, with her virgin hue? Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. As much as he deserves? —Pause, there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand: If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady; And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve!-Why, that's the lady; I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But, more than these, in love I do deserve. 1 As the cypresses are wont to do among the slender shrubs. 2 That is, as gross as the dull metal. 1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 131 What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?Let's see once more this saying graved in gold. Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her: — Deliver me the key; Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! Por. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [ Unlocking the golden casket. lor. What have we here? A carrion death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing 11ll that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold, But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Youzng in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll'd: Fare you well; your suit is cold. Cold, indeed; and labor lost: Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost.Portia, adieu! I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave: thus losers part. [Exit. Enter Prince of.rragon. Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. Ar. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket'twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you, and be gone. Por. To these injunctions every one doth swear, That comes to hazard for my worthless self. Jr. And so have I address'd' me: Fortune now To my heart's hope!-Gold, silver, and base lead. Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath: You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. What many men desire.-That many may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather, on the outward wall, Even in the force2 and road of casualty. 1 Address'd me —prepared me; that is, I have prevared myself by the same ceremoniea. 2 The power. 132 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits, And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves: And well said too: For who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honorable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. 0, that estates, degrees, and offices Were not derived corruptly! and that clear honor Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover, that stand bare? How many be commanded, that command? How much low peasantry would then be glean'd From the true seed of honor? and how much honor Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish'd 1 Well, but to my choice: Who chooseth me, shall get as mnuch as he deserves: I will assume desert -Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. Por. Too long a pause for that which you find there. Jdr. What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot, Presenting me a schedule? I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings! Who chooseth me, shall have as mnuch as he deserves: Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? Por. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices, And of opposed natures. Jlr. What is here? The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is, That did never choose amiss: Some there be, that shadows kiss: Such have but a shadow's bliss: There be fools alive, I wis,2 Silver'd o'er; and so was this. Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here: With one fool's head I came to woo, But I go away with two.Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth.3 Enter Bassanio. Bass. So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceived with ornament. In law what rlea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season'd with a gracious voice, I The meaning is, how much meanness would be found among the great, and how much greatness among the meRn. 2 I know. 8 My misfortune. 1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 133 Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve itI with a text, HIi(ling the grossness with fair ornament There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk? And these assume but valor's excrement5 To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see'tis purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped2 snaky golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second headl, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guilecls shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seenming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee: Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threat'nest, than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I: Joy be the consequence! Opening the leaden casket. What find I here! Fair Portia's counterfeit? 4 ~ —---- Here's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair, and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If your be well pleased with this, JAnd hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn you where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss. Por. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am: though, for myself alone, I would not be. anbitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich; - That only to stand high on your account, 1 Justify it. 2 Curled. 8 The treacherous shore. 4 Counterfeit here means a likeness, a resemblawe. 1 2 5 That Is the "beard". 134 SHAKSPEARE, [JAMES T. I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account: but the full sum of me Is sum of something: which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised: Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself; and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted: but now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. i Merchant of Venice, Acts II. and III. THE SEVEN AGES. The banished duke, with Jaques and other lords, are in the forest of Arden, sitting at their plain repast. Orlando, who had been wandering in the forest in quest of food for an old servant, Adam, who could c" go no further," sudd::ilty comes upon the party, and with his sword drawn, exclaims, Orlando. Forbear, I say; He dies that touches any of this fruit, Till I and my affairs are answer'd.:Jaques. An you will not Be answer'd with reason, I must die. D*_uke Sen. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force, More than your force move us to gentleness. Orla. I almost die for food, and let me have it. Duke Sen. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. Orla. Speak you so gently l Pardon me, I pray you; I thought that all things had been savage here; And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are, That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have look'd on better days; If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church; If ever sat at any good man's feast; If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what'tis to pity, and be pitied; Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. Duke Sen. True it is that we have seen better days; And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church; And sat at good men's feasts; and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd: And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 135 And take upon commnandI what help we have That to your wanting may be minister'd. Orla. Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, And give it food. There is an old poor man, Who after me hath many a weary step Limp'd in pure love; till he be first sufficed, — Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,I will not touch a bit. Duke Sen. Go find him out, And we will nothing waste till your return. Orla. I thank ye: and be bless'd for your good comfort [Exit. Duke Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in. Jaq. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms: And then, the whining school-boy with his satchel, And shining morning-face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school: And then the lover; Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then, a soldier; Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice; In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,2 Full of wise saws and modern3 instances, And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon; With spectacles on nose and pouch on side: His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. Xs You Like It, Act II. Scene VII. CLARENCE S DREAM. the Duke of Clarence, having been imprisoned in the Tower, for the pur pose of being murdered, by his brother Richard III., thus relates to Sir Robert Brakenbury, the lieutenant of the Tower, his dream of the preceding night:1 At your command. 2 In Shakspeare's time beards were of different cuts, according to different characters and profes ionus. The soldier had one fashion, the judge another, &c. 3 Trite, common instances 136 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day Clarence. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That as I am a Christian faithful man,1 I would not spend another such a night, Though'twere to buy a world of happy days; So full of dismal terror was the time. Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the Tower, And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Gloster: Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befall'n us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord! rethought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued2 jewels, All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes, Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air; [But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awkaked you not with this sore agony? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life; O, then began the tempest to my soul! I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? And so he vanish'd: Then came wanidering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 1 That is, not all infidel. 2 Invaluable. 1603-1625.] SIIAKSPEARE. 13I Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud, Clarence is came-false, fleeting,l perjured Clarenc — That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury; Seize on him, furies, take himn to yomer torments! With that, methought a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, I trembling waked, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell: Such terrible impression made my dream. Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. Clar. 0 Brakenbury, I have done these things,That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me! 0 God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath on me alone: O, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children! Richard III., Act I. Scene IV. FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. Cardinal Wolsey. after his fall from the favor of Henry VIII., thus solilo quize% and afterwards confers with his servant Cromwell: — Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And, —when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp, and glory of this world, 1 hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd: 0, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.Enter Cromwell, amazeady. Why, how now, Cromwell? Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. Wol. What, amazed.At oy misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder 1 Fleeting is the same as changing sides. 12' 138 SIIAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. A great man should decline? Nay, and you weep, I am fallen indeed. Cronm. How does your grace H4ol. Why, well; L:ever so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, too much honor: 0'tis a burden, Cromwell,'tis a burden, Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. Cromr. I am glad, your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have; I am able now, methinks, (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) To endure more miseries, and greater far, Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad I Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, Is your displeasure with the king. Wol. God bless him! Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place. Wol. That's somewhat sudden: But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his highness' favor, and do justice For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones, When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on'em!1 What more? Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That's news indeed. Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open, as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. 0 Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me, all my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever: No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master: Seek the king; That sun I pray may never set! I have told him What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him, (I know his noble nature,) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too: Good Cromwell, I The chancellor is the general guardian of orphans. 1603-1625.] SEIAIKSPEARE. 139 Neglect him not, 1make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. Cronm. 0 my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.The king shall have my service; but my prayers For ever, and for ever, shall be yours. Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of,-say, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey,-that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;l By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, 0 Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; And, — Pr'ythee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny;'tis the king's; my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. 0 Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.2 Crom. Good sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. Henry VIII., Act III. Scene II. QUEEN bNAB, THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES.3 0, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes 1 Ambition here means a criminal and inordinate ambition, that endeavors to obtain honors by di,. honest means. 2 This sentence was really uttered by Wolsey. 3 "The imagery which Shakspeare has employed in describing the persons, manners, and occupations of the Fairies, will be deemed not less his peculiar offspring, nor inferior in beauty, novelty, and wildness of painting, to that which the magic of his pencil has diffilsed over every other part of the visionary world."-Drake. 140 SHAKSPEARE. EJAMES I. In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies, Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm, Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers, And in this state she gallops night by night, Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit: And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice! Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,1 Of healths five fathom deep;2 and then, anon, Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus friglhted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. Romeo and Juniet, Act I. Scene TV. LIFE AND DEATH WEIGHED. To be, or not to be, that is the question:Whether'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them? To die,-to sleep,No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, —'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die;-to sleep;To sleep!-perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, I Swords made of Spanish steel were thought the best. a That is, drinking deeply each other's health. 1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 141 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,l Must give us pause: —There's the respect 2 That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, —puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. HEamlet, Act HI. Scene 1MERCY. The quality of mercy is not straine'd; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above the scepter'd sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mnercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. 1e1y chant of renice, Act IV. Scene I. ACTIVITY NECESSARY TO KEEP FAME BRIGHT.a Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: i Turmoil, bustle. 2 There's the consideration. 8 This admirable speech of Ulysses to Achilles, to induce him to leave his tent, and come again into the field of action, though not much read, is scarcely Lnferior to any thing in Shakspeare. 142 bHAKSPEARE. [JAMES L Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: Pers6verance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright: To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honor travels in a strait so narrow, Where one hut goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: If you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost;Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank: Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er-run and trampled on: Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out-stretclh'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. 0, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt,' More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object: Then marvel not, thou great and c6mplete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might: and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive, And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions2'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. Troilus and Cressida, Act III. Scene II. THE COMMONWEALTH OF BEES. So work the honey bees; Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach The acts of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king, and officers of sorts:4 I Dust that is a little gilt, means, ordinary performances ostentatiously displayed, and lauded by the favor of friends. Gilt o'er-dustsld, means, splendid actions of preceding ages, the remembrance of which is weakened bv time a Emuloss misstons refers to the machinery of Homer, which makes the deities descend from heaven to engage on either side. 8 Law. 4 That is, of different degrees. 1603-1625.] BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 143 Where some, like magistrates, correct at home; Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor: Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold; The civil citizens kneading up the honey; The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to executors2 pale The lazy yawning drone. nHenry V., Act I. Scene II. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. TasEs names, united in their lives by friendship and confederate genrus, have always been considered together; for they wrote together, their works were published together, nor is it possible now to assign to each his specific share of their joint labors. Some of the productions of each, however, are distinctively known. Francis Beaumont was born in Leicestershire, in 1586. He studied at Oxford, and thence passed to the Inner Temple; but the law had few charms for him, and, in conjunction with his friend Fletcher, he devoted his short life to the drama, and died in 1616, in the thirtieth year of his age. John Fletcher was the son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, bishop of London, and was born in that city in 1576. He was educated at Cambridge: little, how ever, is known of his life. He survived his coadjutor nine years, dying of the plague in 1625. The plays of Beaumont and Fletcher consist of tragedies, comedies, and mixed pieces. That they have many and great merits is undoubtedly true; but there are two things which will ever be a bar to their being generally read: one is, that they have not that truthfulness to nature which alone can permanently please; and the other is, that they are filled with so much that is repulsive to a delicate and virtuous mind. Still, as has been justly remarked, a proper selection from the works of these dramatists would make a volume of refined sentiment, and of lofty and sweet poetry, combined with good sense, humor, and pathos. In lyrics they have not been surpassed, not even by Shakspeare or Milton; and to these, therefore, we shall confine our extracts.3 ADDRESS TO MELANCHOLY. Hence, all you vain delights; As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly; There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, I Sober, grave. 2 Executioners. 8 Read-H-azlitt's " Age of Elizabeth," and Lamb's " Specimens of Dramatic Poets." 144 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. [JAMES T. But only melancholy; Oh, sweetest melancholy, Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, A sight that piercing mortifies; A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound; Fountain heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves: Moonlight walks, where all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls; A midnight bell, a passing groan, These are the sounds we feed upon: Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley; Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy..BEAU MONT. THE LIFE OF MAN. Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in and paid to-night: The wind blows out, the bubble dies: The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew's dried up, the star is shot, The flight is past, and man forgot. BEAUrMONT. MORNING. See, tile day begins to break, And the light shoots like a streak Of subtile fire; the wind blows cold, While the morning doth unfold; Now the birds begin to rouse, And the squirrel from the boughs Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit; The early lark, that erst was mute Carols to the rising day Many a note and many a lay. FLETCHER. EXHORTATION TO EARLY RISING. Shepherds, rise, and shake off sleep! See, the blushing morn doth peep Through the windows, while the sun To the mountain tops is run, Gilding all the vales below With his rising flames, which grow Greater by his climbing still. Up, ye lazy grooms, and fill 1603-1625.] BEAIUMONT AND F'LETCHER. i4~ Bag and bottle for the fieldcl Clasp your cloalks fast, lest they yield To the bitter north-east wind. Call the miaidens up, and find -Who lies longest, that she may Go without a friend all clay; Thllen reward your dogs, and pray Pan to keep you from decay: So unfiold, and then away! FLETCHER. THE SHEPHERD S EVENING. Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air'G-ins to thiclken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the cdew-drops low they kiss Every little flower tlhat is; Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesp]erus down calling The clead night frmn under ground, At whose rising mists unsound. Damlps, and vapors fly apace, Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come Strilking dead both bud and bloom; Therefore, friom such danger, lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kIid away; Or the crafty thievish fox Break upon your siinple flocks. To secure yourselves from these Be not too secure in ease; Let one eye his watches kleep, While the other eye doth sleep; ~o youL shall good shepherds prove, And for ever hold the love Of our great God. Sweetest slunlmbers, And soft silence, fall in nimbers On your eyelids! So, farewell! Thus I end 1my evenings lknell. FLETCaBR. K i3 146 RALEIGah [JAMES T. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1 552-1618. SIR NVaLrTEa Rx LIGH, one of the most remlarkable men England has produced, was born in the parish of Budley in Devonshire, in 1552. About the year 1568 lihe entered Oxford, where he continued but a short time, for in the following year lie wNas in France, where Hoolker says' he spent good part of his youth in wars and niartial exercises." He escaped the massacre of St. Bairtiolomew, (A ngust, 1572,) by taking refuge with Sir Philip Sidney in the hlouse of the English ambassador. In 1579 he accompanied his half brother, Sir Henry Gilbert, in a voyage to Newfoundland: the expedition proved unfortunate, but it doubtless had an influence in leading him to engage in subsequent expeditions which have made his name famous. He soon ingratiated himself vith tile queen, who, in 1584, granted him a patent to discover "; such remlote heathen and barbarous lands, not actually possessed by any Christian prince, as to him might seem good." Two ships were soon after fitted olut by Raleigh, which arrived on the coast of Carolina in July. They were co1mmanded by Philip Amicdas and Arthur Barlow, who took possession of the country in the name of the Virgin Queen, and called it Virginiia. In 1825 he projected a second voyage, and seven vessels were sent out, w-vhich arrived at Roanoke, an island in Albemarle Sound. But the colonists failed in their object, and in July 27, 15860, returned to England, carrying with them, for the first time, that nauseous weed, tobaccO, instead of diamonds and gold. In 1594 he matured the plan of his first voyage to Guiana-a voyage menmorable in his history, as it was eventually the cause of his destruction. This expedlition he attended in person, and returned to England in the summer of 1595, when he published a work, entitled "Discovery of the Large, Rich, and Beautiful Empire of Guiana." But his fortune fell with the death of the queen. "c A prince from the north, with the meanness of soul which has no parallel, and a narrow subttilty of intellect which is worse than folly, ascended the British throne, and changed the face and character of the court and the nation. King James frowned upon Raleigh, and within three months entertainred a charge against him for high treason," of conspiring to dethrone the kIing, of exciting sedition, and of endeavoring to establish popery by the aid of foreign powers. After a trial, perhaps the lnost dcisgraceful in the annals of English jurisprudence, he was conidemned to lose his head. He was reprieved, however, by the king, but his estates were taken from him, and he was sent to the Tower for twelve years-a period the best employed of any in his life, as he there composed the great work on which his literary fame chiefly rests —" The History of the Wvorld." In the year 1615 he was liberated by the king, who wanted him tcr plan and conduct an expedition to Guiana, and in 1617 he sailed with twelve vessels. But the expedition failed, and Sir Walter's death was determined on. Finding no present grounds against him, his enemies proceeded on the old sentence, and he was beheaded on the 29th of October, 1618, dying with the salle dauntless resolution he had displayed through his life. 4 Whlo is tlhefe," exclaims Sir Egerton Brydges,1 ", that will not read with a heart first exparlnding with adcliration. and afterwards wrung with resentment ancl sol1 Read-a memoir of Raleigh in that maost fascinating of books, Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative Biography;" also, the biography preceding the edition of his poems, by the sarme author, wvho hias done so much for Engglish literature. 1603-1625.] RALEIGH. 147 row, the story of Raleigh, though a thousand times told? If there were no other blots on James's reign, Raleigh's death alone would render it intolerable to every generous and reflecting mind." Sir Walter Raleigh is no less distinguished as a literary character than as an experienced navigator and a valorous knight. For extent of knowledge and variety of talent, lhe was undoubtedly the first man of his age. The work on which his fame chiefly rests is his c" History of the World," which begins with the Creation, and ends with the downfall of the Macedonian Empire, 168 B. C.1 Of this work Hame remarks, "c it is the best model of that ancient style, which some writers would affect to revive at present;" and Professor Tytler, the Scotch historian, commends it as "c rigorous, purely English, and possessing an antique richness of ornament, similar to what pleases us when we see some ancient priory or stately manor-house, and compare it with our more modern mansions. It is laborious without being heavy, learned without being dry. Its narrative is clear and spirited, and the matter collected from the most authentic sources." The following is the concluding portion of this great work, a passage which, in the opinion of Warburton, has never been equalled, except by Milton: — THE FALL OF MIGHTY EMPIRES-THE FOLLY OF AMBITIONTHE POWER OF DEATH. By this which we have already set down is seen the beginning and end of the first three 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. Now these great kings and conquering nations have been the subject of those ancient histories which have been preserved, and yet remain among us; and withal of so many tragical poets, as, in the persons of powerful princes and other mighty men, have complained against infidelity, time, destiny, and most of all against the variable success of worldly things, and instability of fortune. To these undertakings the greatest lords of the world have been stirred up, rather by the desire of fame, which plougheth up the air, and soweth in the wind, than by the affection of bearing rule, which draweth after it so much vexation and so many cares. And certainly, as fame hath often been dangerous to the living, so it is to the dead of no use at all, because separate from knowledge. Which were it otherwise, and the extreme ill bargain of buying this lasting discourse understood by them which are dissolved, 1 Battle of Pydna. 148 RALEIGH. [JAMES I. they themselves would then rather have wished to have stolen out of the world without noise, than to be put in mind that they have purchased the report of their actions in the world by rapine, oppression, and cruelty; by giving in sport the innocent and laboring soul to the idle and insolent, and. by having emptied the cities of the world of their ancient inhabitants, and filled them again with so many and so variable sorts of sorrows. If we seek a reason of the succession and continuance of this boundless ambition in mortal men, we may add to that which hath been already said, that the kings and princes of the world have always laid before them the actions, but not the ends of those great ones which preceded them. They are always transported with the glory of the one, but they never mind the misery of the other, till they find the experience in themselves. They neglect the advice of God, while they enjoy life or hope it; but they follow the counsel of death upon his first approach. It is he that puts into man all the wisdom of the world, without speaking a word, which God, with all the words of his law, promises, or threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and destroyeth man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him, is always deferred. It was death which opened the conscience of Charles V., made him enjoin his son Philip to restore Navarre; and King Francis I. of France, to command that justice should be done upon the murderers of the Protestants in Merindol and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore death alone that can suddenly make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant, makes them cry, complain, and repent, yea, even to hate their forepast happiness. HEe takes the account of the rich and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar, which hath interest in nothing but the gravel that fills his mouth. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity and rottenness, and they acknowledge it. 0 eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath 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 ambition of man, and covered it over with these two narrow words — HI JACET. Besides his great work, Sir Walter wrote a large number of tracts and treatises upon various subjects: such as,"Maxims of State, a Compendium of Government:" c" The Cabinet Council, containing the Chief Arts of Empire, &c.:' on the " Invention of Ships. Anchors, Compass, &c.;" Journal of a Second Voyage to Guiana;" a "Treatise on Mines and Minerals;" and between thirty and forty others on divers subjects. Such Awere the literary labors of this extraordinary man; and most truthfully has it been remarlked, that as 1603-1625.] RALEIGH. 149 ( an historian, a navigator, a soldier, and a politician, he ranks with the first characters of his age and country; and his life furnishes the most unequivocal proof that, amid the disthactions of an active and adventurous life, leisure may always be found for the cultivation of letters." But Sir Walter Raleigh did not confine himself to prose; he courted the Muses, and he is a votary of whom the Muses cannot but be proud. The poetry he has left is but little: it is sufficient, however, to discover that, had he made it a serious pursuit, he would have equally excelled in that, as he has in other departments of learning. Spenser, who had a high opinion of his poetical abilities, styles him "the Summer's Nightingale."l The following pieces richly merit any encomium:A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY S RECREATIONS. Quivering fears, heart-tearing Cares, Anxious Sighs, untimely Tears, Fly, fly to courts; Fly to fond worldlings' sports, Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery; And sorrows only real be! Fly from our country pastimes! fly, Sad troop of human misery;. Come serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals! did you know Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow; You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers, Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering Care could never tempest make, Nor murnmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance, But of our kids, that frisk and prance: Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, Which done, both bleating run, each to his mdther; And wounds are never found, Save what the plough-share gives the ground 1 rl Do I pronounce Raleigh a poet? Not, perhaps, in the judgment of a severe criticism. In his ctetter days he was too much occupied in action to have cultivated an the powers of a poet, which require solitude and perpetual meditation. He possessed not perhaps the copious, vivid, and cres-. tive powers of Spenser, but still we can perceive in him some traits of attraction and excellence, which perhaps even Spenser wanted. If less diversified than that gifted bard, he would, I think, have been more forcible and sublime. His images would have been gigantic, and his reflections more daring."-Sir Egerton Brydges. 13* 150 RALEIGH. [JAMES x. Here are no false entrapping baits, To hasten too, too hasty fates; Unless it be The fond credulity Of silly fish, which worldling-like, still look Upon the bait, but never on the hook: Nor envy, unless among The birds, for prize of their sweet song. Go! let the diving negro seek For geans hid in some forlorn creek; We all pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; And gold ne'er here appears, Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Blest silent groves! 0 may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery! May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains! Which we may every year Find when we come a fishing here-! THE NYMlIPH S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.1 If all the world and Love were young, And truth on every Shepherd's tongue, These pleasures might my passion move To live with thee, and be thy love. But fading flowers in every field, To winter floods their treasures yield; A honey'd tongue-a heart of gall, Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall. Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten, In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, Can me with no enticements move, To live with thee, and be thy love. But could Youth last, could Love still breed; Had joys no date, had Age no need; Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. 1 See the invitation of the Shepherd by Marlow, p. 87. 1o03-1625. nRALEIGH. 151 A VISION UPON THE FAERIE QUEENE.' Methought I saw the grave, where Laura2 lay, Within that temple, where the vestal flame Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept: All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queene; At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen; For they this Queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse: Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce. Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And cursed the access of that celestial thief! THE SOUL S ERRAND.3 Go, Soul, the Body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give them all the lie. Go, tell the Court it glows, And shines like painted wood; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good, but does no good. If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie. Tell Potentates, they live Acting, but oh! their actions Not loved, unless they give; Nor strong, but by their factions. If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie. 1 " A higher strain of compliment cannot well be conceived than this, which raises your idea even of that which it disparages in comparison, and makes you feel that nothing could have torn the writer from his idolatrous enthusiasm for Petrarch and his Laura's tomb, bat Spenser's magic verse and diviner Faerie Queene-the one lifted above mortality, the other brought from the skies."-Hazlitt. " I have been always singularly struck and delighted with the tone, imagery, and expression of this extraordinary sonnet. The author must at this time have been deeply read in works of poetical fancy, and highly imbued with their spirit. Milton had deeply studied this sonnet; for in his compositions of the same class, he has evidently, more than once, the very rhythm and construction, as well as cast of thought, of this noble, though brief composition."-Sir Egerton Brydges. 2 The lady to whom Petrarch addressed so much of his beautiful poetry. 3 This poem appeared anonymously in "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," in 1608, and has been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. I have therefore given it a place here with his poems, although there is no certainty about it. Sir Egerton Brydges, always good authority in every question of English Literature, places it at the end of his edition of Raleigh's poems, and says: —"I know no author so capable of writing it as Raleigh; but, whoever was the author, it is a poem of uncommon beauty and merit, and glowing with all that moral pathos, which is one of the first charms in the composittons of genius." It is here printed as ir. Sir E. Brydges's edition. 1 52 RALEIGH. [JXkM-FS T, Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition; Their practice only hate. And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell those that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lie. Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; Tell Love it is but lust; Tell Time it is but motion; Tell Flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Honor how it alters; Tell Beauty that it blasteth; Tell Favor that she falters: And as they do reply, Give every one the lie. Tell Wit how much it wrangles In fickle points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness: And if they do reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Skill it is pretension; Tell Charity of coldness; Tell Law it is contention: And if they yield reply, Then give them still the lie. Tell Fortune of her blindness; Tell Nature of decay; Tell Friendship of unkindness; Tell Justice of delay: And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell Schools they lack profoundness. And stand too much on seeming. If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie. Tell Faith it's fled the city; Tell how the Country erreth; Tell Manhood, shakes off pity; Tell Virtue, least preferreth. 1603-1625.] RALEIGH. 153 And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So, when thou hast, as I. Colmanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill. The following most affectionate and touching letter, written by Raleigh to his wife, after his condemnation, cannot be omitted:You shall receive, my dear wife, my last words in these my last lines; my love I send you, that you may keep when I am dead, and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no r-ore. I would not with my will present you sorrows, dear Bess; let them go to the grave with me, and be buried in the dust. And seeing that it is not the will of God that I shall see you any more, bear my destruction patiently, and with an heart like yourself. First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words express, for your many travails and cares for me; which though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world. Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bare me living, that you do not hide yourself many days, but by your travails seek to help the miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child. Your mourning cannot avail me that am but dust. Thirdly, you shall understand, that my lands were conveyed bona fide to my child; the writings were drawn at midsummer was twelve months, as divers can witness; and I trust my blood will quench their malice who desired my slaughter, that they will not seek also to kill you and yours with- extreme poverty. To what friend to direct you I know not, for all mine have left me in the true time of trial. Most sorry am I, that, being thus surprised by death, I can leave you no better estate; God hath preventedt all my determinations,-that great God which worketh all in all; and if you can live free from want, care for no more, for the rest is but a vanity: love God, and begin betimes —in him you shall find true, everlasting, and endless comfort; when you have travailed and wearied yourself with all sorts of worldly cogitations, you shall sit down by sorrow in the end. Teach your son also to serve and fear -God whilst he is young, that the fear of God may grow up in him; then will God be an husband to you, and a father to him-an husband and a father that can never be taken from you. Baylie oweth me a thousand pounds, and Aryan six hundred; in Jernesey also I have much owing me. Dear wife, I beseech you, for my soul's sake, pay all poor men. When I am dead, no 154 CAREY. [JAMES I. doubt you shall be much sought unto, for the world thinks I was very rich: have a care to the fair pretences of men, for no greater misery can befall you in this life, than to become a prey unto the world, and after to be despised. I speak (God knows) not to dissuade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect of God and the world. As for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine; death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. Remember your poor child for his father's sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for my life, but God knows it was for you and yours that I desired it: for know it, my dear wife, your child is the child of a true man, who in his own respect despiseth death and his misshapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much; God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep; and it is also time for me to separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or Exeter church by my father and mother. I can say no more; time and death call me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infinite, and inscrutable God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom. My dear wife, farewell; bless my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in his arms. Yours that was, but now not mine own, WALTER RALEIGH. LADY ELIZABETH CAREY.' Or the history of this lady, nothing satisfactory can be obtained. She wrote a tragedy, entitled c"Mariam, the fair Queen of Jewry," written by that learned, virtuous, and truly noble lady, " E. C. 1613." It is written in alternate verse, and with a chorus after the manner of the Greek tragedians. She died probably some time in the reign of Jamnes the First. The following is the chorus in Act IV. of Marian:ON FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES. The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury; For who forgives without a further strife, His adversary's heart to him doth tie. And'tis a firmer conquest truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth it must be nobly done; 1 Generally spelled Carew, but incorrectly. 1603-1625.j rANIEL. 155 But if of baser metal be his mind, In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow, And who would wrestle with a worthless foe? We say our hearts are great and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor; Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn, To scorn to owe a duty overlong; To scorn to be for benefits forborne, To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong. To scorn to bear an injury in mind, To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind; Do we his body from our fury save, And let our hate prevail against our mind? What can'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he? Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, She would to Herod then have paid her love; And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. To fix her thoughts all injury above Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, Long famous life to her had been allow'd. SAMUEL DANIEL. 1562-1619. WE know but little of the personal history of Samuel Daniel. He was the son of a music master, and was born near Taunton, in Somersetshire, in 1562. In 1579 he entered Oxford, and left it at the end of three years without takmng his degree. Towards the close of his life he retired to a farm in his native county, and died in 1619. His most elaborate work is "The History of the Civil Wars between the Houses of York and Lancaster," which is rather an uninteresting work, for the reason that you see in it more of the correctness of the annalist than the fancy of the poet. Sound morality, prudential wisdom, and occasional touches of the pathetic, delivered in a style of great perspicuity, will be recognised throughout his work; but neither warmth, passion, nor sublimity, rTr the most distant trace of enthusiasm, can be found to animate the mass. Bat some of his minor poems, especially his moral epistles, have great merit, abounding in original thought, expressed in clear, simple, and vigorous larnguage. A very discriminating and candid critic says, I" We find both in his poetry and prose such a legitimate and rational flow of language, as ap. proaches nearer the style of the eighteenth than the sixteenth century, and 156 DANIEL. [JAMES I. or' which we may safely assert, that it will never become obsolete. He cer. tainlf was the Atticus of his day." 1 EQUANIIUTY. He that of such a height hath built his mind, And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same: What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey? And with how free an eye doth he look down Upon those lower regions of turmoil? Where all the storms of passions mainly beat On flesh and blood: where honor, power, renown, Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem. He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' wars But only as on stately robberies; Where evermore the fortune that prevails Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars The fairest and the best-faced enterprise. Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails: Justice, he sees, (as if seduced,) still Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold As are the passions of uncertain man; Who puts it in all colors, all attires, To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. He sees, that let deceit work what it can, Plot and contrive base -ways to high desires, That the all-guiding Providence doth yet All disappoint, and mock this smoke of wit. And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives, And is deceived; whilst man doth ransack man, And builds on blood, and rises by distress; And th' inheritance of desolation leaves To great-expecting hopes: he looks thereon As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, And bears no venture in impiety. Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared A rest for his desires; and sees all things Beneath him; and hath learn'd this book of man, Full of the notes of frailty; and compared The best of glory with her sufferings: By whom, I see, you labor all you can To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. Epistle to the Countess of Cumberlana. l Read-notices of Daniel in Headley's " Beauties of Ancient English Poetry;" in the Retrospectve Rev'iew viii. 227 and in Drakes Shakspeare, i. 611. 1 (03-1625.] DANIEL. 157 RICHARD THE SECOND, The Morning before his Murder in Pomfret Castle. Whether the soul receives intelligence, By her near genius, of the body's end, And so imparts a sadness to the sense, Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend; Or whether nature else hath conference With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, And gives tile heavy careful heart to fear: However, so it is, the now sad king, Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground; Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering; Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound; His senses droop, l.is steady eyes unquick, And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. The morning of that day which was his last, After a weary rest, rising to pain, Out at a little grate his eyes he cast Upon those bordering hills and open plain, Where others' liberty makes him complain The more his own, and grieves his soul the more, Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor. O happy man, saith he, that lo I see, Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields, If he but knew his good. How blessed he That feels not what affliction greatness yields! Other than what he is he would not be, Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. Thine, thine is that true life: that is to live To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none: And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, Who fall, who rise, wno triumph, who do moan. Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire Of my restraint, why here I live alone, And pitiest this my miserable fall; For pity must have part-envy not all. Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, And have no venture in the wreck you see; No interest, no occasion to deplore Other men's travels, while yourselves sit fiee. How much doth your sweet rest make us the more To see our misery and what we be: Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil. Third Book of the Civl Wart 14 168 FLETCHER. [JAMES T. GILES FLETCHER. 1588-1623 rHis truly pleasing Christian poet, the brother of Phineas Fletcher, who, ill the words of old Antony Wood, " was equally beloved of the Muses and Graces,' was born 1588. But very little is known of his life. He has, however, immortalized his name by that beautiful poem entitled, " Christ's Victory and Triumph in Heaven and Earth over and after Death:" a poem which displays great sweetness, united to harmony of numbers. Headley styles il "crich and picturesque," and CampbellI says, that "inferior as he is to Spen ser and Milton, he might be figured, in his happiest moments, as a link of connection in our poetry between those congenial spirits, for he rerninds us of both, and evidently gave hints to the latter, in a poem on the same subject with Paradise Regained." REDEMPTION. When I remember Christ our burden bears, I look for glory, but find misery; I look for joy, but find a sea of tears; I look that we should live, and find Him die; I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry: Thus what I look, I cannot find so well; Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell; These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell. Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin; Suffers for us-and our joy springs in this; Suffers to death-here is his manhood seen; Suffers to rise-and here his Godhead is; For man, that could not by himself have ris', Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise; And God, that could not die, in manhood dies, That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice. A tree was first the instrument of strife, Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute; A tree is now the instrument of life, Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit; Ah! cursed tree, and yet O blessed fruit!'hat death to Him, this life to us doth give: Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live. Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight, Yet in his honey-flowers our poison blew; Sad Gethseman, the bower of baleful night, Where Christ a health of poison for us drew, Yet all our honey in that poison grew: So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, And Christ from bitter venom could again Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain. A man was first the author of our fall, A Man is now the author of our rise; 1 Specimens, vol. ii. p. 306. 1603 —1625.] BACON. 159 A garden was the place we perish'd all, A garden is the place HIe pays our price: And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile: So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile. The dewy night had with her frosty shade Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made All for Himself, Himself dissolved found, Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound; Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, And thrice denied of those. not to deny had swore. FRANCIS BACON. 1561 —1626. Him for the studious shade Kind nature form'd, deep, comprehensive, clear, Exact, and elegant; in one rich soul, Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join'd, The great deliverer he I who, from the gloom Of cloistered monks and jargon-teaching schools, Led forth the true philosophy, there long Held in the magic chain of words and forms, And definitions void. Ttio~so!. FRAYCIS BAcoN, Viscount of St. Albans,' and lord high chancellor of Eng land, was born in London, January 22, 1561. He was the son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, lord keeper of the great seal. He entered Cambridge at the early age of thirteen, and after spending four years there, where he was distinguished for his zealous application to study, and for the extraordinary maturity of his understanding, he went abroad and travelled in France. But his father dying suddenly in 1579, and leaving but very little property, he hastily returned to England, and prosecuted the study of the law. He did not, however, neglect philosophy, for not far from this period he planned his great work, "The Instauration of the Sciences." In 1590 he obtained the post of counsel extraordinary to the queen, and three years after he had a seat in parliament from Middlesex. On the accession of James I. new honors awaited him. He was knighted in 1603. In 1607 he married Alice, daughter of Benedict Barnhaam, Esq., alderman of London, by whom he had a considerable fortune, but no children. In subsequent years he obtained successively the offices of king's counsel, solicitor general, and attorney general. In 1617 the king presented the great seal to him; in 1618 he obtained the title of lord high chancellor of England, and about six months afler the title of Baron of Verulam, which title gave place in the following year to that of Viscount of St. Albanls. But a "killing frost" was soon to nip these buds of honor: his fall and disgrace 1 This is a town in Hertfordshire, famous for the two battles fought in 1455 and 146'. between the two rival houses of York and Lancaster. It was anciently called Verulam, whence Bacon's subsequent title of honor, Baron Verulam. 160 BACON. [CHARLES I. were at hand. In 1621 a parliamentary inquiry was instituted into his conduct as judge, which ended in his condemnation and disgrace, for having receipved numerous presents or bribes from parties whose cases were brought before him for decision. He fully confessed to the twenty-three articles of fraud, deceit, real-practice, and corruption which were laid to his charge; and when waited on by a committee of the House of Lords, appointed to inquire whether the confession was subscribed by himself, he answered, " It is my hand, my act, my heart: I beseech your lordships to be merciful to a broken reed." He was finedl ~40,000; sent prisoner to the Tower; and declared incapable of any office or employment in the state. After a short confinement he was released, and in 1625 obtained a full pardon. He died on the 9th of April, 1626. The following are the most important works of this wonderful man: 1. His 1" Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral." They were published in 1596, so that Shakspeare, who lived twenty years after, and during which time wrote his best plays, had the benefit of their perusal: and what delight and what profit must such a genius as his have derived from them; for no book contains a greater fund of useful knowledge, or displays a more intimate acquaintance with humnan life and mlanners. "It may be read," says the great Scotch philosopher, Dugald Stewart, "froim beginning to end in a few hours, and yet, after the twentieth perusal, one seldom fails to remark in it something overlooked before." 2. " The Proficience and Advancement of Learning." This forms the first part of his great worlr afterwards published under the title of Instazratio Scientiarum, " The Reform in the Study of the Sciences." It is divided into two bookss: the first chiefly considers the objections to learning, and points out the many impediments to its progress: the second, the distribution of knowledge, which he divides into three parts. "The parts of human learning," says he, " have reference to the three parts of man's understanding, which is the seat of learning: History to his Memory, Poesy to his Imagination, and Philosophy to his Reason." He gives also a full genealogical table of know-, ledge, agreeably to this distribution. This is a work of vast learning. 3. His celebrated treatise " Of the Wisdom and Learning of the Ancients." The object of this is to show that all the allegories and fables of antiquity have some concealed meaning, which had never been sufficiently explained. In the interpretation of these ancient mysteries, he -has displayed his remarkable sagacity and penetration, besides interspersing throughout various important observations on collateral subjects. 4. The ITovum O-ga.num, or " New Instrument," or ("Method of Studying the Sciences." This is the great workl which has immortalized his namle, and placed him at the head of the philosophic world. The great Greek philosopher Aristotle called his philosophical work the "Organum." The "Method" which he adopted in scientific inquiries was rather to frame systems and lay down principles, and then to seek or malke things conform thereto. But Lord Bacon, in his " New Method," insists upon the duty of carefully ascertainin'g facts in the first place, and then reasoning upon them towards conclusions. "Man," hle says, " who is the servant and interpreter of nature, can act and understand no further than he has, either in operation or in contemplation, observed of the method and order of nature." And again, "Men have sought to make a world from their own conceptions, and to draw from their own minds all the materials which they employeld: hut if, inslead of doing so, bey had conlsulted experience and observation, they -would have 1Rtl facts 1625-1649.] BACON.o 161 and not opinions to reason about, and might ultimately have arrived at the knowledge of the laws which govern the material world." Thus Bacon established the method of InductionI as the only true key to the temple of knowledge, and has therefore been called the Father of the Inductive Philosophy. "4The power and compass," says Professor Playfair, "of a mind which could form such a plan beforehand, and trace not merely the outline. but many of the most minute ramifications of sciences which did not yet exist, must be an object of admiration to all succeeding ages." 2 Such is a brief and meagre view of the wonderful intellectual labors of this extraordinary man. He was not insensible of their value, for his last will contains this remlrkable passage: "My name and memory I leave to -ireign nations and to my own country after some time is passed over."3 DIVERSE OBJECTS OF MEN TO GAIN KNOWLEDGE. Men have entered into a desire of learning and knowledge sometimes upon a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite; sometimes to entertain their minds with variety and delight; sometimes for ornament and reputation; and sometimes to enable them to victory of wit and contradiction; and most times for lucre and profession; and seldom sincerely to give a true account of their gift of reason to the benefit and use of man. As if there were sought in knowledge a couch whereupon to rest a searching and restless spirit; or a terrace for a wandering and variable mind to walk up and down with a fair prospect; or a tower of state for a proud mind to raise itself upon; or a fort or commanding ground for strife and contention; or a shop for profit or sale; and not a rich store-house for the glory of the Creator, and the relief of man's estate. PRESERVATION OF KNOWLEDGE. As water, whether it be the dew of heaven or the springs of the earth, doth scatter and lose itself in the ground, except it be collected into some receptacle, where it may, by union, comfort and sustain itself; and, for that cause, the industry of man hath framed and made spring-heads, conduits, cisterns, and pools; which men have accustomed likewise to beautify and adorn with accomplishments of magnificence and state, as well as of use and 1 This is called the Inductive system, from the Latin inductio, "a leading up," from particular facts to general conclusions. 2 The best edition of Bacon is that by Basil Montagvu, 17 vols. 8vo, London. It has been reprinted here in three volumes. Read, particularly, a very able article in the " Edinburgh Review," by Me. caulay, July, 1837. Read, also, two in the "Retrospective," iii. 141, and iv. 280; also, an article in tile third vol. of D'Isl aeli's "Amenities of Literature;" another, in Hazlitt's "Age of Elizabetll;" and the work recently published in Dublin, entitled "Selections from Bacon," by Thos. W. Moffett. 3," Who is there, that, upon hearing the name of Lord Bacon, does not instantly recognise every thing of genius the most profound, every thing of literature the most extensive, every thing of discovery the most penetrating, every thing of observation on human life the most distinguislhing and refined."-Burke. L 14,1 162 BACON. [cHARLES I. necessity: so knowledge, whether it descend from divine inspiration or spring from human sense, would soon perish and vanish to oblivion, if it were not preserved in books, traditions, conferences, and places appointed, as universities, colleges, and schools for the receipt and comforting the same. PLEASURE OF KNOWLEDGE. The pleasure and delight of knowledge and learning far surpasseth all other in nature; for shall the pleasures of the affections so exceed the pleasures of the senses, as much as the obtaining of desire or victory exceedeth a song or a dinner; and must not, of consequence, the pleasures of the intellect or understanding exceed the pleasures of the affections? We see in all other plea: sures there is a satiety, and after they be used, their verdure. departeth; which showeth well they he but deceits of pleasure, and not pleasure, and that it was the novelty which pleased and not the quality; and therefore we see that voluptuous men turn friars, and ambitious princes turn melancholy; but of knowledge there is no satiety,l but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually. interchangeable; and therefore appeareth to be good, in itself simply, without fallacy or accident. THE USES OF KNOWLEDGE. Learning taketh away the wildness, and barbarism, and fierceness of men's minds: though a little superficial learning doth rather work a contrary effect. It taketh away all levity, temerity, and insolency, by copious suggestion of all doubts and difficulties, and acquainting the mind to balance reasons on both sides, and to turn back the first offers and conceits of the kind, and to accept of nothing but examined and tried. It taketh away vain admiration of any thing, which is the root of all weakness: for all things are admired, either because they are new, or because they are great. For novelty, no man wadeth in learning or contemplation thoroughly, but will find that printed in his heart, " I know nothing." Neither can any man marvel at the play of puppets, that goeth behind the curtain, and adviseth well of the motion. And for magnitude, as Alexander the Great, after that he was used to great armies, and the great conquests of the spacious provinces in Asia, when he received letters out of Greece, of some fights and services there, which were commonly for a passage, or a fort, or some walled town at the most, he said, L"It seemed to him, that he was advertised of the battle of the frogs and the mice, trl.t the old tales went of." So certainly, if a man meditate upol 1 A perpet[i.l fI east of nectar'd sweets, Where no Crude surfeit reigns.-Co.mus. 1625-1649.] BACON. 163 the universal frame of nature, the earth with men upon it, the divineness of souls excepted, will not seem much other than an ant-hill, where some ants carry corn, and some carry their young, and some go empty, and all to and fro a little heap of dust. It taketh away or mitigateth fear of death, or adverse fortune; which is one of the greatest impediments of virtue, and imperiections of manners. For if a man's mind be deeply seasoned with the consideration of the mortality and corruptible nature of things, he will easily concur with Epictetus, who went forth one day, and saw a woman weeping for her pitcher of earth that was broken; and -went forth the next day, and saw a woman weeping for her son that was dead; and thereupon said, "Yesterday I saw afragile thing broken, to-day I hlave seen a mortal thing die." And therefore Virgil did excellently and profoundly couple the knowledge of causes, and the conquest of all fears together. It were too long to go over the particular remedies which learning doth minister to all the diseases of the mind, sometimes purging the ill humors, sometimes opening the obstructions, sometimes helping the digestion, sometimes increasing appetite, sometimes healing the wounds and exulcerations thereof, and the like; and therefore I will conclude with the chief reason of all, which is, that it disposeth the constitution of the mind not to be fixed or settled in the defects thereof, but still to be capable and susceptible of reformation. For the unlearned man knows not what it is to descend into himself, or to call himself to account; nor the pleasure of that most pleasant life, which consists in our daily feeling ourselves to become better. The good parts he hath, he will learn to show to the full, and use them dexterously, but not much to increase them: the faults he hath, he will learn how to hide and color them, but not much to amend them: like an ill mower, that mows on still and never whets his scythe. Whereas, with the learned man it fares otherwise, that he doth ever intermix the correction and amendment of his mind with the use and employment thereof. STUDIES. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and nmarshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience —for natural abilities are like natural 164 BACON. [CHARLES I. plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and, therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. T.IE END OF KNOWLEDGE. It is an assured truth, and a conclusion of experience, that a little or superficial knowledge of philosophy may incline the mind of man to atheism; but a further proceeding therein doth bring the mind back again to religion: for in the entrance of philosophy, when the second causes, which are next unto the senses, do offer themselves to the mind of man, if it dwell and stay there, it may induce some oblivion of the highest cause; but when a man passeth on farther, and seeth the dependence of causes, and the works of Providence, then, according to the allegory of the poets, he will easily believe that the highest link of nature's chain must needs be tied to the foot of Jupiter's chair. To conclude, therefore, let no man, upon a weak conceit of sobriety, or an ill-applied moderation, think or maintain, that a man can search too far, or be too well studied in the Book of God's word, or in the Book of God's works; divinity or philosophy; but rather let men endeavor an endless progress, or proficiency in both: only let men beware that they apply both to charity, and not to swelling; to use, and not to ostentation; and again, that they do not unwisely mingle, or confound these learnings together. THE IMMORTALITY OF LITERARY FAME. Let us conclude with the dignity and excellency of knowledge and learning -in that whereunto man's nature doth most aspire, which is immortality or continuance: for to this tendeth genera 1.625-1646.] DONNE. 165 tion, and raising of houses and families; to this tendeth buildings, foundations, and monuments; to this tendeth the desire of memory, fame, and celebration, and in effect the strength of all other humane desires: we see then how far the monuments of wit and learning are more durable than the monuments of power or of the hands. For, have not the verses of Homer continued twentyfive hundred years and more, without the loss of a syllable or letter; during which time infinite palaces, temples, castles, cities, have been decayed and demolished? It is not possible to have the true pictures or statues of Cyrus, Alexander, Caesar, no, nor of the kings or great personages of much later years. For the originals cannot last: and the copies cannot but lose of the life and truth. But the images of men's wits and knowledge remain in books, exempted from the wrong of time, and capable of perpetual renovation. Neither are they fitly to be called images, because they generate still, and cast their seeds in the minds of others, provoking and causing infinite actions and opinions in succeeding ages. So that, if the invention of the ship was thought so noble, which carrieth riches and commodities from place to place, and consociateth the most remote regions in participation of their fruits, how much more are letters to be magnified, which, as ships, pass through the vast seas of time, and make ages so distant to participate of the wisdom, illuminations, and inventions the one of the other? JOHN DONNE. 1573-1631. JOuHN DoNxr,, D. D., though during his life most popular as a poet, is now chiefly valued for his prose writings. He was born in London, in 1573, of Romnan Catholic parents, but after completing his studies at Oxford, he ermbraced Protestantism, and became secretary to lord chancellor Ellesmere. Falling in love with the chancellor's niece, he married her privately, for which he was dismissed from his office, and even imprisoned. HIe was soon released from his confinement, and having " taken orders," the king (James I.) made himt one of his chaplains, at whose request, also, he was presented with the degree of D. D. by the University of Cambridge. Subsequently, he became preacher of Lincoln's Inn, and received several other church honors, and died March, 1631. Donne's poems consist of elegies, satires, letters, epigrams, divine poems, and miscellaneous pieces, and procured for him among his contemporaries an extraordinary share of reputation, but now he is almost entirely forgotten. Either extreme does him injustice. Though he has not much harmony of versification, and but little simplicity and naturalness in thought anic expression, yet he exhibits much erudition, united to an exuberance of wit, and to a farlcy, rich, vivid, and picturesque, though, at the same time, it must be confessed, not a little fantastical. Dr. Jolhnson, in his life of Cowley, considers himl as the founder of the metaphlysical school of poets; rleaning, theelry, tile 166 DONNE. [CHARLES I. faculty of wittily associating the most widely discordant images, and presenting ideas under the most remote and fanciful aspects. His prose writings consist chiefly of sermons, which, though they have some of the faults of his poetry, are full of rich, condensed, and vigorous thought, and, what is far better, show the author to be an eminently holy man. As a preacher, old Izaak Walton says of him, c "he is, in earnest, weeping sometimes for his audience, sometimes with them; always preaching to himself, like an angel from a cloud, but in none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to heaven, in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and courtship to amend their lives; here picturing a vice so as to make it ugly to those that practised it; and a virtue so as to make it beloved by those that loved it not; and all this with a most particular grace, and an inexpressible addition of comeliness." l The following presents a very fair specimen of his poetry: indeed, it is more simple and natural than the greater part of it. The simile of the colllpasscs, whatever may be thought of its beauty or fitness, is certainly original. THE FAREWELL. As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go; Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now-and some say, no; So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, IMen reckon what it did, and meant: But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull, sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which alimented it. But we're by love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is; Inter-assured of the mind, Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, (which are one,) Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. I Read-Johnson's "Life of Cowley;" also, an article in the "Retrospective Review," viii. 31, which gives to his poetry higher praise than we think it deserves; also, some remarks in. "Drake's Shakspeare," i. 615; and above all, Izaak Walton's "Life." A selection from his prose works was published at Oxford, 1840, in one small volumine. 1625-1649.] DONNE. 167 And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circles just, And makes me end where I begun. But we turn with more pleasure to his proseTHE PSALMS. The Psalms are the manna of the church. As manna tasted to every man like that he liked best, so do the Psalms minister instruction and satisfaction to every man, in every emergency and occasion. David was not only a clear prophet of Christ himself, but a prophet of every particular Christian; he foretells what I, what any shall do, and suffer, and say. And as the whole Book of Psalms is (as the spouse speaks of the name of Christ) an ointment poured out upon all sorts of sores, a cerecloth that supples all bruises, a balm that searches all wounds; so are there some certain Psalms that are imperial Psalms, that command over all affections, and spread themselves over all occasions, catholic, universal Psalms, that apply themselves to all necessities. ALL CHRISTIANS ARE TO PREACH BY EXAMPLE. If you be a holy people, you are also a royalpriesthood; if you be all God's saints, you are all God's priests; and if you be his priests, it is your office to preach too; as we by words, you by your holy works; as we by contemplation, you by conversation; as we by our doctrine, so you by your lives, are appointed by God to preach to one another: and therefore every particular man must wash his own feet, look that he have speciosos pedes,l that his example may preach to others, for this is truly a regal priest. hood, not to work upon others by words, but by actions. If we love one another as Christ loved us, we must zoash one another's feet, as he commanded his apostles; there is a priestly duty lies upon every man, brotherly to reprehend a brother whom he sees trampling in foul ways, wallowing in foul sins. GOD MAY BE WORSHIPPED ANYWHERE. It is true, God may be devoutly worshipped anywhere; in all places of his dominion, my soul shall praise the Lord, says David. It is not only a concurring of men, a meeting of so many bodies that makes a church; if thy soul and body be met together. an 1 Pure feet. 168 DONNE. [CHARLES 1. humble preparation of the mind, and a reverent disposition of the body; if thy knees be bent to the earth, thy hands and eyes lifted up to heaven; if thy tongue pray, and praise, and thine ears hearken to his answer; if all thy senses, and powers, and faculties be met with one unanime purpose to worship thy God, thou art, to this intendment, a church, thou art a congregation; here are two or three met together in his name, and he is in the midst of them, though thou be alone in thy chamber. The church of God should be built upon a rock, and yet Job had his church upon a dunghill; the church is to be placed upon the top of a hill, and. yet the prophet Jeremy had his church in a miry dungeon; constancy and settledness belong to the church, and yet Jonah had his church in the whale's belly; the lion that roars, and seeks whom he may devour, is an enemy to this church, and yet Daniel had his church in the lion's den; the waters of rest in the Psalm were a figure of the church, and yet the three children had their church in the fiery furnace; liberty and life appertain to the church, and yet Peter and Paul had their church in prison, and the thief had his church upon the cross. Every particular man is himself a temple of the Holy Ghost; yea, destroy this body by death and corruption in the grave, and yet there shall be a renewing, a re-edifying of all those temples, in the general resurrection: when we shall rise again, not only as so many Christians, but as so many Christian churches, to glorify the apostle and high-priest of our profession, Christ Jesus, in that eternal Sabbath. Every person, every place is fit to glorify God in. THE GREATEST CROSS IS TO HAVE NO CROSS. There cannot be so great a cross as to have none. I lack one 1,if of that daily bread that I pray for, if I have no cross; for dictions are our spiritual nourishment: I lack one limb of that,ody I must grow into, which is the body of Christ Jesus, if I have no crosses; for, my conformity to Christ (and that is my being made up into his body) must be accomplished in my fulfilling his sufferings in his flesh. ANGER. Anger is not always a defect, nor an inordinateness in man; Be angry, and sin not: anger is not utterly to be rooted out of our ground and cast away, but transplanted; a gardener does well to grub up thorns in his garden; there they would hinder good herbs from growing: but he does well to plant those thorns in his hedges; there they keep bad neighbors from entering. In many cases, where there is no anger, there is not much zeal. 1625-1649.3 DRAYTON. 169 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 1563 —1631. TaHIs very voluminous and once popular writer has sunJk into an oblivion which he does not deserve. His poems are mostly of an historical and topographical character. Such is his great work, his " Poly-Olbion," 1 a work of stupendous labor and accurate information, on which he rested his hopes of immortality. It is a very singular poem, and certainly entirely original in its plan, describing the woods, mountains, valleys, and rivers of England with all their associations, traditional, histcrical, and antiquarian. That ccit possesses many beauties which are poetically great, and is full of delineations which are graphically correct," is no doubt true; but, after all, it is a poem that will always be consulted rather for the information it conveys, than for the pleasure it produces. His other historical poems are his "Barons Warres," being an account of" The lamentable Civil Warres of Edward the Second and the Barons;" his " Legends;" his " Battle of Agincourt;" and. "England's Heroical Epistles." But it is for his pastoral and miscellaneous poems that Drayton will continue to be known and valued. Some of these possess beauties of the highest order. Such, for instance, is the fairy poem called Nymphidia, than which a more exquisite creation of the fancy can hardly be found; and it has been well remarked, that " had he written nothing else he would deserve immortality." His "i Shepherd's Garland " is a pastoral poem, first published under this title, but afterwards revised and reprinted under the name of Eclogues. His other miscellaneous poems consist of odes, elegies, sonnets, religious effusions, &c Drayton died December 23, 1631, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.2 CHORUS OF THE BIRDS. When Phcebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, No sooner does the earth her flowery bosom brave, At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, But "hunt's-up" to the morn the feather'd sylvans sing: And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll, Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole Those quiristers are perched, with many a speckled breast, Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glittering East Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl to please the morning's sight: On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere. The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he song T' awake the lustless sun; or chiding that so long He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill; The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill; As nature him had markt of purpose to let see That from all other birds his tunes should different be, 1 From the Greek roXXa (polla), 11 many things;" that is, many things about Albion, or England. 2 Read-a notice of Drayton in Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times;" another, in the third volume of D'Israeli's "Amenities of Literature;" and another, in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative Biography." 15 170 DRAYTON. [CHARIES I. For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May: Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play; When, in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply, As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw. To Philomel, the next the linnet we prefer; And by that warbling bird the wood-lark place we then, The red-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast, and the wren. The yellow pate; which, though she hurt the blooming t ec, Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. The tydy from her notes as delicate as they, The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay; The softer with the shrill, (some hid among the leaves, Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves,) Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. Poly-iltion THE PARTING. Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows; And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. PALACE OF THE FAIRIES: QUEEN MAB S CHARIOT AND JOURNEY This palace standeth in the air, By necromancy placed there, That it no tempest needs to fear, Which way soe'er it blow it: And somewhat southward -toward the noon, Whence lies a way up to the moon, And thence the Fairy can as soon Pass to the earth below it. The walls of spiders' legs are made, Well morticed and finely laid, He was the master of his trade It curiously that builded; The windows of the eyes of cats, And for the roof, instead of slats, Is cover'd with the skins of bats, With moonshine that are g-ilded. 7.625-1649.] DRAYTON. 171 -- Tle queen her maids dothl call, And bids thern to be ready all, She would go see her summer hall, She could no longer tarry. Her chariot ready straight is made, Each thing therein is fitting laid, That she by nothing might be stay'd, For nought must her be letting: Four nimble gnats the horses were, The harnesses of gossamler, Fly Cranion, her charioteer, Upon the coach-box getting. Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, Which for the colors did excel; The fair queen Mab becoming well, So lively was the ]imning: The seat the soft wool of the bee, The cover (gallantly to see) The wing of a py'd butterflee, 1 trow,'twas simple trimming. The wheels composed of crickets' bones, And daintily made for the nonce, For fear of rattling on the stones, With thistle-down they shod it: For all her maidens much did fear, If Oberon had chanc'd to hear, That Mab his queen should have been thert, He would not have abode it. She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay for no advice, Until her maids, that were so nice, To wait on her were fitted, But ran herself away alone; Which when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted. Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were To Mab their sovereign dear, Her special maids of honor; Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin, Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, The train that wait upon her. Upon a grasshopper they got, And what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not, But after her they hie them. A cobweb over thel they they throw, To shield the wind if it should blow, Themselves they wisely could bestow, Lest any should espy them. iFreom the NyrphidUo 172 JONSON. [CHARLES I BEN JONSON. 1574-1637. BENJAMIN JoNson, or Ben Jonson, as he signed his own name, was the son of a clergyman in Westminster, and born in 1574, about a month after his father's death. He was educated at Westminster, but his mother, having taken a bricklayer for her second husband, removed him from school, where he had made extraordinary progress, to work under his step-father. Disgusted with this occupation, he escaped, enlisted in the army, and went to the Netherlands. On his return to England, he entered Cambridge; but the failure of pecuniary resources obliging him to quit the university, he applied to the theatre for employment. Though at first his station was a low one, he soon, by his own industry and talent, rose to distinction, and gained great celebrity as a dramatic writer. His works altogether consist of about fifty-four dramatic pieces,' but by far the greater part of them are masques and interludes, for which his genius seemed better fitted, being too destitute of passion and sentiment for the regular drama. "His tragedies," says a britic, ", seem to bear about the same resemblance to Shakspeare's, that sculpture does to actual life."2 There are, however, interspersed throughout his works, many lyrical pieces that have peculiar neatness and beauty of diction, and will bear a comparison with any in our language. Of these, the following may be taken as specimens:CUPID. Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called love! a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kindc? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus' runll-away. He hath of marks about himn plenty, You shall know him among twenty: All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. I The four best comedies of Jonson are, "Every Man in his Humor," "The Silent Woman," "Volpone or The Fox," and the " Alchemist." Two of his best tragedies are entitled, "Catiline," and " The Fall of Sejanus." 2 1" Many were the wit-combats betwixt Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, which two I beheld like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of at wrinds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." —-'Fuier's Worthiis. 1625-1649.] JoCNSON. 17 Trust him not: his words, though sweet Seldom with his heart do fmeet' All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait: Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears. If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show hinm. Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him. Since ye hear his falser play, And that he's Venus' run-away. HYMIN TO CYNTHIA. Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did chose Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess, excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying heart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess, excellently bright. Lfo pfincvtul, prose composition of Ben Jonson is a small tract entitled Discobeltus,,t Observations on Poetry and Eloquence." It displays his Jlidglment alrt, classical learning to great advantage, and the style is unusually close, precise, and pure. DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING WELL.1 For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries:to read the best authors; observe the best speakers; and much exercise of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to be written, and after what manner; he must first think, and excogitate his matter; then choose his words, and examine the weight of' either. Then take care in placing and ranking both matter and words, that the composition be comely; and to do this with diligence and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be labored and accurate; seek the best, and be not glad of the forward conceits, or first words that offer themselves to us, but 1 "Ben Jonson's directions for writing well should be indelibly impressed upon the mind of every student."-Drakce's Essays. 174 JONSON [CHARLES TL judge of what we invent, and order what we approve.,Repeat often what we have formerly written; which, besides that:t helps the consequence, and makes the juncture better, quickens the heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of sitting down, and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back. As we see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest. that fetch their race largest; or, as in throwing a dart or javelin, we force back our arms, to make our loose the stronger. Yet if we have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the steering out of our sail, so the favor of the gale deceive us not. For all that we invent doth please us in the conception or birth; else we would never set it down. But the safest is to return to our judgment, and handle over again those things, the easiness of which might make them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their beginnings. They imposed upon themselves care and industry. They did nothing rashly. They obtained first to write well, and then custom made it easy and a habit. By little and little, their matter showed itself to them more plentifully; their words answered, their composition followed; and all, as in a well-ordered family, presented itself in the place. So that the sum of all is, ready writing makes not good writing; but good writing brings on ready writing. CHARACTER OF LORD BACON. One, though he be excellent, and the chief, is not to be imitated alone; for no imitator ever grew up to his author; likeness is always on this side truth. Yet there happened in my time one noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language (where he could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censorious. No man ever spake more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough, or look aside from him, without loss. He commanded where he spoke; and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their af' fections more in his power. The fear of every man that heard him was, lest he should make an end. My conceit of his person was never increased toward him by his place or honors, but I have and do reverence him for the greatBess that was only proper to himself, in that he seemed to me ever, by his work, one of the greatest men, and most worthy of admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that God would give him strength; for greatness he could not want. Neither could I condole in a word or syllable for him, as knowing no accident could do harm to virtue, but rather help to make it manifest. 1625-1649. ] HERBERT. 175 GEORGE HERBERT. 1593-1633. GEORGE HE:RBERT, a most pious and learned divine of the Church of England, is the author of the "Country Parson, his Character and Rule of Holy Life," and also of "Sacred Poems, and Private Ejaculations." We cannot give the object of the former better than in his own words:- " I have resolved to set down the form and character of a true pastor, that I may have a mark to aim at, which also I will set as high as I can, since he shoots higher that threatens the moon, than he that aims at a tree. Not that I think, if a man do not all which is here expressed, he presently sins, and displeases God; but that it is a good strife to go as far as we can in pleasing Him, who hath done so much for us." The work consists of thirty-seven chapters, treating of so many different duties of the " Pastor." The last chapter is CONCERNING DETRACTION. The Country Parson-perceiving that most, when they are at leisure, make others' faults their entertainment and discourse; and that even some good men think, so they speak truth, they may disclose another's fault-finds it somewhat difficult how to proceed in this point. For if he absolutely shut up men's mouths, and forbid all disclosing of faults, many an evil may not only be, but also spread in his parish, without any remedy, (which cannot be applied without notice,) to the dishonor of God, and the infection of his flock, and the discomfort, discredit, and hinderance of the pastor. On the other side, if it be unlawful to open faults, no benefit or advantage can make it lawful; for we must not do evil that good may comne of it. Now the Parson, taking this point to task, (which is so exceeding useful, and hath taken so deep root that it seems the very life and substance of conversation,) hath proceeded thus far in the discussing of it. Faults are either notorious or private. Again, notorious faults are either such as are made known by common fame; and of these those that know them may talk, so they do it not with sport, but commiseration: —or else, such as have passed judgment, and been corrected either by whipping, imprisoning, or the like. Of these also men may talk; and more, they may discover them to those that knew them not: because infamy is a part of the sentence against malefactors, which the law intends, as is evident by those which are branded for rogues that they may be known, or put into the stocks that they may be looked upon. But some may say, though the law allow this, the gospel doth not: which hath so much advanced charity, and ranked backbiters among the generation of the wicked. But this is easily answered. As the executioner is not uncharitable that takes away the life of the cori demned, except, besides his office, he adds a tincture of private malice in the joy and haste of acting his part; so neither is he 1,76 HERBERT. [CIIARLES i. that defames him whom the law would have defamed, except he also do it out of rancor. For, in infamy, all are executioners; and the law gives a malefactor to all to be defamed. And, as malefactors may lose and forfeit their goods or life; so may they their good name, and the possession thereof, which, before their offence and judgment, they had in all men's breasts. For all are honest, till the contrary be proved.-Besides, it concerns the commonwealth that rogues should be known; and charity to the public hath the precedence of private charity. So that it is so far from being a fault to discover such offenders, that it is a duty rather; which may do much good, and save much harm. —Nevertheless, if the punished delinquent shall be much troubled for his sins, and turn quite another man, doubtless then also men's affections and words must turn, and forbear to speak of that which even God himself hath forgotten. As a poet, Herbert ranks amoong the metaphysical class, belonging to the same school with John Donne. His poems are generally of a serious charac. ter, relating either to the grave realities of this life, or the momentous con. cerns of another. Most of them, however, are so quaint, so filled with farfetched images and illustrations, and are so recondite in their meaning, that they cannot be read with much pleasure. The following are two of his best piece,:1SUNDAY. 0 day most calm, most bright! The fruit of this, the next world's bud; Th' endorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light;Thy torch doth show the way. Tl'he other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The worky days are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone To endless death. But thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on one. Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone, The which he doth not fill. 1 ltReud-Willmott's " Lives of the English Sacred Poets," which contains well-written nottces ot Davies, Sanays, Wither, Giles Fletcher, Quarles, Crashaw, Milton, Watts, Young, Blair, Cowper, Axd others, 1625-1649.] CAREW. 177 Sundays the pillars are On which heaven's palace arched lies: The other clays fill up the spare And hollow rooml with vanities. They are the fruitful bed and borders In God's rich garden; that is bare, Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal, glorious King. On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife; More plentiful than hope. Thou art a day of mirth: And, where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth. Oh, let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven; Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven! THE BOSOM SIN.I Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! Parents first season us; then schoolmasters Deliver to us laws; they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers, Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, The sound of glory ringing in our ears; Without, our shamne; within, our consciences; Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears: Yet all these fences and their whole array One cunning bosom sin blows quite away. THOMAS CAREW. 1589-1639. OF the personal history of Thomas Carew we have not many partlculars He was educated at Oxford, and, after travelling abroad, was received with great favor at the court of Charles I. for his elegant mlanners and personal accomplishmnents. All his poems are short and occasional, and were exceedingly popular at the time.'" Sprightly, polished, and perspicuous," says Headley, " every part of his works displays the man of sense, gallantry, ant 1 ", This sonnet is equally admirable for the weight, number, and expression of the thoughts, andl for the simple dignity of the language; unless, indeed, a fastidious taste should object to the latter half of the sixth line."- Coleridge. M 17T CAREW. [CHARLES I. breeding. He has the ease, without the pedantry of Waller, and perhaps less conceit:" and Campbell remarks that "his poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder muse." It is deeply to be regretted that he should have employed such talents upon subjects generally so trivial, when he might have shone in the higher walks of poetry, and built for himself a wide-spread fame. EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. The Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone: With weeping eyes The parents that first gave her birth, And their sad friends, laid her in earth: If any of them (reader) were Known unto thee, shed a tear: Or if thyself possess a gem, As dear to thee, as this to them; Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs, thine own hard case; For thou perhaps at thy return Mayst find thy darling in an urn. PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You your wiser thoughts forsake; For that lovely face will fail; Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;'Tis sooner past,'tis sooner done, Than summer's rain, or winter's suit: Most fleeting when it is most dear;'Tis gone, while we but say'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye, which now is Cupid's nest, Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheelr, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose. And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done, They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. PLEASURE. Bewitching siren! gilded rottenness! Thou hast with cunning artifice display'd Th' enamell'd outside, and the honied verge Of the fair cup where deadly poison lurks. Within, a thousand sorrows dance the round; And, like a shell, pain circles thee without. 1625-1649.] MARKHAM. 179 Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps, Which, as thy joys'gin towards their west decline, Doth to a giant's spreading form extend Thy dwarfish stature. Thoi thyself art pain, Greedy intense desire; and the keen edge Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee, And cuts thy slender thread; but still the terror And apprehension of thy hasty end. Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets: Yet thy Circean charms transform the world. Captains that have resisted war and death, Nations that over fortune have triumph'd, Are by thy magic made effeminate: Empires, that knew no limits but the poles, Have in thy wanton lap melted away. Thou wert the author of the first excess That drew this reformation on the gods; Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven Banish'd th' effect, will there enthrone the cause To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence; There dwell, for ever drown'd in brutish sense. GERVASE MARKHAM. GERVASE:MARKIHAM was a very voluminous writer in the reigns of Eliza beth, James I., and Charles I., but neither the period of his birth nor his death has been ascertained. He commenced author about the year 1592, and lived to a good old age, dying in the latter part of the reign of Charles I. His education had been very liberal, for he was esteemed a good classical scholar, and was well versed in the French, Italian, and Spanish languages. He seems to have been a general compiler for the booksellers, writing upon almost every subject. His popularity in his day was unrivalled, many of his works reaching numerous editions.l The following excellent remarks are fiom his work on Housewifery:2 THE GOOD HOUSEWIFE. Next unto her sanctity and holiness of life, it is meet that oui English housewife be a woman of great modesty and temperance, as well inwardly as outwardly; inwardly, as in her behavior and carriage towards her husband, wherein she shall shun all violence of rage, passion, and humor, coveting'less to direct than to 1 See a list of his works in Lowndes's "Bibliography," iii. 1211, and in Drake's "Shakspeare," I. 506: also in the " Censura Literaria," v. 105-117. 2 I must give the title as a curiosity: " The English House-Wife, containing the inward and outward virtues which ought to be in a compleat woman. As her skill in physick, chirurgery, cookery extraction of oyls, banqueting-stuff, ordering of great feasts, preserving of all sorts of wines, conceited secrets, distillations, perfumes, ordering of wool, hemp, flax; making cloth and dying, the knowledge of dayries, office of malting, of oats, their excellent rrules in families; of brewing, baking, and all other things belonging to an household. A'work generally approved, and now the eighth time much augmented, purged, and made most profitable and necessary for all men, and the general good of this nation. By CG. Markhain." 180 SANDYS. [CHARLES r. be directed, appearing ever unto him pleasant, amiable, and delightful; and, though occasion of mishaps or the misgovernment of his will may induce her to contrary thoughts, yet virtuously to suppress them, and with a mild sufferance rather to call him home from his error, than with the strength of anger to abate the least spark of his evil; calling into her mind, that evil and uncomely language is deformed, though uttered even to servants; but most monstrous and ugly, when it appears before the presence of a husband: outwardly, as in her apparel and diet, both which she shall proportion according to the competency of her husband's estate and calling, making her circle rather strait than large: for it is a rule, if we extend to the uttermost, we take away increase; If we go a hair's breadth beyond, we enter into consumption; but if we preserve any part, we build strong forts against the adversaries of fortune, provided that such preservation be honest and conscionable. To conclude, our English housewife must be of chaste thoughts, stout courage, patient, untired, watchful, diligent, witty, pleasant, constant in friendship, full of good neighborhood, wise in discourse, but not frequent therein, sharp and quick of speech, but not bitter or talkative, secret in her affairs, comfortable in her counsels, and generally skilful in the worthy knowledges which do belong to her vocation. GEORGE SANDYS. 1587-1643. Tais eminent sacred poet, the son of Archbishop Sandys, was born in 1587, and in his eleventh year he entered St. Mary's Hall, Oxford. He spent many years in travelling in the East, visiting Asia Minor, Palestine, Persia, Egypt, &c.; and notwithstanding the labors of more recent travellers, his works still have a high reputation, and are still referred to as of the first authenticity and credit. To an ardent spirit of curiosity and research, he united a pure and discriminating taste, and a spirit of true piety. He died in 1643.1 The principal poetical work of Sandys is a translation of the Psalms of David, incomparably the most poetical in the English language, but yet, at the present day, scarcely known. THE LAMENTATION OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN. Thy beauty, Israel, is fled, Sunk to the dead; How are the valiant fallen! the slain Thy mountains stain. Oh! let it not in Gath be known, Nor in the streets of Ashkelon. I See Sir Egerton Brydges's " Censura Literaria," iv. 420, and x. 394. T 025-1649.] SANDYS. 181 Lest that sad story should excite Their dire delight! Lest in the torrent of our woe, Their pleasure flow: Lest their triumphant daughters ring Their cymbals, and their paeans sing. Yon hills of Gilboa, never may You offerings pay; No morning dew, nor fruitful showers, Clothe you with flowers: Saul and his arms there made a spoil, As if untouch'd with sacred oil. The bow of noble Jonathan Great battles won; His arrows on the mighty fed, With slaughter red. Saul never raised his arm in vain, His sword still glutted with the slain. How lovely! 0 how pleasant! when They lived with men! Than eagles swifter; stronger far Than lions are: Whom love in life so strongly tied, The stroke of death could not divide. Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul; Lament his fall, Who fed you with the earth's increase, And crown'd with peace; With robes of Tyrian purple deck'd, And gems which sparkling light reflect. How are thy worthies by the sword Of war devour'd! 0 Jonathan! the better part Of my torn heart! The savage rocks have drunk thy blood: My brother! 0 how kind! how good! Thy love was great; 0 never more To man, man bore! No woman, when most passionate, Loved at that rate! How are the mighty fallen in fight! They and their glory set in night! The following is a part of his preface to his travels, admirable alike for the beauty and piety of its spirit, and for the vigor of its styleTIE FALL OF ANCIENT EMPIRES. The parts I speak of are the most renowned countries and kingdoms: once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires; the theatres of valor and heroical actions; the soils enriched with all earthly felicities; the places where nature hath produced her I ~ 182 CHILLINGWORTII. [CHARLES Iwonderful works; where arts and sciences have been invented, and perfected; where wisdom, virtue, policy, and civility have been planted, have flourished: and, lastly, where Gori himself did place his own commonwealth, gave laws and oracles, inspired his prophets, sent angels to converse with men; above all, where the Son of God descended to become man; where he honored the earth with his beautiful steps, wrought the work of our redemption, triumphed over death, and ascended into glory. Which countries, once so glorious and famous for their happy estate, are now, through vice and ingratitude, become the most deplored spectacles of extreme misery. They remain waste and overgrown with bushes, receptacles of wild beasts, of thieves and murderers; large territories dispeopled, or thinly inhabited; goodly cities made desolate; sumptuous buildings become ruins, glorious temples either subverted or prostituted to impiety; true religion discountenanced and oppressed; all nobility extinguished; no light of learning permitted, nor virtue cherished; violence and rapine insulting over all, and leaving no security save to an abject mind and unlooked-on poverty; which calamities of theirs, so great and deserved, are to the rest of the world as threatening instructions. For assistance wherein, I have not only related what I saw of their present condition; but, so far as convenience might permit, presented a brief view of the former estates and first antiquities of those people and countries: thence to draw a right image of the frailty of man, the mutability of whatsoever is worldly; and assurance that as there is nothing unchangeable saving God, so nothing stable but by his grace and protection WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH. 1602-1644. ONE of the most distinguished divines of the church of England, and one of the ablest opposers of the doctrines of the church of Rome, is William Chillingworth. He was born in Oxford, in 1602, and studied there. Soon after taking his degree, a Jesuit, by the name of Fisher, argued him into a belief of the doctrines of Popery, and he consequently went to the Jesuits' college at Douay, and there studied for some time. But his friends induced him to return to Oxford, where, after additional study of the points of difference between the Papists and Protestants, he was convinced of his error, and in his great work, soon after published, entitled c" The Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to Salvation," showed himself to be one of the most able defenders of the Protestant church that England ever produced. In it, he maintains that the Scriptures are the only rule of faith and practice, and the only rule to which appeals ought to be made in theological controversies. These points he proves conclusively, and the work has ever been considered as a model o4f perspicuous reasoning. Locke, in one of his works, after setting forth the great importance of per 1625-1649.] CHILLINGWORTH. 183 spicuity in the art of speaking, says, " There must also be right reasolniug, without which perspicuity serves but to expose the speaker. And for attaining this end, I should propose the constant reading of Chillingworth, who by his example, will both teach perspicuity and the way of right reasoring, better than any work I know." And Gibbon, the historian, alluding to our author, on his recantation from popery, says, "His new creed was built on the principle, that the Bible is our sole judge, and private reason our sole interpreter; and he most ably maintains this position in the' Religion of a Protestant,' a book which is still esteemed the most solid defence of the Reformation." THE NECESSITY OF AN UNADULTERATED SCRIPTURE. He that would usurp an absolute lordship and tyranny over any people, need not put himself to the trouble and difficulty of abrogating and disannulling the laws, made to maintain the common liberty; for he may frustrate their intent, and compass his own designs as well, if he can get the power and authority to interpret them as he pleases, and add to them what he pleases, and to have his interpretations and additions stand for laws: if he can rule his people by his laws, and his laws by his lawyers. So the church of Rome, to establish her tyranny over men's consciences, needed not either to abolish or corrupt the Holy Scriptures, the pillars and supporters of Christian liberty: but the more expedite way, and therefore more likely to be successful, was, to gain the opinion and esteem of the public and authorized interpreter of them, and the authority of adding to them what doctrine she pleased, under the title of traditions or definitions. The matter being once thus ordered, and the Holy Scriptures being made in effect not your directors and judges, (no farther than you please,) but your servants and instruments, always pressed and in readiness to advance your designs, and disabled wholly with minds so qualified to prejudice or impeach them; it is safe for you to put a crown on their head, and a reed in their hands, and to bow before them, and ly, ", Hail, King of the Jews!" to pretend a great deal of esteem, and respect, and reverence to them, as here you do. But to little purpose is verbal reverence without entire submission and sincere obedience; and, as our Saviour said of some, so the scripture, could it speak, I believe would say to you, 1" Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not that which I command you?" Cast away the vain and arrogant pretence of infallibility, which makes your errors incurable. Leave picturing God, and worshipping him by pictures. " Teach not for doctrine the commandments of men." Debar not the laity of the testament of Christ's blood. Let your public prayers, and psalms, and hymns, be in such language as is for the edification of the assistants. Take not from the clergy that liberty of marriage which Christ hath left them. Do not irnpose upon men that hum'lity of worshipping angels which St 184 OHILLINGWORTH. [CHARLES I. P'aul condemns. Teach no more proper sacrifices of Christ but one. Acknowledge them that die in Christ to be blessed, and A" to rest from their labors." Acknowledge the sacrament after consecration to be bread and wine, as well as Christ's body and blood. Let not the weapons of your warfare be carnal, such as are massacres, treasons, persecutions, and, in a word, all means either violent or fraudulent: these and other things, which the scripture commands you, do, and then we shall willingly give you such testinony as you deserve; but till you do so, to talk of estimation, respect, and reverence to the scripture, is nothing else but talk. SCRIPTURE ALONE THE RULE OF FAITH. This presumptuous imposing of the senses of men upon the words of God, the special senses of men upon the general words of God, and laying them upon men's consciences together, under the equal penalty of death and damnation; this vain conceit that we can speak of the things of God better than in the words of God: this deifying our own interpretations, and tyrannous enforcing them upon others: this restraining of the word of God from that latitude and generality, and the understandings of men from that liberty, wherein Christ and the apostles left them, is, and hath been, the only fountain of all the schisms of the church, and that which makes them immortal; the common incendiary of Christendom, and that which (as I said before) tears into pieces, not the coat, but the bowels and members of Christ. Take away these walls of separation, and all will quickly be one. Take away this persecuting, burning, cursing, damning of men for not subscribing to the words of men, as the words of God; require of Christians only to believe Christ, and to call no nlan master but him only; let those leave claiming infallibility that have no title to it, and let them that in their words disclaim it, disclaim it likewvise in their actions; in a word, take away tyranny, which is the devil's instrument to support errors, and superstitions, and impieties, in the several parts of the world, which could not otherwise long withstand the power of truth; I say, take away tyranny, and restore Christians to their just and full liberty of captivating their understanding to scripture only, and as rivers, when they have a free passage, run all to the ocean, so it may well be hoped, by God's blessing, that universal liberty, thus moderated, may quickly reduce Christendom to truth and unity. THE SIN OF DUELLING. We are so far from seeking that honor which is of God, from endeavoring to attain unto, or so much as countenancing such virtues, which Gcd hath often professed that he wiJl exalt and 1625-1649.] CHIILLIN GWORTiI. 185 glorify, such as humility, and patiently bearing of injuries, that we place our honor and reputation in the contrary; that is counted noble and generous in the world's opinion, which is odious and abominable in the sight of God. If thy brother offend or injure thee, forgive him, saith Christ; if he proceed, forgive him: what until seven times? Ay, until seventy times seven times. But how is this doctrine received now in the world? What counsel would men, and those none of the worst sort, give thee in such a case? How would the soberest, discreetest, well-bred Christians advise thee? Why thus: If thy brother or thy neighbor have offered thee an injury, or affront, forgive him? by no means; of all things in the world take heed of that: thou art utterly undone in thy reputation then, if thou dost forgive him. What is to be done then? Why, let not thy heart rest, let all other business and employment be laid aside, till thou hast his blood. What! a man's blood for an injurious passionate speech, for a disdainful look! Nay, this is not all: that thou mayest gain amongst men the reputation of a discreet well-tempered murderer, be sure thou killest him not in passion, when thy blood is hot and boiling with the provocation, but proceed with as much temper and settledness of reason, with as much discretion and preparedness, as thou wouldst to the communion: after some several days' meditation, invite him, mildly and affably, into some retired place; and there let it be put to the trial, whether thy life or his must answer the injury. Oh most horrible Christianity! That it should be a most sure settled way for a man to run into danger and disgrace with the world, if he shall dare to perform a commandment of Christ's, which is as necessary to be observed by him, if he have any hope of attaining heaven, as meat and drink is for the sustaining of his life! That ever it should enter into the heart of a Christian, to walk so exactly and curiously contrary to the ways of God; that whereas he every day and hour sees himself contemned and despised by thee, who art his servant, his creature, upon whom he might (without any possible imputation of unrighteousness) pour down the phials of his fierce wrath and indignation; yet He, notwithstanding, is patient and long-suffering towards thee, hoping that his long-suffering may lead thee to repentance, anti earnestly desiring and soliciting thee by his ministers to be reconciled unto him! Yet, that thou, for all this, for a blow in anger, it may be, for a word, or less, shouldst take upon thee to send( his soul, or thine, or, it may be, both, clogged and pressed with all your sins unrepented of, (for thou canst not be so wild as to think thou canst repent of thy sins, and yet resolve upon such a business,) to expect your sentence before the judgment-seat of God; wilfully and irrecoverably to deprive yourselves of all those blessed means which God had contrived for your salvation, the 16* 186 QUARLES. [CHARLES I,. power of his word, the efficacy and virtue of his sacraments, all which you shall utterly exclude yourselves from, and leave yourselves in such a state, that it shall not be in God's power to do you any good!1 Sermon on the text, " The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God." FRANCIS QUARLES. 1592-1644. FRANCIS QUARLES was born at Stewards, near Romford, Essex, in 1592. He was educated at Christ's College, Cambridge, whence lhewent to Lincoln's Inn, where " he studied," says his widow, c" the laws of England, not so much out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbors, and to compose suits and differences between them." Subsequently he went over to Ireland, and became secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the breaking out of the rebellion there, in 1641, he fled to England for safety, and died three years after. "There is not," says Montgomery, "in English literature a name more wronged than that of Quarles; wronged, too, by those who ought best to have discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits in contradistinction to his defects." True, his writings are occasionally defaced by vulgarisns and deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his defects; the latter being comparatively few, while his works generally are characterized by great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. "He too often, no doubt," says Headley, " mistook the enthusiasm of devotion for the inspiration of fancy. To mix the waters of Jordan and Helicon in the same cup was reserved for the hand of Milton; and for him, and him only, to find the bays of Mount Olivet equally verdant with those of Parnassus. Yet, as the effusions of a real poetical mind, however thwarted by untowardness of subject, will seldom be rendered totally abortive, we find in Quarles original imagery, striking sentiment, fertility of expression, and happy combinations; with a compression of style that merits the observation of writers of verse." His chief poetical works are his "cEmblems," "Divine Poems," and "Job Militant, with Meditations divine and moral." His "Emblems" consist of a set of quaint pictorial designs, referring to moral and religious ideas, and each elucidated by appropriate verses. O THAT THOU WOULDST HIDE ME IN THE GRAVE, THAT THOU WOULDST KEEP ME IN SECRET UNTIL THY WRATH BE PAST. Ah! whither shall I fly? what path untrod Shall I seek out to'scape the flaming rod Of my offended, of my angry God? 1 "Will you intrust life to MURDERERS, and liberty to DESPOTS? Will you constitute those legislators, who despise you, and despise equal laws, and wage war with the eternal principles of Justice! Had the duellist destroyed your neighbor; had your own father been killed by the man who solicits your suffrage; had your son, laid low by his hand, been brought to your door pale in death and weltering in blood, would you then think the crime a small one? Would you honor with your confidence, and elevate to power by your VOTE, the guilty monster? And what would you think of your neighbors, if, regardless of your agony, they should reward him? And yet, such scenes of unutteraole anguish are multiplied every year. Every year the duellist is cutting down the neighbor of somebody," &c. Read-an admirable sermon entitled "Remedy for Duelling," by Rev. Lyman Beecher, D. D., delivered shortly after Alexander Hamilton was murdered by Aaron Burr. 1625-1649.] QUARLES. 187 Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide My head from thunder? where shall I abide, Until his flames be quencb'd or laid aside? What if my feet should take their hasty flight, And seek protection in the shades of night? Alas! no shades can blind the God of light. What if my soul should take the wings of day, And find some desert; if she springs away, The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they. What if some solid rock should entertain My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain? Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave, Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, What flame-eyed Fury means to smite, can save.'Tis vain to flee; till gentle Mercy show Her better eye, the farther off we go, The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh, And quenches with his tears her flaming eye. Great God! there is no safety here below; Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe;'Tis thou, that striklr'st the stroke, must guard the blow. THE WORLD. She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there But noise to fill thy ear; Thy vain inquiry can at length but find A blast of murmuring wind: It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunn'd with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; The soul that vainly founds Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She's empty: harkr! she sounds: there's nothing in't; The spark-engendering flint Shall sooner melt, and hardest rauncel shall first Dissolve and quench thy thirst, Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast With smooth-faced calms of rest. Thou mayst as well expect meridian light From shades of bla6k-mouth'd night, As in this empty world to find a full delight. She's empty: hark! she sounds:'tis void and vast; What if some flattering blast Of flatuous honor should perchance be there, And whisper in thine ear? 1 A dry crust. 188 QUARLES. rCHARLES I. It is but wind, and blows but where it list, And vanisheth like mist. Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind Would be so base to bind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind? She's empty: hark! she sounds:'tis but a ball For fools to play withal; The painted film but of a stronger bubble, That's lined with silken trouble. It is a world whose work and recreation Is vanity and vexation; A hag, repair'd with vice-complexion'd paint, A quest-house of complaint. It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She's empty: hark! she sounds:'tis vain and void. What's here to be enjoy'd But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Drawn now and cross'd to-morrow? Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, Revived with living death? Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds Than what dull flesh propounds: Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds MERCY TEMPERING JUSTICE. Had not the milder hand of Mercy broke The furious violence of that fatal stroke Offended Justice struck, we had been quite Lost in the shadows of eternal night. Thy mercy, Lord, is like the morning sun, Whose beams undo what sable night hath done; Or like a stream, the current of whose course, Restrain'd awhile, runs with a swifter force. Oh! let me glow beneath those sacred beams, And after, bathe me in those silver streams; To Thee alone my sorrows shall appeal: Hath earth a wound too hard for heaven to heal? Though in his day Quarles was mostly known as a poet, he was also the author of a few prose works, the principal of which is the - Enchiridion,l containing Institutions divine, contemplative, practical, moral, ethical, economical, political." Of this, Headley remarks, "' had this little piece been written at Athens or Rome, its author would have been classed with the wise men of his country." The following are some specimens of it.If thou be ambitious of honor, and yet fearful of the canker of honor, envy, so behave thyself, that opinion may be satisfied in this, that thou seekest merit, and not fame; and that thou attributest thy preferment rather to Providence than thy own virtue. Honor is a due debt to the deserver; and who ever envied the I Compounded of Ev (en), "in," and Xacp (cheir), "the hand:"-something held "In the hand," a' manu'al.' Read —an aticle on this treatise in the Retrospective Review, ix. 358. 1625-1649.] QUARLES. 189 payment of a debt? A just advancement is a providential act; and who ever envied the act of Providence? If evil men speak good, or good men evil, of thy conversation, examine all thy actions, and suspect thyself. But if evil men speak evil of thee, hold it as thy honor; and, by way of thankfulness, love them; but upon condition that they continue to hate thee. To tremble at the sight of thy sin, makes thy faith the less apt to tremble: the devils believe and tremble, because they tremble at w.hat they believe; their belief brings trembling: thy trembling brings belief. If thou desire to be truly valiant, fear to do any injury: he that fears not to do evil, is always afraid to suffer evil; he that never fears, is desperate; and he that fears always, is a coward. He is the true valiant man, that dares nothing but what he may, and fears nothing but what he ought. If thou stand guilty of oppression, or wrongfully possest of another's right, see thou make restitution before thou givest an alms: if otherwise, what art thou but a thief, and makest God thy receiver? When thou prayest for spiritual graces, let thy prayer be absolute; when for temporal blessings, add a clause of God's pleasure: in both, with faith and humiliation: so shalt thou, undoubtedly, receive what thou desirest, or more, or better. Never prayer rightly made, was made unheard; or heard, ungranted. Not to give to the poor, is to take from him. Not to feed the hungry, if thou hast it, is. to the utmost of thy power to kill him. That, therefore, thou mayst avoid both sacrilege and murder, be charitable. Hath any wronged thee? Be bravely revenged: slight it, and the work's begun; forgive it, and'tis finished: he is below himself that is not above an injury. Gaze not on beauty too much, lest it blast thee; nor too long, lest it blind thee; nor too near, lest it burn thee: if thou like it, it deceives thee; if thou love it, it disturbs thee; if thou lust after it, it destroys thee: if virtue accompany it, it is the heart's paradise; if vice associate it, it is the soul's purgatory: it is the wise man's bonfire, and the fool's furnace. Use law and physic only for necessity; they that use them otherwise, abuse themselves into weak bodies and light purses: they are good remedies, bad businesses, and worse recreations. If what thou hast received from God thou sharest to the poor, thou hast gained a blessing by the hand; if what thou hast taken from the poor, thou givest to God, thou hast purchased a curse into the bargain. He that puts to pious uses what he hath got 190 DRUMMOND. [INTERREiEGNUM, by impious usury, robs the spittle' to make an hospital; and the cry of the one will out-plead the prayers of the other. Give not thy tongue too great a liberty, lest it take thee prisoner. A word unspoken is, like the sword in the scabbard, thine; if vented, thy sword is in another's hand. If thou desire to be held wise, be so wise as to hold thy tongue. Wisdom without innocency is knavery; innocency without wisdom is foolery: be, therefore, as wise as serpents, and innocent as doves. The subtilty of the serpent instructs the innocency of the dove; the innocency of the dove corrects the subtilty of the serpent. What God hath joined together, let no man separate. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 1585-1649. WILLIA DarUMMroND, of Hawthornden, the first Scottish poet that wrote well in English, was born in 1585. " To the scholar and the wit he added every elegant attainment. After forming his taste at the University of Edinburgh, he enlarged his views by travelling and by a cultivation of the modern languages. At first he appears to have studied the law, but soon left it for more congenial pursuits. The character of his poetry is various, consisting of sonnets, epigrams, epitaphs, religious and other poems. His sonnets are the most beautiful, and some of them of the highest excellence. His greatest charm is, unaffected feeling, and unaffected language."2 His feelings were so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to have hastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, December, 1649. The following are specimens of his sonnets3 - THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE. Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal Love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! O! how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights: Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. 1 This term was originally applied to a lazar-house, or receptacle for persons affected with leprosy, but afterwards to an hospital of any kind. 2 See Retrospective Review, ix. 358. Drummond's sonnets, I tl ink, come as near as almost any others to the perfection of this kind of writing, which should embody a sentiment, and every shade of a sentiment, as it varies with time and place and humor, with the extraoagance or lightness of a momentary impression."-Hazlitt. 1G69-1660.] DRUMMOND. 191 ON SLEEP. Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds with grief oppress'd; Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possess'd, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, 0 come, but with that face To inward light, which thou art wont to show, With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath; I long to kiss the image of my death. The lady to whom he was engaged to be married was suddenly snatched away by death, and the sonnets which dwell on his own afflictions are as full of true Ieeling as poetic merit. ON SPRING. Sweet Spring, thou turn'st' with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers. Thou turn'st, sweet youth —but, ah! my pleasant hours, And happy days, with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone.; nor gold nor gems her can restore. Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. What doth it serve to see sun's burning face? And skies enamell'd with both Indies' gold? Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, And all the glory of that starry place? What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace; The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs, The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs? For what doth serve all that this world contains, Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear, No part of them can have now with me here? TO HIS LUTE. My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove. 1,' Turn'st" is here used for "returnest." 192 CRASHAW. [INTERREGNUM, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds on thee their ramage did bestow. Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Which used in such harmonious strains to flow, Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphan wailings to the fainting ear; Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; Be therefore silent as in woods before: Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past or coming void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. WVhat soul can be so siclr, which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget ed4ith's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays. RICHARD CRASHAW. Died 1650.1 RicaxRD CRASHAW, a religious poet, an accomplished scholar, and a power ful and popular preacher, was born in London, but the date of his birth is unknown. His father was an author, and a preacher of the Temple church, London. He took his degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred poems of " Steps to the Temple." In the year 1644 he was ejected from his living on refusing to subscribe to the Covenant, and soon afterwards he professed his faith in the Roman Church. Through the influence of his friend Cowley, the poet, he was introduced to the exiled Queen Henrietta, who obtained for him a small office at Rome, where he died about the year 1650. The poems of Crashaw are not much known, but they "display delicate fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction." "c He has," says Headley, "originality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the highest praise.2 To his attainments, which were numerous and elegant, all nis biographers have borne witness." The lines on a prayer-book, Coleridge considers one of the best poems in our language. 1 Poet and Saint I to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven.-CowLEY. 2 Pope, in his " Eloisa to Abelard, has borrowed largely from this poet. lt'3I9-1660O.] CRASHAW. 198 LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. Lo! here a little volume, but large book, (Fear it not, sweet, It is no hypocrite,) Much larger in itself than in its look. It is, in one rich handful, heaven and allHeaven's royal hosts encamp'd thus small; To prove that true, schools used to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence. As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is the armory of light: Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts, More swords and shields Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful and wise, Here is a friend shall fight for you. Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part. But oh! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessingsFlowers of never-fading graces, To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son. But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come, Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies;I To take her pleasure and to play, And keep the devil's holiday; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling But beguiling Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies; 1 Beelzebub. 17 194 CRASHAW. [INTERREGNUM, Of all this hidden store Of blessings, and ten thousand more Doubtless he will unload Himself some other where; And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first he meets. O fair! 0 fortunate! 0 rich! 0 dear! 0! happy, and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe'er she be, Whose early love, With winged vows, Makes haste to meet her morning spouse, And close with his immortal kisses! Happy soul! who never misses To improve that precious hour; And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as he rises, Dropping with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. Oh! let that happy soul hold fast Her heavenly armful: she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises: She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets, Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures. Hiappy soul! she shall discover What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover. The following is a portion of his version of the twenty-third Psalm: "Though t walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." It is highly spirited and beautiful. Come now all ye terrors, sally, Muster forth into the valley Where triumphant darkness hovers With a sable wing, that covers Brooding Horror. Come, thou Death, Let the damps of thy dull breath Overshadow e'en the shade, And make darkness' self afraid: There my feet, e'en there shall find Way for a resolved mind. Still my Shepherd, still my God, Thou art with me, still thy rod And thy staff, whose influence Gives direction, gives defence. 1649-1660.] FLETCHER. 195 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 1584-1650. PaINEAs FLETCHER was the brother of Giles Fletcher, and born about the year 1584. He took his degree at Cambridge, and after completing his studies for the ministry, was presented with the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, in 1621, which he held for twenty-nine years; and it is supposed that he died there in 1650. His chief poem is entitled " The Purple Island," which title, on being first heard, would suggest ideas totally different from what is its real subject. The truth is, it is a sort of anatomical poem, the i" Purple Island" being nothing less than the human body, the veins and arteries of which are filled with the purple fluid coursing up and down; so that the first part of the poem, which is anatomically descriptive, is not a little dry and uninteresting. But after describing the body, he proceeds to personify the passions and intellectual faculties. "Here," says Headley, "fatigued attention is not merely relieved, but fascinated and enraptured; there is a boldness of outline, a majesty of manner, a brilliancy of coloring, and an air of life, that we look for in vain in modern productions, and that rival, if not surpass, what we meet with of the kind even in Spenser, from whom our author caught his inspiration." This is rather extravagant, and yet a few passages can be selected from Phineas Fletcher, that, for beauty, are scarcely exceeded by any poetry in the language. THE SHEPHERD S LIFE.1 Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state, When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns-! His cottage low, and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns: No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: His lanmbs' warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed: No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite: But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. Instead of music and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise; The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes: In country plays is all the strife he uses, Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses; And, but in music's sports, all diff6rence refuses. 1 These beautiful lines seem to have suggested the plan of that most exquisite little piece called The Hanmlet by Thomas Warton, which contains a selection of beautiful rural images, such as perhaps no other poem of equal length in our language presents us with. See it in the selections from Warton. 196 FLETCHER. [INTERREGINU.M. His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content: The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noontide's rage is spent: His life is neither tost in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease: Pleased and full bless'd he lives, when he his God can please His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place: His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house or state torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him ENVY.' Envy the next, Envy with squinted eyes; Sick of a strange disease, his neighbor's health; Best lives he then, when any better dies; Is never poor, but in another's wealth: On best men's harms and griefs he feeds his fill; Else his own maw doth eat with spiteful will: Ill must the temper be, where diet is so ill. Each eye through divers optics slyly leers, Which both his sight and object's self belie; So greatest virtue'as a moat appears, And molehill faults to mountains multiply. When needs he must, yet faintly, then he praises; Somewhat the deed, much more the means he raises. So marreth what he makes, and praising, most dispraises. DECAY OF HUMAN GREATNESQ Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found! For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound, Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due; Though now but writ, and seal'd, and given anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every loss against Heaven's face repining Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops and silver turrets shining; There now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, And loving pelican in safety breeds: There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.2 Where is th' Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw? 1 "In his description of Envy, Fletcher is superior to Spenser."-Retrosectioe Review ii. 343. i Places. 16I9-1660.- HABING TON. 197 Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw? Or he which,'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared. Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find: Only a fading verbal memory, And empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. That monstrous beast, which, nursed in Tiber's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray; That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, And trod down all the rest to dust and clay: His battering horns, pull'd out by civil hands, And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands; Back'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands. And that black vulture,' which, with deathful wing, O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frighted the Muses from their native spring, Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: Who then shall hope for happiness beneath Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, And life itself's as flit as is the air we breathe. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 1605-1654. WILLIAx HABINGTON was born at the country seat of his ancestors in Worcestershire, called Hindlip, in 1605, the year of the famed gunpowder plot, the discovery of which is said to have come from his mother. They were a wealthy family, and were Papists. William was educated in the Jesuits' College in St. Omers, and afterwards at Paris, in the hope that he might enter into that society. But he preferred a wiser and happierI course of life, and returning to his own country, married Lucy, daughter of William Herbert. In 1635 he published a volume of poems entitled "- Castara," under which name he celebrates his wife, a kind of title fashionable in that day. He died when he had just completed his fiftieth year, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip. But little is known of Habington's history. He appears to have been distinguished for connubial felicity, for a love of retirement and study. and for the dignity and moral beauty of his sentiments. "cHis poems possess mucL elegance, much poetical fancy, and are almriost everywhere tinged with a deep moral cast, which ought to have made their fame more permanent."2 I The Mohammedan Empire. 2 See I "Censura Literaria," viii. 227 and 387; and "tRetrospective Review," xii. 274; also, "Hallaml's Literature," &e., ii. 182. 17" 198 HABINGTON. [INTERREGNUM, TO CASTARA, In praise of Content, and the calm Happiness of the Country at Hindlip. Do not their profane orgies hear Who but to wealth no altars rear: The soul's oft poison'd through the ear. Castara, rather seek to dwell In th' silence of a private cell: Rich discontent's a glorious Hell. Yet Hindlip doth not want extent Of room (though not magnificent) To give free welcome to content. There shalt thou see the early Spring, That wealthy stock of Nature bring, Of which the Sybils' books did sing. From fruitless palms shall honey flow, And barren Winter harvest show, While lilies in his bosom grow. No north wind shall the corn infest, But the soft spirit of the east, Our scent with perfumed banquets feast. A Satyr here and there shall trip, In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip. The Nymphs with quivers shall adorn Their active sides, and rouse the morn With the shrill music of their horn. Waken'd with which, and viewing thee, Fair Daphne, her fair self shall free From the chaste prison of a tree; And with Narcissus (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once again pursue the chase. So they whose wisdom did discuss Of these as fictions, shall in us Find they were more than fabulous. THE VANITY OF AVARICE. Hark! how the traitor wind doth court The sailors to the main; To make their avarice his sport: A tempest checks the fond disdain; They bear a safe though humble port. We'll sit, my love, upon the shore, And while proud billows rise To war a ainst the sky, speak o'er Our love's so sacred mysteries; And charm the sea to th' calm it had before. 1649-1660.] HALTI. 199 Where's now my pride t' ex'end my fame Wherever statues are And purchase glory to my name In the smooth court or rugged war My love hath laid the devil, I am tame. I'd rather, like the violet, grow Unmark'd in th' shaded vale, Than on the hill those terrors know Are breathed forth by an angry gale; There is more pomp above, more sweet below. Castara, what is there above The treasures we possess 1 We two are all and one, we move Like stars in th' orb of happiness. All blessings are epitomized in love. JOSEPH HALL. 1574-1656. Few names in our language have united in a greater degree the character of an instructive prose writer and a vigorous poet, than Joseph Hall. He was born at Briston Park, in Leicestershire, in 1574, and after taking his degree at Cambridge, he rose through various church preferments to be Bishop of Exeter, and subsequently, in 1641, to be Bishop of Norwich. In the same year he joined with the twelve prelates in the protestation of all laws made during their forced absence from Parliament. In consequence of this, he, with the rest, was sent to the Tower, and was released only on giving ~5000 bail. Two years after, he was among the number marked out for sequestration. After suffering extreme hardships, he was allowed to retire on a small pittance, to Higham, near Norwich, where he continued, in comparative obscurity, but with indefatigable zeal and intrepidity, to exercise the duties of a pastor, till he closed his days, in the year 1656, at the venerable age of eighty-two. As a poet, Bishop Hall is known by his c" Bookes of byting Satyres." These were published at the early age of twenty-three. They are marked, says Warton,1 with a classical precision to which English poetry had yet rarely attained. They are replete with animation of style and sentiment. Thlc characters are delineated in strong and lively coloring, and their discrimina tions are touched with the masterly traces of genuine humor. His chief fault is obscurity, arising from a remote phraseology, constrained combinations, un familiar allusions, and abruptness of expression. But it must be borne in mind that he was the first English satirist. Pope, on presenting Mr. West with a copy of his poetical works, observed that he esteemed them the best poetry and the truest satire in the language. THE ANXIOUS CLIENT AND RAPACIOUS LAWYER. The crouching client, with low-bended knee, And many worships, and fair flattery, 1 A masterly analysis of these satires may be found in Warton's "History of English Poetry." vol. iv., sections 62, 63, and 64. 200 HALL. [INTERREGNUM, Tells on his tale as smoothly as him list; But still the lawyer's eye squints on his fist: If that seem lined with a larger fee, " Doubt not the suit, the law is plain for thee." Thol must he buy his vainer hopes with price, Disclout his crowns,2 and thank him for advice. THE DOMESTIC TUTOR. A gentle squire would gladly entertain Into his house some trencher-chapelain;3 Some willing man that might instruct his sons, And that would stand to good conditions.4 First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed, While his young master lieth o'er his head.5 Second, that he do, on no default, Ever presume to sit above the salt.6 Third, that he never change his trencher twice. Fourth, that he use all common courtesies; Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait. Last, that he never his young master beat; But he must as} his mother to define How many jerks7 she would his back should line. All these observed, he could contented be To give five marlrks and winter livery. THE RUSTIC WISHING TO TURN SOLDIER. The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see All scarf'd with pied colors to the knee, Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate; And now he'gins to loathe his former state: Now doth he inly scorn his Kendal-green,8 And his patch'd cockers9 now despised been; Nor list he now go whistling to the car, But sells his team, and settleth to the war. Oh war! to them that never tried thee, sweet: When'o his dead mate falls grovelling at his feet; And angry bullets whistle at his ear, And his dim eyes see nought but dread and drear. Yet even. 2 Pull them out of his purse. 5 Or, a table-chaplain. In the same sense we have "trencher-knight" in "Love's Labor Lost." We still too often see, as did Hall, the depressed state of modest, but true genius; we still see " the learned pate duck to the golden fool;" we still see " pastors and teachers" court and flatter men who have little else than their money to recommend them. 4 Pronounced as in four syllables, con-di-ti-ons. 5 This indulgence allowed to the pupil is the reverse of a more ancient rule at Oxford, by which the scholars are ordered "to sleep respectively under the beds of the Fellows, in a truckle bed, (Trookyll teddys, vulgariter nuncupati,) or small bed shifted about upon wheels." 6 In Hall's day the table was divided into the upper and lower messes, by a huge salt-cellar, and the rank and consequence of the visitors were marked by the situation of their seats above or below the salt-cellar. 7 Lashes. 8 A kind of forester's green cloth, so called from Kendal, Westmoreland county, which was famous for its manufacture 9 " A kind of rustic high shoes or half boots. 10 That is, to them who have never seen the time when, &c. 1649-1660.] HALL. 201 THE FASHIONABLE BUT FAMISHED BEAU. Seest thou how gayly my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side; And picks his glutted teeth since late noontide?'Tis Rufflo: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day? In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humfray.1 Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touch'd no meat of all this livelong day. For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness; But could he have (as I did it mistake) So little in his purse, so much upon his back? So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt, That his gaunt bulk not too much stuffing felt. Seest thou how side2 it hangs beneath his hip? Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the new-found bravery. His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock amazon-like dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard both lip and chin; His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen wings. But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human show? So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin. Lik'st a straw scarecrow in the new-sown field, Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield. Or if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. As a prose writer, Hall was known in his day as a most able champior, in controversial theology, being one of the antagonists of Milton, and writing M th great learning, as well as with a most excellent spirit, in favor of the e iablished church. But his numerous tracts on this subject are now but liktle read. Not so, however, with his "Contemplations on the principal Passages of the Holy Story," and his "Occasional Mecditations." These are replete with fine thoughts, excellent morality, and sterling piety. He has been styled the Christian Seneca, from his sententious manner of writing, and from the peculiar resemblance of his "Meditations" to " Seneca's Morals."3 1 A proverbial phrase for going without a dinner, arising from the circumstance of St. Paul's, where Duke Humphrey's tomb was supposed to stand, being the common resort of loungers who had not dined. 2 Long or low. 3 " Poetry was the occupation merely of his youth, the vigor and decline of his days being employed in the composition of professional works, calculated, by their piety, eloquence, and originality. to promote, in the most powerful manner, the best interests of morality and religion."-Drake. 202 HALL. [INTERREGNUM, UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER. Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shrowd thyself in a bush for lodging! What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dulness. Had I so little certainty of my harbor and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me. 0 God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee. UPON HEARING MUSIC BY NIGHT. How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the day-time it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness; thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation: the gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private affliction: it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. 0 God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful. UPON THE SIGHT OF A GREAT LIBRARY. WVhat a world of wit is here packed up together! I know not whether this sight doth more dismay or comfort me; it dismays me to think that here is so much that I cannot know; it comforts me to think that this variety yields so good helps to know what I should. There is no truer word than that of Solomon-there is no end of making many books; this sight verifies it; there is no end; indeed, it were pity there should: God hath given to man a busy soul; the agitation whereof cannot but, through time and experience, work out many hidden truths: to suppress these would be no other than injurious to mankind; whose minds, like unto so many candles, should be kindled by each other: the thoughts of our deliberation are most accurate; these we vent into our pape rs. What a happiness is it, that, without all offence of 1649-1660.] HALL. 203 necromancy, I miay here call up any of the a ncient worthies of learning, whether human or divine, and confer with them of all my doubts! that I can at pleasure summon whole synods of re verend fathers, and acute doctors from a\l the coasts of the earth, to give their well-studied judgments in all points of question which I propose! Neither can I cast my eye casually upon any of these silent masters, but I must learn somewhat: it is a wantonness to complain of choice. THE HAPPY MAN IS HE That hath learned to read himself more than all books; and hath so taken out this lesson that he can never forget it; that knows the world, and cares not for it; that after many traverses of thoughts, is grown to know what he may trust to, and stands now equally armed for all events; that hath got the mastery at home, so as he can cross his will without a mutiny, and so please it that he makes it not a wanton; that in earthly things wishes no more than nature; in spiritual, is ever graciously ambitious; that for his condition, stands on his own feet, not needing to lean upon the great; and so can frame his thoughts to his estate, that when he hath least, he cannot want, because he is as free from desire as superfluity; that he hath seasonably broken the headstrong restiness of prosperity, and can now manage it at pleasure: upon whom all smaller crosses light as hailstones upon a roof; and for the greater calamities, he can take them as tributes of life, and tokens of love; and if his ship be tossed, yet is he sure his anchor is fast. If all the world were his, he could be no other than he is, no whit gladder of himself, no whit higher in his carriage, because he knows contentment is not in the things he hath, but in the mind that values them., The powers of his resolution can either multiply, or subtract at pleasure. He can make his cottage a manor or a palace when he lists; and his homeclose a large dominion; his stained cloth, arras; his earth, plate; and can see state in the attendance of one servant: as one that hath 1 It's no in titles nor in rank, It's no in wealth, like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in making muckle mair, It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye, That makes us right or wrang.-BuRE a. 204 HALL. eINTERREGNUM, learned a man's greatness or baseness is in himself; and in this he may even contest with the proud, that he thinks his own the best. Or if he must be outwardly great, he can but turn the other end of the glass, and make his"stately manor a low and strait cottage; and in all his costly furniture he can see not richness but use. He can see dross in the best metal, and earth through the best clothes: and in all his troop he can see himself his own servant. He lives quietly at home, out of the noise of the world, and loves to enjoy himself always, and sometimes his friend, and hath as full scope to his thoughts as to his eyes. He walks ever even in the midway betwixt hopes and fears, resolved to fear nothing but God, to hope for nothing but that which he must have. His strife is ever to redeem and not to spend time. It is his trade to do good, and to think of it as his recreation. He hath hands enough for himself and others, which are-ever stretched forth for beneficence, not for need. He walks cheerfully the way that God hath chalked, and never wishes it more wide, or more smooth. Those very temptations whereby he is foiled, strengthen him; he comes forth crowned, and triumphing out of the spiritual battles, and those scars that he hath, make him beautiful. His soul is every day dilated to receive that God in whom he is, and hath attained to love himself for God, and God for his own sake. His eyes stick so fast in heaven, that no earthly object can remove them; yea, his whole self is there before his time; and sees Stephen, and hears with Paul, and enjoys with Lazarus, the glory that he shall have; and takes possession beforehand of his room amongst the saints; and these heavenly contentments have so taken him up, that now he looks down displeasedly upon the earth, as the regions of his sorrow and banishment; yet joying more in hope than troubled with the sense of evil, he holds it no great matter to live, and greatest business to die: and is so well acquainted with his last guest, that he fears no unkindness from him; neither makes he any other of dying, than of walking home when he is abroad, or of going to bed when he is weary of the day. He is well provided for both worlds, and is sure of peace here, of glory hereafter; and therefore hath a light heart and a cheerful face. All his fellow creatures rejoice to serve him; his betters, the angels, love to observe him; God himself takes pleasure to converse with him; and hath sainted him before his death, and in his death crowned him. THE PLEASURE OF STUDY AND CONTEMPLATION. I can wonder at nothing more than how a man can be idle; but ot all others, a scholar; in so many improvements of reason, in such sweetness of knowledge, in such variety of studies, in such importunity of thoughts: other artisans do but practise, we still 1649-1660.] LOVELACE. 205 learn; others run still in the same gyre to weariness, to satiety, our choice is infinite; other labors require recreation; our very labor recreates our sports; we can never want either somewhat to do, or somewhat that we would do. How numberless are the volumes which men have written of arts, of tongues! How endless is that volume which God hath written of the world! wherein every creature is a letter; every day a new page. Who can be weary of either of these? To find wit in poetry; in philosophy, profoundness; in mathematics, acuteness; in history, wonder of events; in oratory, sweet eloquence; in divinity, supernatural light and holy devotion; as so many rich metals in their proper mines; whom would it not ravish with delight?. After all these, let us but open our eyes, we cannot look beside a lesson, in this universal book of our Maker, worth our study, worth taking out. What creature hath not his miracle? what event doth not challenge his observation? Flow many busy tongues chase away good hours in pleasant chat, and complain of the haste of night! What ingenious mind can be sooner weary of talking with learned authors, the most harmless and sweetest companions? Let the world contemn us; while we have these delights we cannot envy them; we cannot wish ourselves other than we are. Besides, the way to all other contentments is troublesome; the only recompense is in the end. But very search of knowledge is delightsome. Study itself is our life; from which we would not be barred for a world. How much sweeter then is the fruit of study, the conscience of knowledge? In comparison whereof the soul that hath once tasted it, easily contemns all human comforts.' RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. RICHanu LOVELACE, son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent, was born in 1618, and educated at Oxford. Wood says of him, that " he was accounted the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld: a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment." On leaving the university he obtained a commission in the army, being a very firm loyalist. After the ruin of the king's cause, and of his own fortune, he commanded at regiment in the French service, and was wounded at Dunkirk. The lady to whom he was engaged, and to whom he addressed much of his poetry, supposing him dead of his wounds, married another. He returned to England in 1648, and was imprisoned, but was set at liberty on the king's death. After this, he suffered extreme poverty, having spent all his fortune in the service 1 tHow charming is divine philosophy I Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose; But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.-MiTton'8 Comus. 18 206 LOVELACE. [CHARLES II. of his sovereign, and lingered out a wretched life till 1658, when he died of consumption, induced by misery and want. TO ALTHEA. Written in Prison. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates: And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates: When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye; The gods that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free; Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. THE GRASSHOPPER. To my noble friend, Mr. Charles Cotton. Oh thou that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear Dropp'd thee from heaven, where now thou'rt rear'd; The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up 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 spared, winds shave off quite. Poor verdant fool! and now green ice, thy joys Laige 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 seat to our rest. ~ Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally As vestal flames, the north-wind, he t660-1685.] FULLER. 207 Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve,and fly This Etna in epitome. Thus richer than untempted kings are we, That asking nothirg, nothing need; Though lord of all what seas embrace; yet he That wants himself, is poor indeed. THOMAS FULLER. 1608-1661. A coNsriICUOUS place in the prose literature of our language i' due to th.e historian and divine, Thomas Fuller. He was the son of a clergyman of the same nanme, and was born in 1608 at Aldwinkle in Northamptonshire, the native place of Dryden. At the early age of twelve, he was sent to Queen's College, Cambridge, where he distinguished himself for his attainments, and on entering life as a preacher in that city, he acquired the greatest popularity. He afterwards passed through a rapid succession of promotions, until he acquired (1641) the lectureship of the Savoy Church in London. To show his fidelity to the royal cause, he procured, in 1643, a nomination as chaplain to the royal army. When the heat of the war was passed he returned to London, and became lecturer at St. Bride's church. Subsequently he occupied other situations in the church of England, and at the Restoration (1660) he was chosen chaplain extraordinary to the king. The next year he was prematurely cut off by fever at the age of fifty-three. The works of Fuller are very numerous: the chief of which are the follow. ing: 1. cc History of the Worthies of England," one of the earliest biographical works in the language; a strange mixture of topography, biography, and popular antiquities. 2. " The Holy and Profane State," the former proposing examples for imitation; the latter their opposites, for our abhorrence. Each contains characters in every department of life, as, c" the father," "husband," " soldier,"'" divine," &c.; lives of eminent persons, as illustrative of these characters; and general essays. 3. "The History of the Holy War," and 1" The Church History of Britain." There are specimens of historical painting in these works that have perhaps never been excelled. 4. ", Good Thoughts in Bad Times." 5. " A Pisgah-sight of Palestine and the Confines thereof; with the History of the Old and New Testament acted thereon." Besides Ihese he published a large number of tracts and sermons on various subjects. Fuller was indeed an extraordinary man. "; If ever there was an amusing writer in this world, Thomas Fuller was one. There was in him a combination of those qualities which minister to our entertainment, such as few have ever possessed in an equal degree. He was, first of all, a man of multifarious reading; of great and digested knowledge, which an extraordinary retentiveness of memory preserved ever ready for use, and considerable an' curacy of judgment enabled him successfully to apply. So well does he vary his treasures of memory and observation, so judiciously does he interweave his anecdotes, quotations, and remarks, that it is impossible to conceive a more delightful checker-work of acute thought and apposite illustration, of original and extracted sentiment, than is presented in his works."'' 1 Read —an article on Fuller in the " Retrospective Review," ii. 50. 208 FULLER. [CHARLES II. MISCELLANEOUS APHORISMS. Know, next to religion, there is nothing accomplisheth a man more than learning. Learning in a lord is as a diamond in gold. He must rise early, yea, not at all go to bed, who wvill have every one's good word. He needs strong arms who is to swim against the stream. It is hard for one of base parentage to personate a king without overacting his part. The pope knows he can catch no fish if the waters are clear. The cardinals' eyes in the court of Rome were old and dim; and therefore the glass, wherein they see any thing, must be well silvered. Many wish that the tree may be felled, who hope to gather chips by the fall. The Holy Ghost came down, not in the shape of a vulture, but in the form of a dove. Gravity is the ballast of the soul. Learning hath gained most by those books by which the printers have lost. He shall be immortal who liveth till he be stoned by one without fault. It is the worst clandestine marriage when God is not invited to it. Deceive not thyself by over-expecting happiness in the married state. Look not therein for contentment greater than God will give, or a creature in this world can receive, namely, to be free from all inconveniences. Marriage is not like the hill Olympus, wholly clear, without clouds. Remember the nightingales, which sing only some months in the spring, but commonly are silent when they have hatched their eggs, as if their mirth were turned into care for their young ones. THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER.1 There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth more necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof I conceive to be these: —First, young scholars make this calling their refuge; yea, perchance, before they have taken any degree in the university, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if nothing else were required to set up this profession but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able, use it only as a r The remarks of Fuller on this subject are most admirable. How little discrimination parents often evince in placing their children at school; and how many are there who A" set up school," as the phrase is, without any suitable preparation or qualifications for the responsible duty. It is humiliating to reflect how often that profession, for which as much training and study are requisite as fot any other, has been assumed lfierely as the last resort. But a better day is at hand. 1660-1685.] FULLER. 209 passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened fromn doing their best with the miserable reward which in some places they receive, being masters to their children and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. His genius inclines him with delight to his profession. God, of his goodness, hath fitted several men for several callings, that the necessity of church and state, in all conditions, may be provided for. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life, undertaking it with desire and delight, and discharging it with dexterity and happy success. He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they their books; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend. to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make a grammar of boys' natures. He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his precepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars may go along with him. He is moderate in inflicting deserved correction. Many a schoolmaster better answereth the name paidotribesl than paidagogos,2 rather tearing his scholars' flesh with whipping than giving them good education. No wonder if his scholars hate the muses, being presented unto them in the shapes of fiends an(d furies. Such an Orbilius mars more scholars than he makes. Their tyranny hath caused many tongues to stammer which spake plain by nature, and whose stuttering at first was nothing else but fears quavering on their speech at their master's presence; and whose mauling them about their heads hath dulled those who in quickness exceeded their master. To conclude, let this, amongst other motives, make schoolmasters careful in their place-that the eminences of their scholars have commended the memories of their schoolmasters to posterity.a 1 Boy-beater. 2 He means " boy-teacher," but the paidagogos (nTracayayos) "pedagogue" of the Greeks, was tLe servant who conducted the children from their homes to the schools, and not the instructor. 3 How beautifully the historian Gibbon expresses the obligations due from a scholar to a faithlfal and competent teacher: " Tile expression of gratitude is a virtre and a pleasure; a liberal mind will delight to cherish and celebrate the memory of its parents, A.ND 7 IRE ThACHERS OF SCIENCE ARE TINE PARENTS OF THE MIND." Me:loirs, ch. iii. 0 12' 210 FULLER. [CHARLES II. THE GOOD WIFE. She commandethll her husband in any equal matter, by constant obeying him. She never crosseth her husband in the spring-tide of his anger, but stays till it be ebbing-water. Surely men, contrary to iron, are worst to be wrought upon when they are hot. Her clothes are rather comely than costly, and she makes plain cloth to be velvet by her handsome wearing it. Her husband's secrets she will not divulge: especially she is careful to conceal his infirmities. In her husband's absence she is wife and deputy husband, which makes her double the files of her diligence. At his return he finds all things so well, that he wonders to see himself at home when he was abroad.' Her children, though many in number, are none in noise, steering them with a look whither she listeth. The heaviest work of her servants she maketh light, by orderly and seasonably enjoining it. In her husband's sickness she feels more grief than she shows THE GOOD SEA-CAPTAIN. Conceive him now in a man-of-war, with his letters of marque, victualled, and appointed. The more power he hath, the more careful he is not to abuse it. Indeed a sea-captain is a king in the island of a ship, supreme judge, above all appeal, in causes civil and criminal, and is seldom brought to an account on land for injuries done to his own men at sea. He is careful in observing the Lord's day. He hath a watch in his heart, though no bells in a steeple to proclaim that day by ringing to prayers. He is as pious and thankful when a tempest is past, as devout when'tis present; not clamorous to receive mercies, and tonguetied to return thanks. Escaping many dangers makes him not presumptuous to run into them. In taking a prize he most prizeth the men's lives whom he takes; though some of them may chance to be negroes or savages. 1 In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy there are twelve reasons in favor of marriage, of which toh first six are as follows:1. Hast thou means? Thou hast one to keep and increase it. 2. Hast none? Thou hast one to help to get it. 3. Art in prosperity? Thine happiness is doubled.,. Art in adversity? She'll comfort, assist, bear a part of thy burden, to make it-more tolerable. 5. Art at home? She'll drive away melancholy. 6. Art abroad? She looks after thee going from home, wishes for thee in thine absence, and joyfully welcomes thy return. 1660-1685.] FULLER. 211'Tis the custom of some to cast them overboard, and there's an end of them: for the dumb fishes will tell no tales. But the murderer is not so soon drowned as the man. What, is a brother of false blood no kin? a savage hath God to his father by creation, thoitgh not the church to his mother, and God will revenge his innocent blood. But our captain counts the image of God, nevertheless his image cut in ebony as if done in ivory.1 In dividing the gains, he wrongs no one who took pains to get them: not shifting off his poor mariners with nothing. In time of peace he quietly returns home. His voyages are not only for profit, but some for honor and knowledge.2 He daily sees, and duly considers God's wonders in the deep. ON TRAVELLING. Travel not early before thy judgment be risen; lest thou observest rather shows than substance. Get the language (in part), without which key thou shalt unlock little of moment. Know most of the rooms of thy native country before thou goest over the threshold thereof. Travel not beyond the Alps. Mr. Roger Ascham did thank God that he was but nine days in Italy, wherein he saw in one city (Venice) more liberty to sin than in London he ever heard of in nine years. Be wise in choosing objects, diligent in marking, careful in remembering of them. Yet herein men much follow their own humors. One asked a barber who never before had been at the court, what he saw there? " O," said he, 1" the king was excellently well trimmed!" Labor to distil and unite into thyself the scattered perfections of several nations. Many weed foreign countries, bringing home Dutch drunkenness, Spanish pride, French wantonness, and Italian atheism; as for the good herbs, Dutch industry, Spanish loyalty, French courtesy, and Italian frugality, these they leave behind them; others bring home just nothing; and, because they singled not themselves from their countrymen, though some years beyond sea, were never out of England. 1 " Is not this one of the earliest intercessions on behalf of the poor slaves?"-Basil tiontagu. No, for a higher than all human authority proclaimeu, fifteen hundred years before, " All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;" which, if obeyed, would breas every bond of oppression throughout the world. Light and darkness, virtue and vice, heaven ana earth, present no greater contrast than the code of Christian ethics and the slave code. 2 This is common to all professions: "I hold," says Lord Bacon, " that every man is a debtor to( his profession, from the which, as men do of course seek to receive counterance and profit, so ought they of duty to endeavor themselves, by way of amends, to be a holp and ornament thereunto." 212 FULLER. [CHARLES tI. OF MEMORY. It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of the Muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making experience the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. Philosophers place it in the rear of the head; and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss. This again is two-fold; one, the simple retention of things; the other, a regaining them when forgotten. Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for the gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the tossing of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions thereof, and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the strength and nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wandering soldiers, as an introduction to beg. Understand it of the artificial rules which at this day are delivered by memory mountebanks; for sure an art thereof may be made, (wherein as yet the world is defective,) and that no more destructive to natural memory than spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Holland wear from twelve years of age. But till this be found out, let us observe these plain rules. First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remember. What wonder is it if agitation of business jog that out of thy head which was there rather tacked than fastened? It is best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next morning. Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop. out of it; take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof. Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and strip him. I know some have a common-place against commonplace-books, and yet perchance will privately make use of what they publicly declaim against. A common-place-book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent warning. 1660-1685.] HERRICK. 213 RORERT HERRICK. 1591-1662. ONE of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662. Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review I in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. " He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; singing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn..... His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty.' TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along! We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again. TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest mom Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower; 1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours." 214 HERRICK. [CHARLES II. Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known The reason why Ye droop, and weep. Is it for want of sleep; Or childish lullaby? Or, that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?'Tis pity nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. HOW THE HEART S-EASE FIRST CAME, Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss of blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, ~Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers. 1660-1685.] HERRICK. 215 THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER. As Julia once a slumbering lay, It chanced a bee did fly that way, After a dew, or dew-like shower, To tipple freely in a flower; For some rich flower he took the lip Of Julia, and began to sip: But when he felt he suck'd from thence Honey, and in the quintessence, He drank so much he scarce could stir; So Julia took the pilferer: And thus surprised, as filchers use, He thus began himself t' excuse: Sweet lady-flower! I never brought Hither the least one thieving thought; But taking those rare lips of yours For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, I thought I might there take a taste, Where so much syrup ran at waste: Besides, know this, I never sting The flower that gives me nourishing; But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay For honey that I bear away. This said, he laid his little scrip Of honey'fore her ladyship; And told her, as some tears did fall, That, that he took, and that was all. At which she smiled; and bade him go And take his bag; but thus much know When next he came a pilfering so, He should from her full lips derive Honey enough to fill his hive. THE NIGHT PIECE. —TO JULIA. Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like sparks of fire, befriend thee! No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee! Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number! Then Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: And, when I shall meet Thy silvery feet My soul I'll pour into thee! b-1)i PHILIPS. [CHARLES II. THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This sweet infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears, The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer, these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. UPON A CHILD THAT DIED. Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood; Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her! EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. Virgins promised, when I died, That they would, each primrose-tide. Duly morn and evening come, And with flowers dress my tomb: Having promised, pay your debts, Maids, and here strew violets. UPON A MAID. Here she lies, in beds of spice, Fair as Eve in paradise; For her beauty it was such, Poets could not praise too much. Virgins, come, and in a ring Her supremest requiem sing; Then depart, but see ye tread Lightly, lightly o'er the dead. CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631-1664. MRS. CATHERINE PHILIPS was the daughter of John Fowler, a London merchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write after her marriage; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed without her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con 660-1685.] PHILIPS. 217 temporaries: Jecemy Taylor addressed to her his " Measures and Offices of Friendship," and Cowley wrote an ode on her death. She died of the small pox, June 22, 1664, aged thirty-three. AGAINST PLEASURE. There's no such thing as pleasure here,'Tis all a perfect cheat, Which does but shine and disappear, Whose charm is but deceit; The empty bribe of yielding souls, Which first betrays, and then controls'Tis true, it looks at distance fair, But if we do approach, The fruit of Sodom will impair, And perish at a touch; It being than in fancy less, And we expect more than possess. For by our pleasures we are cloy'd, And so desire is done; Or else, like rivers, they make wide The channels where they run: And either way true bliss destroys, Making us narrow, or our joys. We covet pleasure easily, But ne'er true bliss possess; For many things must make it be, But one may make it less. Nay, were our state as we could choose it,'Twould be consumed by fear to lose it. What art thou then: thou winged air, More weak and swift than fame? Whose next successor is despair, And its attendant shame. The experienced prince then reason had, Who said of pleasure, " It is mad." TO MY ANTENOR.i My dear Antenor, now give o'er,For my sake talk of graves no more, Death is not in our power to gain, And is both wish'd and fear'd in vain. Let's be as angry as we will, Grief sooner may distract than kill, And the unhappy often prove Death is as coy a thing as love. Those whose own sword their death did give, Afraid were, or ashamed, to live; I This was the fictitious name under which she addressed her husband, whose circumstances were much reduced during the civil war. The above poem was written March 16, 1600, to cheer hhi witt the hope that, as parliament had rescued him, Providence would do so too. 19 218 TAYLOR. FCIIARLES I.l And by an act so desperate, Did poorly run away from fate;'Tis braver much t' outride the storm, Endure its rage, and shun its harm; Affliction nobly undergone, More greatness shows than having none, But yet the wheel, in turning round, At last may lift us from the ground, And when our fortune's most severe, The less we have the less we fear. And why should we that grief permit, Which cannot mend nor shorten it? Let's wait for a succeeding good, Woes have their ebb as well as flood: And since the parliament have rescued you, Believe that Providence will do so too. JEREMY TAYLOR. 1602 —1667. JERnEnY TAYLOR, who, for learning, eloquence, imagination, and piety, stands among the first of English divines, was the son of a barber in Cambridge. He was born about the year 1602, and at the age of thirteen entered the university of his native place. A short time after taking his degree, he was elected, by the interest of Archbishop Laud, fellow of All-Souls College Oxford. He became chaplain to Laud, who procured for him the rectory of Uppington in Rutlandshire, where he settled in 1640. In 1642, he was created D. D. at Oxford. In 1644, while accompanying the royal army as chaplain, he was taken prisoner by the parliamentary forces, in the battle fought before the castle of Cardigan, in Wales. Being soon released, he resolved to continue in Wales, and, having established a school in the county of Caermarthen, he there waited calmly the issue of events. In his own felicitous style, he gives the following picturesque account of his retirement: "In the great storm which dashed the vessel of the church all in pieces, I had been cast on the coast of Wales, and, in a little boat, thought to have enjoyed that rest and quietness which in England, in a far greater, I could not hope for. Here I cast anchor, and thinking to ride safely, the storm followed me with so impetuous violence, that it broke a cable, and I lost my anchor: and, but that He that stilleth the raging of the sea, and the noise of his waves, and the madness of the people, had provided a plank for me, I had been lost to all the opportunities of content or study: but I know not whether I have been preserved more by the courtesies of my friends, or the gentleness and mercies of a noble enemy." 1 After continuing some years in this solitude, he lost his three sons in the short space of two or three months. This most afflicting calamity caused him to go to London, where he administered, though in circumstances of great danger, to a private congregation of loyalists. At the Restoration he was made bishop of Down and Connor, in Ireland, and subsequently was elected vice-chancellor of the University of Dublin, which office he retained to his death, 1667. The writings of Bishop Taylor, which are numerous, are all of a theologi1 A most noble and just tribute to the Republican cause, 1660-1686.] TAYLOR. 219 cal character. His greatest worlk, perhaps, is his "Liberty of Prophesying.:' By prophesying, he means preaching or expounding. The object of this is to show the unreasonableness of prescribing to other rmen's faith, and the iniquity of persecuting for difference of opinion. It has been justly described as, "perhaps of all Taylor's writings, that which shows him farthest in advance of the age in which he lived, and of the ecclesiastical system in which he had been reared; as the first distinct and avowed defence of toleration which had been ventured on in England, perhaps in Christendom." The most popular, however, of his works is his ",Rule and Exercise of Holy Living and Dying," which contains numerous passages of singular beauty and truth. A writer in the Edinburgh Review remarks, that in one of Taylor's "prose folios, there is more fine fancy and original imagery —more brilliant conceptions and glowing exlpressions-llmore new figures and new application of old figures,-more, in short, of the body and soul of poetry, than in all the odes and epics that have since been produced in Europe." This is rather extravagant; but the encomium passed upon his writings by Dr. Rust, in his funeral sermon, is most richly deserved: ", They will," says he, "be famous to all succeeding generations for their greatness of wit, and profoundness of judgment, and richness of fancy, and clearness of expression, and copiousness of invention, and general usefulness to all the purposes of a Christian." 1 ON PRAYER. Prayer is an action of likeness to the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of gentleness and dove-like simplicity; an imitation of the holy Jesus, whose spirit is meek, up to the greatness of the biggest example; and a conformity to God, whose anger is always just, and marches slowly, and is without transportation, and often hindered, and never hasty, and is full of mercy. Prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares, and the calm of our tempest; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness; and he that prays to God with an angry, that is, with a troubled and discomposed spirit, is like him that retires into a battle to mneditate, and sets up his closet in the out-quarters of an army, and chooses a frontier garrison to be wise in. Anger is a perfect alienation of the mind from prayer, and therefore is contrary to that attention, which presents our prayers in a right line to God. For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and soaring upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and *climb above the clouds; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest than it could recover by the libralion and frequent weighing of his wings; till the little creature was forced to sit down and 1 The best edition of his works is that by Bishop Heber, " with a Life of the Author, and a eritlial Examination of his Works." '220 TAYLOR. [CHARLES II. pant, and stay till the storm was over; and then it made a prosperous flight, and did rise and sing as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he- passed sometimes through the air about his ministries here below: so is the prayer of a good man: when his affairs have required business, and his business was matter of discipline, and his discipline was to pass upon a sinning person, or had a design of charity, his duty met with the infirmities of a man, and anger was its instrument, and the instrument became stronger than the prime agent, and raised a tempest, and overruled the man; and then his prayer was broken, and his thoughts were troubled, and his words went up towards a cloud, and his thoughts pulled them back again, and made them without intention, and the good man sighs for his infirmity, but must be content to lose the prayer, and he must recover it when his anger is removed, and his spirit is becalmed, made even as the brow of Jesus, and smooth like the heart of God; and then it ascends to heaven upon the wings of the holy dove, and dwells with God, till it returns, like the useful bee, loaden with a blessing and the dew of heaven. ON TOLERATION. Any zeal is proper for religion but the zeal of the sword and the zeal of anger: this is the bitterness of zeal, and it is a certain temptation to every man against his duty; for if the sword turns preacher, and dictates propositions by empire instead of arguments, and engraves them in men's hearts with a poniard, that it shall be death to believe what I innocently and ignorantly am persuaded of, it must needs be unsafe to try the spirits, to try all things, to make inquiry; and, yet, without this liberty, no man can justify himself before God or man, nor confidently say that his religion is best. This is inordination of zeal; for Christ, by reproving St, Peter drawing his sword even in the cause of Christ, for his sacred and yet injured person, teaches us not to use the sword, though in the cause of God, or for God himself. When Abraham sat at his tent door, according to his custom, waiting to entertain strangers, he espied an old man, stooping and leaning on his staff, weary with age and travail, coming towards him, who was a hundred years of age. He received him kindly, washed his feet, provided supper, caused him to sit down; but observing that the old man eat, and prayed not, nor begged for a blessing on his meat, he asked him why he did not worship the God of heaven. The old man told him that he worshipped the fire only, and acknowledged no other God. At which answer Nbraham grew so zealously angry, that he thrust the old man out of his tent, and exposed him to all the evils of the night, and an unguarded condition. WAThen the old man was gone, God called 1660-1685.] TAYLOR. 2 21 to Abraham, and asked him where the stranger was. -le re. plied, I thrust him away because he did not worship thee. God answered him, I have suffered him these hundred years, although he dishonored me; and couldst not thou endure him one night? ON CONTENT. Since all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object and the appetite, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires what he hath not, or desires amiss, he that composes his spirit to the present accident hath variety of instances for his virtue, bhut none to trouble him, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune: and a wise man is placed in. the variety of chances, like the nave or centre of a wheel in the midst of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture, without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which is down; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised whatever happenseither patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation or humility, charity or contentedness. It conduces much to our content, if we pass by those things which happen to our trouble, and consider that which is pleasing and prosperous; that, by the representation of the better, the worse may be blotted out. It may be thou art entered into the cloud which will bring a gentle shower to refresh thy sorrows. I am fallen into the hands of publicans and sequestrators, and they have taken all from me: what now? let me look about me. They have left me the sun and moon, fire and water, a loving wife, and many friends to pity me, and some to relieve me, and I can still discourse; and, unless I list, they have not taken away my merry countenance, and my cheerful spirit, and a good conscience; they still have left me the providence of God, and all the promises of the Gospel, and my religion, and my hopes of heaven, and my charity to them too: and still I sleep and digest, I eat and drink, I read and meditate, I can walk in my neighbor's pleasant fields, 1 Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. —BuRs. I care not Fortune, what you me deny, You cannot rob me of free nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face. You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve; Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught call me bereave. —THomcsox. 19* 222 TAYLOR. [CHARLES IT. alid see the varieties of natural beauties, and delight in all that in which God delights, that is, in virtue and wisdom, in the whole creation, and in God himself. ON COVETOUSNESS. Covetousness swells the principal to no purpose, and lessens the use to all purposes; disturbing the order of nature, and the designs of GCd; making money not to be the- instrument of exchange or charity, nor corn to feed himself or the poor, nor wool to clothe himself or his brother, nor wine to refresh the sadness of the afflicted, nor oil to make his own countenance cheerful; but all these to look upon, and to tell over, and to take accounts by, and make himself considerable, and wondered at by fools, that while he lives he may be called rich, and when he dies may be accounted miserable. It teaches men to be cruel and crafty; industrious and evil; full of care and malice; and, after all this, it is for no good to itself, for it dares not spend those heaps of treasure which it snatched. ADVERSITY.' All is well as long as the sun shines, and the fair breath of heaven gently wafts us to our own purposes. But if you will try the excellency, and feel the work of faith, place the man in a persecution; let him ride in a storm, let his bones be broken with sorrow, and his eyes loosened with sickness, let his bread be dipped with tears, and all the daughters of music be brought low; let us come to sit upon the margin of our grave, and let a tyrant lean hard upon our fortunes, and dwell upon our wrong; let the storm arise, and the keels toss till the cordage crack, or that all our hopes bulge under us, and descend into the hollowness of sad misfortunes. 1 In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk I But let the ruffman Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon, behold, The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cuts, Bounding between the two moist elements, Like Perseus' horse: where's then the saucy boat, Whose weak-untimber'd sides but even now Co-rivall'd greatness? —TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. See Bacon's beautiful "Essay on Adversity," where he says"But to speak in a mean, the virtue of prosperity is temperance, the virtue of adversity Is fortitude, which in morals is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Tetament, Adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols." 16604-1685.3 TAYJLOR 9 223 ON THE MISERIES OF A SIAN' S LIFE. How few men in the world are prosperous! What an infinite number of slaves and beggars, of persecuted and oppressed people, fill all corners of the earth with groans, and heaven itself with weeping, prayers and sad remembrances! If we could, from one of the battlements of heaven, espy how many men and women at this time lie fainting and dying for want of bread; how many young men are hewn down by the sword of war; how many poor orphans are now weeping over the graves of their father, by whose life they were enabled to eat; if we could but hear how mariners and passengers are at this present in a storm, and shriek out because their keel dashes against a rock or bulges under them; how many people there are that weep with want, and are mad with oppression, or are desperate by too quick a sense of constant infelicity; in all reason we should be glad to be out of the noise and participation of so many evils. This is a place of sorrows and tears, of so great evils and a constant calamity: let us remove from hence, at least, in affections and preparation of mind. THE DAWN AND PROGRESS OF REASON. Some are called at age at fourteen, some at one-and-twenty, some never; but all men late enough; for the life of a man comes upon him slowly and insensibly. But as when the sun approaches towards the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns, like those which decked the brows of Moses when he was forced to wear a veil, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly; so is a man's reason and his life. WHAT IS LIFE? It is a mighty change that is made by the death of every person, and it is visible to us who are alive. Reckon but from the sprightfulness of youth and the fair cheeks and full eyes of childhood, from the vigorousness and strong flexure of the joints of five-and-twenty, to the hollowness and dead paleness, to the loathsomeness and horror of a three days' burial, and we shall perceive the distance to be very great and very strange. But so have I seen a rose newly springing from the clefts of its hood, and at first it was fair as the morning, and full with the dew of heaven, as the 224 TAYLOR. EcHARLES IL lamb's fleece; but when the ruder breath had forced open its virgin modesty, and dismantled its too youthful and unripe retirements, it began to put on darkness and to decline to softness and the symptoms of a sickly age; it bowed the head and broke its stalk, and at night, having lost some of its leaves, and all its beauty, it fell into the portion of weeds and out-worn faces. So does the fairest beauty change, and it will be as bad with you and me; and then what servants shall we have to wait upon us in the grave? What friends to visit us? What officious people to cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, which are the longest weepers for our funerals? A man may read a sermon, the best and most passionate that ever man preached, if he shall but enter into the sepulchres of kings. In the same Escurial where the Spanish princes live in greatness and power, and decree war or peace, they have wisely placed a cemetery where their ashes and their glory shall sleep till time shall be no more: and where our kings have been crowned, their ancestors lie interred, and they must walk over their grandsire's head to take his crown. There is an acre sown with royal seed, the copy of the greatest change from rich to naked, from ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from living like gods to die like men. There is enough to cool the flames of lust, to abate the heights of pride, to appease the itch of covetous desires, to sully and dash out the dissembling colors of a lustful, artificial, and imaginary beauty. There the warlike and the peaceful, the. fortunate and the miserable, the beloved and the despised princes, mingle their dust, and pay down their symbol of mortality, and tell all the world that when we die, our ashes shall be equal to kings, and our accounts easier, and our pains for our crimes shall be less. To imy apprehension, it is a sad record which is left by Athenaeus concerning Ninus the great Assyrian monarch, whose life and death is summed up in these words: "Ninus the Assyrian had an ocean of gold, and other riches more. than the sand in the Caspian sea; he never saw the stars, and perhaps he never desired it; he never stirred up the holy fire among the Magi, nor touched his god with the sacred rod according to the laws: he never offered sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity, nor administered justice, nor spake to the people; nor numbered them; but he was most valiant to eat and drink, and having mingled his wines, he threw the rest upon the stones. This man is dead, behold his sepulchre, and now hear where Ninus is. Sometime I was Ninus, and drew the oreath of a living man, but now am nothing but clay. I have nothing but what I did eat, and what I served to myself in lust is all my portion: the wealth with which I was blessed, my enemies meeting together shall carry away, as the mad Thyades carry a 1C (o-16855.J COWLEY. 225 raw goat. I am gone to hell: and when I went thither, I neither carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. I, that wore a mitre, am now a little heap of dust."' ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1618-1667. ABRAHAM COWLEY is the first, in order of time, of the list of English poets whose works were edited, and whose lives were written by Doctor Johnson. He was born in London in 1618. His father, who was a grocer by trade, died before his birth; but his mother succeeded in procuring his admission into Westminster School as a king's scholar, where he became distinguished for correct classical scholarship. He very early imbibed a taste for poetryit is said from Spenser's Faerie Queene being thrown in his way; and in his sixteenth year he published a collection of verses under the appropriate title of Poetical Blossoms. In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge, where he continued to reside till 1643, when he removed to Oxford. From this time he took a very active part in the royal cause, and was employed on some missions of trust; and when, in the progress of the civil war, the queen was compelled to quit the kingdom, Cowley accompanied her to France, and was of material assistance to her, in managing the secret correspondence between herself and her royal consort. In 1656 he returned to England, and soon after his arrival published an edition of his poems, containing most of those which now appear in his works. When the Restoration came, he naturally looked for some reward for his long services in the royal cause. But alas! ",how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors." Cowley was destined to much bitter disappointment. At length he obtained the lease of a farm at Chertsey, by which his income was raised to about ~300 a year. But he did not live long to enjoy his retiremlent; for, taking a severe cold and fever by exposure, he died on July 28, 1667. At the time of his death, Cowley certainly ranked as the first poet in England, though tile Comus of Milton and some of his exquisite minor poems had been published nearly thirty years before. But what could be expected of an age that was stamped with the licentiousness of such a court as that of Charles II.2 Still, though Cowley has nothing of the reputation he once had, he has sufficient merit to give him a considerable rank among British poets. Dr. Johnson says, " It may be affirmed that he brought to his poetic labors a mind replete with learning, and that his pages are embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply; that he was the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gayety of the less; and that he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies and for lofty flights." His poetical works are divided into four parts-" Miscellanies," "Love Verses," "Pindaric O4-es," and the "'Davidies, a heroical poem of the Troubles of David." Of all these his Anacreontics are the most natural and pleasing.2 1 " He who wrote in this manner also wore a mitre, and is now a heap of dust; but when the name of Jeremy Taylor is no longer remembered with reverence, genius will have become a mockery, and virtue an empty shade i" —lazlitt. 2 The best edition of Cowley is that by Bishop Hurd, in three volumes: read also, Johnaon'e Life of C(owley in his "Lives of the British Poets." P 226 COWLEY. [CHARLES It. GOLD. A mighty pain to love it is, And'tis a pain that pain to miss, But, of all pains, the greatest pain It is to love, but Love in vain. Virtue now nor noble blood, Nor wit, by love is understood. Gold alone does passion move! Gold monopolizes love! A curse on her and on the man WVho this traffic first began! A curse on him who found the ore! A curse on him who digg'd the stoie A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it! A curse, all curses else above, On him who used it first in love! Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold, in families, debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create. These the smallest harms of it; Gold, alas! does love beget. THE GRASSHOPPER. Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill;'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently joy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear Prophet of the ripen'd year! Thee Phcebus loves, and does inspire; Phebus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know; 1660-1685.] COWLEY. 227 But when thou'st drunk, alnd danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. The following are four stanzas of one of his best pieces, entitled HYMN TO LIGHT. Hail! active Nature's watchful life and health! Her joy, her ornament, and wealth! Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee! Thou tile world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly Swiftness and Power by birth are thine; From thy great Sire they come, thy Sire, the Word Divine.. Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey, And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above The Sun's gilt tent for ever move, And still, as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Cowley's prose essays are much better than his poetry. Dr. Johnson, in speaking of them, says, " His thoughts are natural, and his style has a smooth and placid equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation. Nothing is far-sought or hard-labored; but all is easy without feebleness, and familiar without grossness:" and Dr. Drake, one of the most judicious of modern critics, remarks, that "' to Cowley we may justly ascribe the formation of a basis on which has since been constructed the present correct and admirable fabric of our language. His words are pure and well chosen, the collocation simple and perspicuous, and the members of his sentences distinct and harmonious.' ON MYSELF. It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and the reader's ears to hear any thing of praise from him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune, allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. As far as my memory can return back into my past life, before I knew or was capable of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave a secret bent of aversion from them, as some plants are said to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to them 228 COWLEY. [CHARLES II. selves, and inscrutable to man's understanding. Even when I was a very young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a book or with some one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. That I was then of the same mind as I am now, (which, I confess, I wonder at myself,) may appear at the latter end of an ode which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed, with many other verses. The beginning of it is boyish; but of this part which I here set down, (if a very little were corrected,) I should hardly now be much ashamed. This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honor I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone; Th' unknown are better than ill-known. Rumor can ope the grave: Acquaintance I would have; but when't depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. My house a cottage, more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, that happy state, I would not fear nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day. You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets, (for the conclusion is taken out of Horace;) and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of them which stamped first, or rather engraved, the characters in me. They were like letters cut in the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, still grow proportionably. But how this love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question: I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse as nave never since left ringing there: for I remember when I began to read, and take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother's parlour, (I know not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read any book but of devotion;) but there was wont t& lie Spenser's works; this I happened to fall upon, and 1660-1685.] COWLEY. 229 was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there, (though my understanding had little to do with all this;) and by degrees, with the tinkling of the rhyme, and dance of the numbers; so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelves years old. With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly set upon letters, I went to the university; but was soon torn from ttence by that public violent storm, which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even from the princely cedars to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could have befallen me in such a tempest; for I was cast by it into the family of one of the best persons, and into the court of one of the best princesses in the world. Now, though I was here engaged in ways most contrary to the original design of my life; that is, into much company, and no small business, and into a daily sight of greatness, both militant and triumphant, (for that was the state then of the English and the French courts;) yet all this was so far from altering mly opinion, that it only added the confirmation of reason to that which was before but natural inclination. I saw plainly all the paint of that kind of life, the nearer I came to it; and that beauty which I did not fall in love with, when, for aught I knew, it was real, was not like to bewitch or entice me when I saw it was adulterate. I met with several great persons whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their greatness was to be liked or desired, no more than I would be glad or content to be in a storm, though I saw many ships which rid safely and bravely in it. A storm would not agree with my stomach, if it did with my courage; though I was in a crowd of as good company as could be found anywhere, though I was in business of great and honorable trust, though I eat at the best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for present subsistence that ought to be desired by a man of my condition, in banishment and public distresses; yet I could not abstain from renewing my old schoolboy's wish, in a copy of verses to the same effect: Well, then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree, &c. And I never then proposed to myself any other advantage from his majosty's happy restoration, but the getting into some moderately convenient retreat in the country, which I thought in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as some others, who, with no greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived to extraordinary fortunes. THE PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE. The first wish of Virgil was,.o be a good philosopher; the second, a good husbandman; and God (whom he seemed to 20 230 COWLEY. [CHARLES II understand better than most of the most learned heathens) dealt with him just as he did with Solomon; because he prayed for wisdom in the first place, he added all things else which were subordinately to be desired. He made him one of the best philosophers and best husbandmen; and to adorn both those faculties, the best poet: he made him, besides all this, a rich man, and a man who desired to be no richer. To be a husbandman is but a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, from the world; or rather, a retreat from the world as it is man's, into the world as it is God's. But since nature denies to most men the capacity or appetite, and fortune allows but to a very few the opportunities or possibility of applying themselves wholly to philosophy, the best mixture of human affairs that we can make are the employments of a country life. We are here among the vast and noble scenes of nature; we are there (alluding to courts and cities) among the pitiful shifts of policy: we walk here in the light and open ways of the divine bounty; we grope there in the dark and confused labyrinths of human malice: our senses are here feasted with the clear and genuine taste of their objects, which are all sophisticated there, and for the most part overwhelmed with their contraries. Here pleasure looks (methinks) like a beautiful, constant, and modest wife; it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted harlot. Here is harmless and cheap plenty, there guilty and expenseful luxury. I shall only instance in one delight more, the most natural and best natured of all others, a perpetual companion of the husbandman; and that is, the satisfaction of looking round about him, and seeing nothing but the effects and improvements of his own art and diligence: to be always gathering of some fruits of it, and at the same time to behold others ripening, and others budding; to see all his fields and gardens covered with the beauteous creations of his own industry; and to see, like God, that all his works are good. CHARACTER OF CROMWELL.' What can be more extraordinary than that a person of mean b.rth, no fortune, no eminent qualities of body, which have sometimes, or of mind, which have often, raised men to the highest dignities, should have the courage to attempt, and the happiness to succeed in, so improbable a design as the destruction of one of the rmost ancient and most solidly-founded monarchies upon the earthl That he should have the power or boldness to put his prince and master to an open and infamous death; to banish that numerous I " Cowley's character of Oliver Cromwell, which is intended as a satire, (though it certainly pro daces a very different impression on the mind,) may vie for truth of outline and force of coloring with tne master-pieces of the Greek and Latin historians."-Hazitt. 1660-1685.] DAVENANT. 231 and strongly-allied family; to do all this under the name and wages of a parliament; to trample upon them too as he pleased, and spurn them out of doors when he grew weary of them; to raise up a new and unheard-of monster out of their ashes; to stifle that in the very infancy, and set up himself above all things that ever were called sovereign in England; to oppress all his enemies by arms, and all his friends afterwards by artifice; to serve all parties patiently for awhile, and to command them victoriously at last; to over-run each corner of the three nations, and overcome'with equal facility both the riches of the south and the poverty of the north; to be feared and courted by all foreign princes, and adopted a, brother to the gods of the earth; to call together parliaments with a word of his pen, and scatter them again with the breath of his mouth; to be humbly and daily petitioned that he would please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be the master of those who had hired him before to be their servant; to have the estates and lives of three kingdoms as much at his disposal as was the little inheritance of his father, and to be as noble and liberal in the spending of them; and lastly (for there is no end of all the particulars of his glory,) to bequeath all this with one word to his posterity; to die with peace at home, and triumph abroad; to be buried among kings, and with more than regal solemnity; and to leave a name behind him, not to be extinguished, but with the whole world; which, as it is now too little for his praises, so might have been too for his conquests, if the short line of his human life could have been stretched out to the extent of his immortal designs? SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1605-1668. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, though now read chiefly by the antiquary in English literature, had, in his lifetime, considerable celebrity as a writer. He was born in 1605 at Oxford, where his father kept an inn, and was educated at that university. He early began to write for the stage, and on Ben Jonson's death was made Poet-Laureate.l In the civil wars he held a considerable post in the army, and was knighted by the king; but on the decline of the royalists, whose cause he had espoused, he sought refuge in France, where 1 From the Latin laureatus, "crowned with laurel." Under the Roman emperors, poets contended at the public games, and the prize was a crown of oak or olive leaves. From this custom. most of the European sovereigns assumed the privilege of nominatinga court poet with various titles.,n England, traces of this office are found as early as the reign of Henry III., (1210-1272,) but the express itle, poet-laureate, does not occur till the reign of Edward IV., (1461-1483,) when John Kay received the appointment. The office was made patent by Charles I., and the salary fixed at ~100 per year, and a tierce of wine. In the reign of George III. the salary was increased, and the wine dispensed witlh, and also the custom of requiring annual odes. The succession of poets-lanreate has been, I believe, since Davenant's day, John Dryden, Nahum Tate, Nicholas Rowe, Laurence Eusdena Colley Cibber, William Whitehead, Thomas Warton, Henry James Pye, and Robert Southey, 232 DAVENANT. [CHARLES II. he wrote two books of his poem for which he is most known-his c" Gondi. bert"-under the patronage of Henrietta Maria, that "ill-fated, ill-advisea queen" of Charles I. By her he was despatched with a colony of artificers for Virginia. He had scarcely cleared the French coast when his vessel was taken by a parliamentary ship, and he was sent prisoner to Cowes Castle. Here, with great composure and manliness of mind, he continued his poem till he had carried through about one-half of what he designed, when he suddenly broke off, expecting immediately to be led to execution. His life, however, was spared, through the intercession of two aldermen of York, (whom Davenant had rescued from great peril in the civil wars,) united to the then all-powerful influence of Milton. After his release he supported himself by writing plays till the Restoration, when, beautiful to relate, it is believed that Milton himself was spared at his intercession, in return for his own preservation. The fame of Sir William Davenant rests principally on his heroic poem, Gondibert; the main story of which, as far as developed, is as follows. Duke Gondibert and Prince Oswald were renowned knights, in the reign of Aribert, king of Lombardy, 653-661. Oswald sought the hand of Rhodalind, the only daughter of Aribert, and heiress to the crown: but the king preferred Gondibert,-a choice in which Rhodalind fully concurred. It happened that "In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, Fresh, as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, The duke, with many lovers in his train, Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made." The duke, on his return from the chase, is surprised by an ambush, laid by the jealous Oswald. A parley succeeds, and it is finally agreed that the quar rel shall be decided by the two leaders and three of the chief captains on each side. The combat accordingly takes place. Oswald and two of his friends are slain, and a third wounded and disarmed. Oswald's men are therefore so enraged that they immediately commence a general attack upon Gondibert, who is victorious, though severely wounded. He retires to the house of Astragon, a famous physician, where he is scarcely recovered from his wounds before he receives others of a more gentle kind from the eyes of Birtha, the daughter of Astragon, by whose permission he becomes her professed but secret lover. While the friends of Oswald are forming schemes of revenge for their recent defeat, a messenger arrives from Aribert to signify his intention of honoring Gondibert with the hand of Rhodalind; and he and his daughter follow shortly afterwards. The duke is therefore obliged to accompany them back to the court, and leave behind that which is far more precious to him than a crown or Rhodalind. On parting from Birtha, he gives her an emerald ring, which had been for ages the token of his ancestors to their betrothed brides; and which, by its change of color, would indicate any change in his affection. The arrival of some of the party at the capital coneludes this singular and original fragment of a poem,-for a fragment it must be called, and we cannot but deeply regret that the author did not finish it.l "s In the character and love of Birtha," remarks an able critic, we have a 1 This poem uias divided the critics. Bishop Hurd, in his " Letters on Chivalry and Romance," finds fault with Davenant because he rejects all machinery and supernatural agency. On the other hand, Dr. Aikin ably defends him. Read-" Miscellanies in Prose, by John Aikin, M. D., and Letitia Barbauld:" also, the prefatory remarks in the fourth volume of Anderson's "British Poets;" also, some criticisms of Headley in his 1" Select Beauties," p. xlvi.: also, " Retrospective Review," ii. 304: Isla a tew good remarks in " Campbell's Specimens," iv. 97. 1660-1685.] DAVENANT. 233 picture of most absolute loveliness and dove-like simplicity. Never was that deihghtfal passion portrayed with a more chaste and exquisite pencil."' CHARACTER AND LOVE OF BIRTHA. To Astragon, heaven for succession gave One only pledge, and Birtha was her name; Whose mother slept, where flowers grew on her grave, And she succeeded her in face and fame. She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone With untaught looks and an unpractised heart; Her nets, the most prepared could never shun; For nature spread them in the scorn of art. She never had in busy cities been, Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'd with fears; Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin; And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. But here her father's precepts gave her skill, Which with incessant business fill'd the hours; In Spring, she gather'd blossoms for the still; In Autumn, berries; and in Summer, flowers. And as kind nature with calm diligence Her own free virtue silently employs, Whilst she, unheard, does ripening growth dispense So were her virtues busy without noise. Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends,' The busy household waits no less on her; By secret law, each to her beauty bends; Though all her lowly mind to that prefer. The just historians Birtha thus express, And tell how, by her sire's example taught, She served the wounded duke in life's distress, And his fled spirits back by cordials brought; Black melancholy mists, that fed despair Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervain clear'd; Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air, And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd. He that had served great Love with reverend heart, In these old wounds worse wounds from him endures; For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart, And she kills faster than her father cures. Her heedless innocence as little knew The wounds she gave, as those from Love she tooer; t " The longer we dwell upon this noble but unfinished monument of the genius of Sir William Davenant, the more does our admiration of it increase, and we regret that the unjust attacks which were made against it at the time, (or whatever else was the cause,) prevented its completion. It n.lght then, notwithstanding the prophetical oblivion to which Bishop Hurd has, with some acrimony, condemned it, have been entitled to a patent of nobility, and had its name inscribed upon the roll of epic aristocracy."-Ret. Rev. ii 324. 20* 234 DAVENANT. [CH ARLES IT. And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew; Which at their stars he first in triumph shook! Love lie had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before; But finds him now a bold unquiet guest; Who climbs to windows when we shut the door; And, enter'd, never lets the master rest. So strange disorder, now he pines for health, Makes him conceal this reveller with shame; She not the robber knows, yet feels the stealth, And never but in songs had heard his name. She, full of inward questions, walks alone, To take her heart aside in secret shade; But knocking at her breast, it seem'd or gone Or by confederacy was useless made; Or else some stranger did usurp its room; One so remote, and new in every thought, As his behavior shows him not at home, Nor the guide sober that him thither brought. With open ears, and ever-waking eyes, And flying feet, Love's fire she from the sight Of all her maids does carry, as from spies; Jealous, that what burns her, might give them light. Beneath a myrtle covert now does spend In maids' weak wishes, her whole stock of thought; Fond maids! who love with mind's fine stuff would mend Which Nature purposely of bodies wrought. She fashions him she loved of angels kind, Such as in holy story were employ'd To the first fathers from th' Eternal Mind. And in short visions only are enjoy'd. As eagles then, when nearest heaven they fly, Of wild impossibles soon weary grow; Feeling their bodies find no rest so high, And therefore perch on earthly things below: So now she yields; him she an angel deem'd Shall be a man, the name which virgins fear; Yet the most harmless to a maid he seem'd, That ever yet that fatal name did bear. Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart, Affection turns to faith; and then love's fire To heaven, though bashfully, she does impart; And to her mother in the heavenly choir. If I do love, (said she,) that love, 0 Heaven! Your own disciple. Nature, bred in me: Why should I hide the passion you have given, Or blush to show effects which you decree? 1660-1685.] DAVENANT. 235 And you, my alter'd mother, (grown above Gi eat nature, which you read and reverenced here,) Chide not such kindness, as you once call'd love, When you as mortal as my father were. This said, her soul into her breast retires; With Love's vain diligence of heart she dreams Herself into possession of desires, And trusts unanchor'd hope in fleeting streams: Already thinks the duke her own spoused lord, Cured, and again from bloody battle brought, Where all false lovers perish'd by his sword, The true to her for his protection sought. She thinks how her imagined spouse and she So much from heaven may by her virtues gain, That they by time shall ne'er o'ertaken be, No more than Time himself is overta'en. She thinks of Eden-life; and no rough wind In their pacific sea shall wrinkles make; That still her lowliness shall keep him kind, Her cares keep him asleep, her voice awake. She thinks, if ever anger in him sway, (The youthful warrior's most excused disease,) Such chance her tears shall calm, as showers allay The accidental rage of winds and seas. Thus to herself in day-dreams Birtha talks: The duke, (whose wounds of war are healthful grown,) To cure Love's wounds, seeks Birtha where she walks: Whose wandering soul seeks him to cure her own. Yet when her solitude he did invade, Shame (which in maids is unexperienced fear) Taught her to wish night's help to make more shade, That love (which maids think guilt) might not appear. And she had fled him now, but that he came So like an awed and conquer'd enemy, That he did seem offenceless, as her shame; As if he but advanced for leave to fly. Of his minor pieces, we have room but for the following beautiful SONG. The lark now leaves his watery nest, And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings; He takes this window for the east; And to implore your light, he sings, — Awake, awake, the morn will never rise. Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes, But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress walres. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. 236 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. [CHARLES II. MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. Died 1673. THIS lady was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born about the end of the reign of James the First. She early manifested a fondness for literary pursuits, and the greatest care was bestowed upon her education. Having been appointed one of the maids of honor to Henrietta Maria, the queen of Charles the First, she attended her when she fled to France, during the civil commotions; and having met with the Marquis of Newcastle at Paris, she there became his wife in 1645. Her lord, soon after their marriage, went to Antwerp to reside, and found her a most faithful and affectionate companion of his long and honorable exile. At the Restoration they returned to England. " The labors of no modern authoress can be compared, as to quantity, with those of our indefatigable duchess, who has filled nearly twelve volumes, folio, with plays, poems, orations, philosophical discourses, &c. I-Ier writings show that she possessed a mind of considerable power and activity, with much imagination, but not one particle of judgment or taste."! MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY. As I was musing by myself alone, My thoughts brought several things to work upon: At last came two, which diversely were drest, One Melancholy, t'other Mirth exprest; Here Melancholy stood in black array, &rnd Mirth was all in colors fresh and gay. Mirth. Mirth laughing came, and running to me, flung Her fat white arms about may neck, there hung, Embraced and kiss'd me oft, and stroked my cheek, Saying, she would no other lover seek: I'll sing you songs, and please you every day, Invent new sports to pass the time away; I'll keep your heart, and guard it from that thief, Dull Melancholy, Care, or sadder Grief, And make your eyes with Mirth to overflow; With springing blood your cheeks soon fat shall grow; Your legs shall nimble be, your body light, And all your spirits, like to birds in flight. -Mirth shall digest your meat, and make you strong, Shall give you health, and your short days prolong; Refuse me not, but take me to your wife; For I shall make you happy all your life. But Melancholy, she will make you lean, Your cheeks shall hollow grow, your jaws be seen; Your eyes shall buried be within your head, And look as pale as if you were quite dead; 1 Pev. Alexander Dyce's "Specimens of British Poetesses." Read, also, a very excellent notice of her in Sir Egerton Brydges's " Imaginative Biography," in which he remarks, " that considerable as is the alloy of absurd passages in many of her grace's compositions, there are few of them in which there are not proofs of an active, thinking, original mind. Her imagination was quick, copious, and sometimes even beautiful, yet her taste appears to have been not only uncultivated, but, perhaps, originally defective. 1660-1685.] DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 237 She'll make you start at every noise you hear, And visions strange shall to your eyes appear, rhus would it be, if you to her were wed: Nay, better far it were that you were dead. Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; She hates the light, and is in darkness found; Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, Which various shadows make against the wall. She loves nought else but noise which discord makes As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, And shrieking owls, which fly in th' night alone; The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; A mill, where rushing waters run about; The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; In hollow caves, thatch'd houses, and low cells, She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. Then leave her to herself alone to dwell, Let you and I in Mirth and Pleasure swell, And drink long lusty draughts from Bacchus' bowl, Until our brains on vaporous waves do roll; Let's joy ourselves in amorous delights; There's none so happy as the carpet knights. Melancholy.'Phen Melancholy, with sad and sober face, Complexion pale, but of a comely grace, With modest countenance thus softly spake May I so happly be your love to take? True, I am dull, yet by me you shall know More of yourself, and so much wiser grow; I search the depth and bottom of mankind, Open the eye of ignorance that's blind; All dangers to avoid I watch with care, And do'gainst evils that may come prepare; I hang not on inconstant fortune's wheel, Nor yet with unresolving doubts do reel; I shake not with the terrors of vain fears, Nor is my mind fill'd with unuseful cares; I do not spend my time, like idle Mirth, Which only happy is just at her birth; And seldom lives so long as to be old, But if she doth, can no affections hold; Mirth good for nothing is, like weeds doth grow, Or such plants as cause madness, reason's foe. Her face with laughter crumples on a heap, Which malres great wrinkles, and ploughs furrows deep; Her eyes do water, and her skin turns red, Her mouth doth gape, teeth bare, like one that's dead She fulsome is, and gluts the senses all, Offers herself, and comes before a call; Her house is built upon the golden sands, Yet no foundation has, whereon it stands; 288 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. [CHARLES II1 A palace'tis, and of a great resort, It makes a noise, and gives a loud report, Yet underneath the roof disasters lie, ~Beat down the house, and many kill'd thereby: I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun, Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; In summers hot, down in a shade I lie, My music is the buzzing of a fly; I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass, In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone: Although'tis plain, yet cleanly'tis within, Like to a soul that's pure and clear from sin; And there I dwell ih quiet and still peace, Not fill'd with cares how riches to increase; I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures, No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. Thus am I solitary, live alone, Yet better loved the more that I am known; And though my face ill-favor'd at first sight, After acquaintance it will give delight. Refuse me not, for I shall constant be, Maintain your credit and your dignity. OF THE THEME OF LOVE O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme! Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. But now thy tree is left so bare and poor, That they can hardly gather one plum more. THE FUNERAL OF CALAMITY. Calamity was laid on Sorrow's hearse, And coverings had of melancholy verse; Compassion, a kind friend did mourning go, And tears about the corpse, as flowers, strow, A garland of deep sighs, by Pity made, Upon Calamity's sad corpse was laid; Bells of complaints did ring it to the grave, Poets of monument of fame it gave. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 239 JOHN MILTON. 1608-1674. Is not each great, each amiable Muse Of classic ages, in thy Milton met t A genius universal as his theme; Astonishing as Chaos; as the bloom Of blowing Eden fair; as Heaven sublime. THOMSON Nor second ME, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. GRAY. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice, whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness: and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. WoRDSWORTTH. FAR above all the poets of his own age, and, in learning, invention, ana sublimity, without an equal in the whole range of English literature, stands JOHN MILTONr. He was born in London, December 9, 1608. His father. who was a scrivener, and who had suffered much for conscience' sake, doubtless infused into his son those principles of religious freedom which made him, in subsequent years, the bulwark of that holy cause in England. He was also early instructed in music, to which may doubtless be attributed that richness and harmony of his versification which distinguished him as much as his learning and imagination. His early education was conducted with great care. At sixteen he entered the University of Cambridge. After leaving the university, where he was distinguished for his scholarship, he retired to the house of his father, who had relinquished business, ar!d had purchased a small property at Horton in Buckinghamshire. Here he lived five years, devoting his time most assiduously to classical literature, making the wellknown remark that he,s CARED NOT HOW LATE HE CAME INTO LIFE, ONLY THAT HE CA/tE PIT." While in the university he had written his grand 1" Hymn on the Nativity, any one verse of which was sufficient to show that a new and great light was about to rise on English poetry:" and there, at his father's, he wrote his 4" Comus," and c" Lycidas," his " L'Allegro," and " It Penseroso," and his ", Arcades." In 1638 he went to Italy, the most accomplished Englishman that ever visited her classical shores. Here his society was courted by 1" the choicest Italian wits," and he visited Galileo,' then a prisoner in the Inquisition. On his return home, he opened a school in London, and devoted himself with great assiduity to the business of instruction. In the mean time, lie entered into tihe religious disputes of the day, engaging in the controversy smgie. handed against all the royalists and prelates; and though numbering among 1 The Tuscan artist." Paradise Lost, book i. line 288. 240 MILTON. [CHARLES MI his antagonists such men as Bishop Hall and Archbishop Usher, proving himself equal to them all. In 1643 he married the daughter of Richard Powell, a nigh royalist; but the connection did not prove a happy one, his wife being utterly incapable of appreciating the loftiness and purity of the poet's character. In 1649 he was appointed foreign secretary under Cromwell, which office he held till the death of Cromwell, 1658. For ten years Milton's eyesight had been failing, owing to the c" wearisome studies and midnight watchings" of his youth. The last remains of it were sacrificed in the composition of his " Defensio Populi," (Defence of the People of England;) and by the close of the year 1652 he was totally blind: "Dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon." At the Restoration he was obliged to conceal himself till the publication of the act of oblivion released him from danger. He then devoted himself exclusively to study, and especially to the composition of "Paradise Lost." The idea of this unequalled poem was probably conceived as early as 1642. It was published in 1667. For the first and second editions the blind poet received but the sum of five pounds each! In 1671 he produced his "Paradise Regained," and "c Samson Agonistes." A long sufferer from an hereditary disease, his life was now drawing to a close. His mind was calm and bright to the last, and he died without a struggle, on Sunday, the 8th of November, 1674. It is hardly necessary here to make any criticisms upon the works of this "' greatest of great men," as essays almost numberless may be found upon his life and writings.' His chief poetical works are-1. His 1" Paradise Lost," in twelve books, which is an account of the temptation and fall of our first parents. 2. " Paradise Regained," in four books, depicting the temptation and triumph of " the second Adam, the Lord from Heaven." 3. ", Samson Agonlstes,"2 a dramatic poem, relating the incidents of the life of the great champion of the Israelites, from the period of his blindness to the catastrophe that ended in his death. 4. "'Lycidas," a monody on the death of a beloved 1 The best edition of Milton's poetry is that of Todd: London, 1809, 7 vols. This contains the invaluable verbal index. Another excellent edition has been edited by Sir Egerton Brydges, in 6 vols., the first volume of which is taken up with his life, written with that taste and discrimination so characteristic of the author, to whom English literature is under lasting obligations. The best edition of his prose works is by Symmons, 7 vols. 8vo. His prose and poetry have been published in London in one large royal 8vo. An edition of his prose works has been edited in this country by the Rev. Rufus W. Griswold. An eloquent Essay on Milton may be found in Macaulay's Miscellanies; another in the Retrospective Review, xiv. 282; and another in the London Quarterly, xxxvi. 29. In the following numbers of the Spectator, Addison has written a series of admirable criticisms on the "Paradise Lost:" 262, 267, 273, 279, and so on for fifteen more numbers, at intervals of six, being published every Saturday. In No. 76 of the Observer, by Cumberland, there are some remarks upon the " Samson Agonistes." Consult, also, Hallamns "Literature of Europe;" and read an admirable article on Milton in Dr. Channing's works. Of Johnson's "Life," Sir Egerton Brydges justly remarks: "It is written in a bad, malignant, and even vulgar spirit. The language is sometimes coarse, and the humor pedantic and gross. The criticism on the Paradise Lost is powerful and grand: the criticism on the other poems is mean, false, and execrable — Imaginative Biography, i. 149. Of Addison's "Essay," the same writer says: "It ought to be suadied and almost got by heart by every cultivated mind which understands the English language. It is in all respects a masterly performance; just in thought, full of taste and the finest sensibility, eloquent and beautiful in composition, widely learned, and so clearly explanatory of the true principles of poetry, that whoever is master of them cannot mistake in his decision of poetical merit. It puts Milton above all other poets on such tests as cannot be resisted."Life, i. 221. 2 That is, "the champion," "the combatant," from the Greek ayowvwcsrS, (agonistes,) "a combatant at the public games." 1660-1685.j M ILTON. 241 friend, (Mr. Edward King,) who was shipwrecked in the Irish Sea. 5. c"L'Allegro," an ode to mirth. 6. "I1 Penseroso," an ode to melancholy. 7. "Comus, a mask," the purest and most exquisite creation of the imagination and fancy in English literature. 8. "Arcades,"' a part of a mask. 9'"Hymn on the Nativity." 10. "Sonnets." ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST S NATIVITY.2 This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded Maid and Virgin-Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. II. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal-Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the Heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? TV. See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet; O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 1 " Arcades," that is, the Arcadian shepherds: of course, It is of a pastoral character. 2 "When it is recollected that this piece was produced by the author at the age of twenty-one, all deep thinkers, of fancy and sensibility, must pore over it with delighted wonder. The vigor, the grandeur, the imaginativeness of the conception; the force and maturity of language; the bound, the gathering strength, the thundering roll of the metre; the largeness of the views; the extent of the learning; the solemn and awful tones; the enthusiasm, and a certain spell in the epithets, which puts the reader into a state of mysterious excitement,-all these may be better felt than described."-S-iFgierton Brydges. ~Q ~ 21 242 MILTON. [CHARLE IN. HYIN. It was the winter wild, WBhile the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize; It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Iv. No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. V. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. TI. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer, that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. TIII. The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. IX. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook 1660-1685.] MILTON. 243 Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasures loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. XIX. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous humn Runs through the arched roof in word, leceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. XX. The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent: With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, mourn XXIr. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; rn urns and altars round, A drear and dying so-und Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat XXVII. But see, the Virgin bless'd Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time it, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending. And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. IYCIDAS.' In this Monody, the author bewails a learned fiiend, unfortunately drowned in tus passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637: and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 1 This poem was made upon the unfortunate and untimely death of Mr. Edward King, son of Sil John King, Secretary for Ireland, a fellow collegian and intimate friend of Milton, who, as he was going to visit his relations in Ireland, was drowned, August 10, 1637, in the 25th year of his age. Dr Newton has observed, that Lycidas is with great judgment made of the pastoral kind, as both Mr. 244 MILTON. [CHARLES IL I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude; And. with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: 5 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring! Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn; 20 And, as he passes, turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25 Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star, that rose at evening, bright, 30 Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute; King and Milton had been designed for holy orders and the pastoral care, which gives a peculiar propriety to several passages in it. Addison says, " that he who desires to know whether he has a true taste for history or not, should consider whether he is pleased with Livy's manner of telling a story; so, perhaps it may be said, that he who wishes to know whether he has a true taste for poetry or not, should consider whether he is highly delighted or not with the perusal of Milton's Lycidas." —J. Warton. "' Whatever stern grandeur Milton's two epics and his drama, written in his latter days, exhibit; by whatever divine invention they are created; Lycidas and Comus have a fluency, a sweetness, a melody, a youthful freshness, a dewy brightness of description, which those gigantic poems have not...... The prime charm of poetry, the rapidity and the novelty, yet the natural association of beautiful ideas, is pre-eminently exhibited in Lycidas; and it strikes me, that there is no poenl of Milton, in which the pastoral and rural imagery is so breatlfing, so brilliant, and so new as this."-Sir Egerton Brydges. " I shall never cease to consider this monody as the sweet effusion of a most poetic and tender mind; entitled as well by its beautiful melody as by the frequent grandeur of its sentiments and language, to the utmost enthusiasm of admiration." —Todd. Line 3. This is a beautiful allusion to the unripe age of his friend, in which death "shatter'd his leaves before the mellowing year." L. 15. "The sacred well," Helicon. L. 25. "From the regularity of his pursuits, the purity of his pleasures, his temperance, and general simplicity of life, Milton habitually became an early riser; hence he gained an acquaintance with the beauties of the morning, which he so frequently contemplated with delight, and has therefore so repeatedly described in all their various appearances." —T. Warton. L 27. "We drove afield," that is, we drove our flocks afield. 1 28. The "sultry horn," is the sharp huns of this insect at noon. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 245 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35 And old Damcetas loved to hear our song. But, 0, the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn: The willows, and hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-tborn blows; — Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 55 Ay me! I fondly dream! Had ye been there-for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal Nature did lament, 60 When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, 65 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Necera's hair? Faime is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 75 And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Line 50. "Where were ye l" " This burst is as magnificent as it is affecting."-Sir E. B)rydges. L. 58. Reference is' here made to Orpheus, torn in pieces by the Bacchanalians, whose murderers are called "the rout." "Lycidas, as a poet, is here tacitly compared with Orpheus: they were both also victims of the water."-T. Warton. L. 70, &c. "No lines have been more often cited, and more popular than these; nor more justly Instructive and inspiriting."-Sir Egerton Brydges. L. 76. "But not the praise;" that is, but the praise is not intercepted. "While the poet, in ftle character of a shepherd, is moralizing on the uncertainty of human life, Phoebus interposes with a sublime strain, above the tone of pastoral poetry: he then, in an abrupt and elliptical apostrophe, at'O fountain Arethuse;' hastily recollects himself, and apologizes to his rural Muse, or in other words to Arethusa and Mincius, the celebrated streams of bucolic song, for having so suddenly departed from pastoral allusions and the tenor of b's subject."-T. Warton. 246 MILTON. [CHARLES II. Pheabus replied, and toueh'd my trembling ears; " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; 80 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove: As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." 0 fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, 85 Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea: 90 He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story; 95 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd; It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,. His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 1 05 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. Ah! who bath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 110 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115 Line 91. "The felon winds," that is, the cruel winds. L. 94. "A beaked promontory" is one projecting like the beak of a bird. L. 96. "Hippotades," a patronymic noun, the son of HIippotas, that is, MEolus. L. 101. The shipwreck was occasioned not by a storm, but by the ship's being unfit for such a navigation. L. 103. "Camus." This is the river Cam, on the borders of which was the University of Cambridge, where Lycidas was educated. L. 104. The "hairy mantle" joined with the " sedge bonnet" may mean the rushy or reedy banks of the Cam; and the "figures dimn" refer, it is thought, to the indistinct and dusky streaks on sedge leaves or flags when dried. L. 109. "The pilot of the Galilean lake," the apostle Peter. I. 114. He here animadverts on the endowments of the church, at the same time insinuating that they were shared by those only who sought the emoluments of the sacred office, to the exclusion of a learned and conscientious clergy. Thus in Paradise Lost, iv. 193, alluding t9 Satan, he says:So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold; So since imto his church lewd hirelings climb. 1660-1685.] MILTON.:247 Of other care they little reckoning nmake, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest! Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, o: have learn'd aught else the least 120 That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! What reeks it them? What need they? They are sied; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw: The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed; 125 But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed: But that two-handed engine at the door 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing broolks, On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks; Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 1,10 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, L45 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150 So, in his sixteenth Sonnet, written in 1652, he supplicates C. omwell To save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. Line 124. "Scrannel" is thin, lean, meagre. "A scrannel pipe of straw is contemptuously used for Virgil's'tenuis avena.' "-T. Warton. L. 129. "Nothing said." By this Milton clearly alludes to those prelates and clergy of the established church who enjoyed fat salaries without performing any duties: who "sheared the sheep bu. did not feed them." L. 130, 131. ",In these lines our author anticipates the execution of Archbishop Laud by a'twohanded engine,' that is, the axe; insinuating that his death would remove all grievances in religion, and complete the reformation of the church."-T. Warton. The sense of the passage is, "But there will soon be an end of these evils; the axe is at hand, to take off the head of him who has been the great abettor of these corruptions of the gospel. This will be done by one stroke." L. 133. " That shrunk thy streams," that is, that silenced my pastoral poetry. The Siciliasl muse is now to return with all her store of rural imagery. "The imagery here is from the noblest source."-Brydges. L. 136. "Use," in the sense of to haunt, to inhabit. See Halliwell's " Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words," 2 vols. 8vo. L. 138. "Swart" is swarthy, brown. The do.-star is called the "swart-star," by turinmg the effect into the cause 248 MILTON. [CItARLES IT To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; 155 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth: And, 0 ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 165 Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor: So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, WTith nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the bless'd kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and, singing, in their glory move, 180 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 Line 154. "Ay me I" "Here," Mr. Dunster observes, "the burst of grief is infinitely beautiful, when properly connected with what precedes it and to which it refers." L. 158. " Monstrous world," that is, the sea, the world of monsters. L. 160. " Bellerus," the name of a Cornish giant. On the southwestern shores of Cornwall there Is a stupendous pile of rock-work called the "giant's chair;" and not far from Land's End is another most romantic projection of rock called St. Michael's Mount. There was a tradition that the " Vision" of St. Michael, seated on this crag, appeared to some hermits. The sense of this line and the following, taken with the preceding, is this:-"Let every flower be strewed on the hearse where Lycidas lies, so to flatter ourselves for a moment with the notion that his corpse is present; and this, (ah me 1) while the seas are wafting it here and there, whether beyond the Hebrides or near the shores of Cornwall, &c." L. 162. "aNamancos" is marked in the early editions of Mercator's Atlas as in Gallicia, on the northwest coast of Spain, near Cape Finisterre. Bayona is the strong castle of the French, in the southwestern extremity of France, near the Pyrenees. In that same atlas this castle makes a very conspicuotit figure. L. 163. "Here is an apostrophe to the angel Michael, seated on the guarded mount.' Oh angel, look no longer seaward to Namancos and Bayona's hold: rather turn your eyes to another object: look homeward or landward; look towards your own coast now, and view with pity the corpse of the shipwrecked Lycidas floating thither.' "-T. Warton. L. 181 "And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes." —Isa. xxv. 8; Rev. vii. 17. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 249 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190 And now was dropp'd into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. SCENE FROM COMUS.1 A wild wood. The lady enters. Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, My best guide now: methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, When for their teeming flocks and granges full, In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence Of such late wassailers; 2 yet, 0! where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? L. 188. By "stops" Milton here means what we now call the holes of a flute or any species of pipe. L. 189. This is a Doric lay, because Theocritus and Moschus had respectively written a bucolic on the deaths of Daphnis and Bion. 1 The fable of Comus is this. A beautifullady, attended by her two brothers, is jouirneying through a dreary wood. The brothers become separated from their sister, who is met by Comus, the god of low pleasures, who, with his followers, holds his orgies in the night. He addresses her in the disguised character of a peasant, but she resists all his arts, and Comus and his crew are put to flight by the brothers, who come in time to rescue their sister. The object of the poem is to show the full power of true virtue and chastity to triumph over allthe assaults of wickedness; or, in the language of Shakspeare-That virtue never will be moved, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven. " Comus," says Sir Egerton Brydges, " is the invention of a beautiful fable, enriched with shadowy beings and visionary delights: every line and word is pure poetry, and the sentiments are as exquisite as the images. It is a composition which no pen but Milton's could have produced." It seems that an accidental event which occurred to the family of Milton's patron, John Egerton, Earl of Bridgewater, then keeping his court at Ludlow castle, gave birth to this fable. The earl's two sons and daughter, Lady Alice, were benighted, and lost their way in Heywood-forest; and the two brothers, in the attempt to explore their path, left the sister alone, in a track of country rudely inhabited. On these simple facts the poet raised a superstructure of such fairy spells and poetical delight as has never since been equalled. 2 Wassail, from the Anglo-Saxon woes hel, "be in health." It was anciently the pledge word in drinking, equivalent to the modern "your health." The bowl in which the liquor was presented was called the wassail-bowl, and as it was peculiar to scenes of revelry and festivity, the term wassail in time became synonymous with feasting and carousing. Thus, in Shakspeare, Lady Macbeth declares that she will "convince (that is, overpower) the two chamberlains of Duncan with wine and wasseCl" and Ben Jonson, giving an account of a rural feast, says: The rout of rural folk come thronging in, Their rudeness then is thought no sinThe jolly wassel walks the often round, And in their cups their cares are drown'd. 250 MILTON. [CHARLES II I cannot halloo to my brothers, but Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest, I'll venture; for my new-enliven'd spirits Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off. Song.l Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen Within thy aery shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroider'd vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? 0 if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere! So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. Enter Conmus. Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven-down Of darkness, till it smiled! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the sirens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept, And chid her barking waves into attention, And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause: Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense, And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; But such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss, I never heard till now.-I'll speak to her, And she shall be my queen.-Hail, foreign wonder! 2 Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, Unless the goddess that in rural shrine Dwell'st-here with Pan, or Sylvan; by blest song 1 "The songs of this poem are of a singular felicity; they are unbroken streams of exquisite ima gery, either imaginative or descriptive, with a dance of numbers which sounds like aerial music: for Instance, the Lady's song to Echo."-Brydges. 2 "1 Comus's address to the lady is exceedingly beautiful in every respect; but all readers will acknowledge that the style of it is much raised by the expression' unless the goddess,' an elliptical expression, unusual in our language, though common enough in Greek and Latin. But if we were to fill it up and say,'unless thou beest the goidess,' how flat and insipid would it make the compositio,u, compared with what it is."-Lord Monboddo. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 251 Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog To touch the prosperous growth of this tal. wood. Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise That is address'd to unattending ears; Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift How to regain my sever'd company, Compell'd me to awake the courteous Echo To give me answer from her mossy couch. Com. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus? Lady. Dim darkness, and this leavie labyrinth. Corn. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides? Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring. Corn. And left your fair side all unguarded, lady? Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick return. Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit! Co'm. Imports their loss, beside the present need? Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. Corn. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom? Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips. Corn. Two such I saw, what time the labor'd ox In his loose traces from the furrow came, And the swink'd 1 hedger at his supper sat; I saw them under a green mantling vine, That crawls along the side of yon small hill, Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots: Their port was more than human as they stood: I took it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element, That in the colors of the rainbow live, And play in the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck, And, as I pass'd, I worshipp'd; if those you seek, It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them. Lady. Gentle villager, What readiest way would bring me to that place? Corn. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, In such a scant allowance of star-light, Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. Comrn. I know each lane, and every alley green, Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood, And every bosky bourn from side to side, My daily walks and ancient neighborhood; And if your stray attendants be yet lodged, Or shroud within these limits, I shall know Ere morrow wake, or the luw-roosted lark From her thatch'd pallet rouse; if otherwise, I can conduct you, lady, to a low But loyal cottage, where you may be safe Till farther quest. 1'" Swink'd," i. e. tired, fatigued. 52- MILTON. [CHARLES II. Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word, And trust thy honest offer'd courtesy, Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds WTith smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls And courts of princes, where it first was named, And yet is most pretended: in a place Less warranted than this, or less secure, I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.Eye me, bless'd Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength!-Shepherd, lead on. INVOCATION TO LIGHT.1 Hail, holy Light! offspring of heaven first-born, Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblamed'.2 since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dweltfrom eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream,3 Whose fountain who shall tell i 4 Before the sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn; while in my flight, Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, I sung of Chaos and eternal Night; Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,5 That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget Those other two equall'd with me in fate, So were I equall'd with them in renown, 1 "This celebrated complaint, with which Milton opens the third book, deserves all the praises which have been given it."-Addison. 2 That is, may I, without blame, call thee the co-eternat beam of the Eternal God. J Or rather dost thou hear this address, dost thou rather to be called, pure ethereal stream t 4 As in Job xxxviii. 19, " Where is the way where light dwelleth?" 5 Kedron and Siloas. "He still was pleased to study the beauties of the ancient poets, but his highest delight was in the Songs of Sion, in the holy Scriptures, and in these he meditated day and night. Tlde is the sends of the passage stripped of its poetical ornaments."-Newton. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 253 Blind Thlamyris, and blind Mmeonides,l And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old: Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. Paradise Lost, III. 1. EVE S ACCOUNT OF HER CREATION. That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed, Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved, Pure as the expanse of heaven: I thither went With unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appear'd, Bending to look on me: I started back, It started back; but pleased I soon return'd, Pleased it return'd as soon, with answering looks Of sympathy and love: there I had fix'd Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warn'd me: "What thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself; With thee it came and goes; but follow me, And I will bring thee where no shadow stays Thny coming and thy soft embraces; he Whose image thou art: him thou shalt enjoy 1 MIteonides is Homer. Thamyris was a Thracian, and invented the Doric mood or measure, Niresias and Phineus, the former a Theban, the latter a king of Arcadia, were famous blind bards of antiquity. Milton uses the word "prophet" in the sense of the Latin vates, which unites the character of prophet and poet. Indeed, throughout Milton's poetry there are words and phrases perpetu ally occurring that are used in their pure Latin sense, the beauties of which none but a classical scholar can fully appreciate. This, of itself, is a.sufficient answer, if there were not a dozen others. to the senseless question so often asked, " What is the use of a girl's studying Latin I" 22 254 MILTON. [CHARLES I Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd Mother of human race." What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led? Till I espied thee, fair indeed, and tall, Under a platane; yet, methought, less fair, Less winning soft, less amiably mild, Than that smooth watery image: back I turn'd; Thou, follovwing, criedst aloud, " Return, fair Eve; Whom fliest thou? whom thou fliest, of him thou art, His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, Substantial life, to have thee by my side Henceforth an individual solace dear. Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim, My other half." With that, thy gentle hand Seized mine: I yielded; and from that time see How beauty is excell'd by manly grace, And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. Paradise Lost, T1r. 449. EVENING IN PARADISE. Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased: now glow'd the firmament VWith living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen. unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve: "Fair consort, the houx Of night, and all things now retired to rest, Mind us of like repose; since God hath set Labor and rest, as day and night, to men Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines Our eyelids; other creatures all day long Rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest: Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity, And the regard of heaven on all his ways: While other animals unactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labor, to reform Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop ttl hir wanlton growth 1660-1685.] MILTON. 255 Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease; Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd: "My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st UnargLed I obey; so God ordains. God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing, I forget all time; All seasons, and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild: then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train: But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night, Witll this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. But wherefore all night long shine these? For whom this glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?" To whom our general ancestor replied:'Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve, lhose have their course to finish round the earth By morrow evening; and from land to land [n order, though to nations yet unborn, Ministering light prepared, they set and rise; Lest total darkness should by night regain [ler old possession, and extinguish life in nature and all things; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm, Temper or nourish, or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none, That heaven would want spectators, God want praise: Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep: All these with ceaseless praise his works behold Both day and night. How often, from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their Great Creator! oft in bands 256 MILTON. [CHARLES II While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds, In full harmonic number join'd, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven." Thus tallring, hand in hand alone they pass'd On to their blissful bower: it was a place Chosen by the sovran Planter, when he framed All things to man's delightful use: the roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and jessamin, Rear'd high their fiourish'd heads between, and wrought Mosaic; under-foot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broider'd the ground, more color'd than with stone Of costliest emblem: other creature here, Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none, Such was their awe of man! In shadier bower More sacred and sequester'd, though but feign'd, Pan or Sylvanus never slept; nor nymph Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess, With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, Espoused Eve deck'd first her nuptial bed; And heavenly quires the hymenean sung, What day the genial angel to our sire Brought her, in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely than Pandora; whom the gods Endow'd with all their gifts; and, O! too like In sad event, when to the unwiser son Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire. Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, Both turn'd, and under open sky adored The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole: "Thou also madest the night, Maker Omnipotent! and thou the day Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place, For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promised from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And. when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." Paradise Lost, IV. 598. 1it60-1685.] MILTON. 257 ROBIE. 1 The city which thou seest no other deem Than great and glorious Rome, queen of the earth, So far renown'd, and with the spoils enrich'd Of nations: there the Capitol thou seest Above the rest lifting his stately head On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine, The imperial palace, compass huge, and high The structure, skill of noblest architects, With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, Turrets and terraces, and glittering spires. Many a fair edifice besides, more like Houses of gods, (so well I have disposed My aery microscope,) thou mayst behold Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs, Carved work, the hand of famed artificers, In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold. Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entering in; Prietors, proconsuls to their provinces Hasting, or on return, in robes of state, Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power, Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings: Or embassies from regions far remote In various habits, on the Appian road, Or on the Emilian; some from farthest south, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, MerGe Nilotick isle, and, more to west, The realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor sea; From the Asian kings, and Parthian among these; From India and the golden Chersonese, And utmost Indian isle Taprobane, Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreathed; From Gallia, Gades, and the British west; Germans and Scythians, and Sarmathians, north Beyond Danubius to the Taurick pool. Paradise Regained, IV. 44. ATHENS. Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount, Westward, much nearer by south-west; belold Where on the _gean shore a city stands, Built nobly; pure the air, and light the soil; Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence, native to famous wits, Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City, or suburban, studious walks and shades; 1 Satan, persisting in the temlptation of our Lord, shows him imperial Rome in its greatest pomp and splendor, and tells him that he might easily expel the Emperor Tiberius, and take possession of the whole himself, and thus possess the world. Baffled in this, he next points out to him the celebrated seat of ancient learning, Athens, and its celebrated schools of philosophy; pronouncing a highly finished panegyric on the Grecian musicians, poets, orators, and philosophers of the different sects a9. 258 MILTON. [CHARLES IX. See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls His whispering stream: within the walls then view The schools of ancient sages; his who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next: There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit By voice or hand; and varidus-measured verse, ]Eolian charms and Dorian lyric odes, And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd, Whose poem Phcebus challenged for his own: Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught In chorus or iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight received In brief sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life; High actions, and high passions best describing: Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne: To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear, From Heaven descended to the low-roof'd house Of Socrates; see there his tenement, Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams, that water'd all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe: These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home, Till time mature thee to a kingdom's weight: These rules will render thee a king complete Within thyself; much more with empire join'd. Paradise Regained, IV.'231 SAMSON S LAMENTATION FOR HIS BLINDNESS. O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! Blind among enemies, 0 worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age! Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eased, Inferior to the vilest now become Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me: They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, Within doors or without, still as a fool, 1660-1685.] MILTON. 269 In power of others, never in my own; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,' Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day! O first-created Beam, and thou great Word,' "Let there be light, and light was over all;" Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree 2 The sun to me is dark, And silent as the moon, When she deserts the niglt, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true That light is in the soul, She all in every part; why was this sight To such a tender ball as the eye confined, So obvious and so easy to be quench'd? And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused, That she might look at will through every pore? Then had I not been thus exiled from light, As in the land of darkness, yet ill light, To live a life half dead, a living death, And buried; but, O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave; Buried, yet not exempt, By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs; But made hereby obnoxious more To all the miseries of life, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes. Samson Agonistes, 67. SONNET ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS.2 When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talents which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; " Doth God exact day-labor, light denied!" I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best 1 ", Few passages in poetry are so affecting as this; and the tone of the expression is peculiarly Miltonic."-Brydges. 2 1 Milton's sonnets are, in easy majesty and severe beauty, unequalled by any other compositions of the kind."-Rev. Alexander Dyce. " Of all the sonnets of Milton, I am most inclined to prefer that'On Iis Blindness.' It has, to my weak taste, such various excellences as I am unequal to praise sufficiently. It breathes doctrines at once so sublime and consolatory, as to gild the gloomy paths of our existence here with a new and singular light."-Brydges. 3 He speaks here with allusion to the parable of the talents, Matt. xxv., and with great modesty of himself, as if he had not five, or two, but only one talent. 260 MILTON. [CCHARLES II. Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait." TO CYRIACK SKINNER.1 Cyriack, this three years day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope;2 but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence,3 my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content though blind, had I no better guide. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee but pity and ruth. Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure, Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. The prose works of Milton4 are scarcely less remarkable than his poetry. lThey are mostly of a controversial character in R, ligion and Politics, and, as such, have lost some of the interest with which they were invested in the 1 Cyriack Skinner was the son of William Skinner, Esq., a merchant of London. Wood says that'lhe was an ingenious young gentleman, and a scholar to John Milton." 2," Of heart or hope," &c. "One of Milton's characteristics was a singular fortitude of mind, arising from a consciousness of superior abilities, and a conviction that his cause was just."- Warton. 3 When Milton had entered upon the labor of writing his " Defence of the People of England," one of his eyes was almost gone, and the physicians predicted the loss of both if he proceeded. But he says, "I did not long balance whether my duty should be preferred to my eyes." And yet (pioir pudor!) this masterly work was, at the Restoration, ordered to be burnt by the common hangman I 4," The summit of fame is occupied by the poet, but the base of the vast elevation may justly be said to rest on lhs prose works; and we invite his admirers to descend from the former, and survey the region that lies round about the latter;-a less explored, but not less magnificent dornain."-Brydges "The prose writings of Milton deserve the attention of every man who wishes to become acquainted with the full power of the English language. They abound with passages compared witl which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance." —Iacaulay. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 261 stormy and eventful times in which his lot was cast; but they c"breatho throughout," says Burnett, "that sublime, ethereal spirit, peculiar only to him. We are continually astonished and delighted at his never-failing abundance of sentiments and imagery-at that majestic stream and swell of thoughts with which his mind always flows. He was a man essentially great; and whoever wishes to form his language to a lofty and noble style-his character to a fervid sincerity of soul, will read the works of Milton." Milton early commenced his ecclesiastical controversies, and in 1642 published " The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy." The following is a part of the preface of the second book, and is particularly remarkable as giving a prophetic assurance of the proudest monument of his fame-PARADISE LOST. MILTON CONSECRATES HIS POWERS TO THE CAUSE OF. TRUTH-HIS STUDIES AND PREPARATION FOR HIS GREAT WORK. Surely to every good and peaceable man, it must in nature needs be a hateful thing to be the displeaser and molester of thousands; much better would it like him doubtless to be the messenger of gladness and contentment, which is his chief intended business to all mankind, but that they resist and oppose their own happiness. But when God commands to take the trumpet and blow a dolorous or jarring blast, it lies not in man's will what he shall say or what he shall conceal. If he shall think to be silent as Jeremiah did, because of the reproach and derision he met with daily, s"and all his familiar friends watched for his halting," to be revenged on him for speaking the truth, he would be forced to confess as he confessed; "his word was in my heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones; I was weary with forbearing, and could not stay." Which might teach these times not. suddenly to condemn all things that are sharply spoken or vehemently written as proceeding out of stomach virulence and ill-nature; but to consider rather, that if the prelates have leave to say the worst that can be said, or do the worst that can be done, while they strive to keep to themselves, to their great pleasure and commodity, those things which they ought to render up, no man can be justly offended with him that shall endeavor to impart and bestow, without any gain to himself, those sharp and saving words, which would be a'error and a torment in hinm to keep back. For me, I have endeavored to lay up as the best treasure and solace of a good old age, if God vouchsafe it me, the honest liberty of free speech from my youth, where I shall think it avail able in so dear a concernment as the church's good. For, if I be, whether by disposition, or what other cause, too inquisitive, or suspicious of myself and mine own doings, who can he'lp it? Concerning therefore this wayward subject against prelates. the 262 MILTON. [CHARLES fI. touching wherefore is so distasteful and disquietous to a number of men; as by what hath been said I may deserve of charitable readers to be credited, that neither envy nor gall hath entered me upon this controversy, but the enforcement of conscience only, and a preventive fear lest this duty should be against me, when I would store up to myself the good provision of peaceful hours; so, lest it should be still imputed to me, as I have found it hath been, that some self-pleasing humors of vain-glory hath incited me to contest with men of high estimation, now while green years are upon my head; from this needless surmisal I shall hope to dissuade the intelligent and equal auditor, if I can but say successfully that which in this exigent behooves me; although I would be heard only, if it might be, by the elegant and learned reader, to whom principally for a while I shall beg leave I may address myself. To him it will be no new thing, though I tell him that if I hunted after praise, by the estimation of wit and learning, I should not write thus out of mine own season, when I have neither yet completed to my mind the full circle of my private studies, although I complain not of any insufficiency to the matter in hand; or were I ready to my wishes, it were a folly to commit any thing elaborately composed to the careless and interrupted listening of these tumultuous times. * * I must say, therefore, that after I had for my first years, by the ceaseless diligence and care of my father, (whom God recompense,) been exercised to the tongues, and some sciences, as my age would suffer, by sundry masters and teachers at home and at the school, it was found, that whether aught was imposed me by them that had the overlooking, or betaken to of my own choice in English, or other tongue, prosing or versing, but chiefly this latter, the style, by certain vital signs it had, was likely to live. But much latelier in the private academies of Italy, whither I was favored to resort, perceiving that some trifles which I had in memory, composed at under twenty or thereabout, (for the manner is, that every one must give some proof of his wit and reading there,) met with acceptance above what was looked for; and other things, which I had shifted in scarcity of books and conveniences to pack up amongst them, were received with written encomiums, which the Italian is not forward to bestow on men of this side the Alps; I began thus far to assent both to them and divers of my friends here at home, and not less to an inward prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that with labor and intense study, (which I take to be my portion in this life,) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave somnething so written to aftertimes, as they should not willingly let it die. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 263 These thoughts at once possessed me; and these other, that if I were certain to write as men buy leases, for three lives and dewnward, there ought no regard be sooner had, than to God's glory, by the honor and instruction of my country. For which cause, and not only for that I knew it would be hard to arrive at the second rank among the Latins, I applied myself to that resolution which Ariosto followed against the persuasions of Bembo, to fix all the industry and art I could unite to the adorning of my native tongue; not to make verbal curiosities the end, (that were a toilsome vanity,) but to be an interpreter and relater of the best and sagest things, among mine own citizens throughout this island in the mother dialect: that, what the greatest and choicest wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and those'Hebrews of old, did for their country, I, in my proportion, with this over and above, of being a Christian, might do for mine; not caring to be once named abroad, though perhaps I could attain to that; but content with these British islands as my world; -whose fortune hath hitherto been, that, if the Athenians, as some say, made their small deeds great and renowned by their eloquent writers, England hath had her noble achievements made small by the unskilful handling of monks and mechanics. Time serves not now, and perhaps I might seem too profuse to give any certain account of what the mind at home, in the spacious circuits of her musing, hath liberty to propose to herself,, though of highest hope and hardest attempting; whether that epic form whereof the two poems of Homer, and those other two of Virgil and Tasso, are a diffuse, and the Book of Job a brief model;-or whether the rules of Aristotle herein are strictly to be kept, or nature to be followed, which.in them that show art, and use judgment, is no transgression, but an enriching of art: or, lastly, what king, or knight, before the Conquest, might be chosen in whom to lay the pattern of a Christian hero. And, as Tasso gave to a prince of Italy his choice, whether he would command him to write of Godfrey's expedition against the infidels, or Belisarius against the Goths, or Charlemagne against the Lombards; if to the instinct of nature and emboldening of art aught may be trusted, and there be nothing adverse in our climate or the fate of this age, it haply would be no rashness, from an equal diligence and inclination, to present the like offer in our own ancient stories; or whether those dramatic compositions, wherein Sophocles and Euripides reign, shall be found more doctrinal and exemplary to a nation. The Scripture also affords us a divine pastoral drama in the "6 Song of Solomon," consisting of two persons, and a double cho. 1 Here is evidence of his first conceptions of his immortal Epic. 264 MILTON. EcHARLES II. rus, as Origen rightly judges: and the "Apocalypse" of St. John Is the majestic image of a high and stately tragedy, shutting up and intermingling her solemn scenes and acts with a sevenfold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies; and this, my opinion, the grave authority of Paraeus, commenting that book, is sufficient to confirm. Or, if occasion shall lead to imitate those magnific odes and hymns, wherein Pindarus and Callimachus are, in most things, worthy; some others in their frame judicious, in their matter most an end faulty. But those frequent songs throughout the law and prophets, beyond all these, not in their divine arguments alone, but in the very critical art of composition, may be easily made appear over all kinds of lyric poesy to be incomparable. These abilities,' wheresoever they be found, are the inspired gift of God, rarely bestowed, but yet to some, though most abused, in every nation; and are of power, beside the office of a pulpit, to imbreed and cherish in a great people the seeds of virtue and public civility; to allay the perturbations of the mind, and set the affections in right tune; to celebrate in glorious and lofty hymns the throne and equipage of God's almightiness, and what he works, and what he suffers to be wrought with high providence in his church; to sing victorious agonies of martyrs and saints, the deeds and triumphs of just and pious nations, doing valiantly through faith against the enemies of Christ; to deplore the general relapses of kingdoms and states from justice and God's true worship. Lastly, whatsoever in religion is holy and sublime; in virtue amiable or grave; whatsoever hath. passion or admiration in all the changes of that which is called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties and refluxes of man's thoughts from within; all these things with a solid and treatable smoothness to paint out and describe: tracking over the whole book of sanctity and virtue, through all the instances of example, with such delight to those especially of soft and delicious temper, who will not so much as look upon truth herself, unless they see her elegantly dressed; that, whereas the paths of honesty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, though they be indeed easy and pleasant, they will then appear to all men both easy and pleasant, though they were rugged and difficult indeed. And what a benefit this would be to our youth and gentry, may be soon guessed by what we know of the corruption and bane, which they suck in daily from the writings and interludes of libid]nous and ignorant poetasters, who having scarce ever heard of 1 To me, this has ever seemed the loftiest paragraph in English prose literature. 1660-1685.] MILTON. 265 that which is the main consistence of a true poem, the choice of such persons as they ought to introduce, and what is moral and decent to each one; do for the most part lay up vicious principles in sweet pills to be swallowed down, and make the taste of virtuous documents harsh and sour. * * Neither do I think it shame to covenant with my knowing reader, that for some few years yet, I may go on trust with him toward the payment of what I am now indebted; as being a work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist, or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite; nor to be obtained from the invocation of dame Memory and her siren daughters; but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit,' who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added industrious and select reading, steady observation, insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs; till which in some measure be compassed, at my own peril and cost, I refuse not to sustain this expectation from as many as are not loath to hazard so much credulity upon the best pledges that I can give them. ARGUMENT FOR THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. Lest some should persuade ye, Lords and Commons, that these arguments of learned men's discouragement at this your order are mere flourishes, and not real, I could recount what I have seen and heard in other countries, where this kind of inquisition tyrannizes; when I have sat among their learned men, (for that honor I had,) and been counted happy to be born in such a place of philosophic freedom, as they supposed England was, while themselves did nothing but bemoan the servile condition into which learning amongst them was brought; that this was it which had damped the glory of Italian wits; that nothing had been there written now these many years but flattery and fustian. There it was that I found and visited the famous Galileo, grown old, a prisoner to the inquisition, for thinking in astronomy otherwise than the Franciscan and Dominican licensers thought. And though I knew that England then was groaning loudest under the prelatical yoke, nevertheless I took it as a pledge of future happiness that other nations were so persuaded of her liberty. Yet it was be yond my hope that those worthies were then breathing in her air, 1 "tAnd chiefly thou, O Spirit that dost prefer Before all temples th' upright heart and pure, Instruct me." —paradie Lost, i. 17. 23 266 MILTON. [CHARLES 1I. who should be her leaders to such a deliverance, as shall never be forgotten by any revolution of time that this world hath to finish. ENGLAND AND LONDON. Lords and Commons of England! consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors: a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit; acute to invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point the highest that human capacity can soar to. Therefore the studies of learning in her deepest sciences have been so ancient and so eminent among us, that writers of good antiquity and able judgment have been persuaded that even the school of Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took beginning from the old philosophy of this island. And that wise and civil Roman, Julius Agricola, who governed once here for Cuesar, preferred the natural wits of Britain, before the labored studies of the French. Behold now this vast city; a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with his protection; the shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers waking, to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in defence of beleaguered truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and ideas, wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching reformation; others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement. What could a man require more from a nation so pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful laborers, to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies? we reckon more than five months yet to harvest; there need not be five weeks, had we but eyes to lift up; the fields are white already. REFORM. Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle muing her mighty youth, and kindling her dazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam; purging and unsealing her long abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms. Error supports custom, custom countenances error: and these two between them would persecute and chase away all truth and solid wisdom out of human life, were it not that God, rather than mnan, once in many ages calls together the prudent and religious 1660-1685.1 HILTON. 267 counsels of men, deputed to repress the encroachments, and to work off the inveterate blots and obscurities wrought upon our minds by the subtle insinuating of error and custom; who, with the numerous and vulgar train of their followers, make it their chief design to envy and cry down the industry of free reasoning under the terms of humor and innovation; as if the womb of teeming Truth were to be closed up, if she presumed to bring forth aught that sorts not with their unchewed notions and suppositions. THE ALL-CONQUERING POWER OF TRUTH. Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worst in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among us, would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the discipline of Geneva, framed and tabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new life which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as we are exhorted by the wise man to use diligence, " to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute i When a man hath been laboring the hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, offers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings. to make her victorious; those are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power; give her but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps.' 1 Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestow'd on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor fortsl The warrior's name would be a name abhorred I And every nation that should lift again Its hand against its brother, on its forehead -Wop!3 wear forevermore the curse of Can. —LoNGFELLoW. 268 MILTON. [CHARLES mIl THE POET S MORNING. My morning haunts are, where they should be, at home; not sleeping, or concocting the surfeits of an irregular feast,' but up and stirring; in winter, often ere the sound of any bell awake men to labor or to devotion; in summer, as oft with the bird that first rises, or not much tardier, to read good authors, or cause them to be read till the attention be weary, or memory have its full freight. I cannot but here give the conclusion of the Life of Milton by Dr. Symmons, the learned editor of his prose works -4, We have now completed the history of John Milton,-a man in whom were illustriously combined all the qualities that could adorn, or could elevate the nature to which he belonged; -a man, who at once possessed beauty of countenance, symmetry of form, elegance of manners, benevolence of temper, magnanimity and loftiness of soul, the brightest illumination of intellect, knowledge the most various and extended, virtue that never loitered in her career, nor deviated from her course;-a man, who, if he had been delegated as the representative of his species to one of the superior worlds, would have suggested a grand idea of the human race, as of beings affluent in moral and intellectual treasureraised and distinguished in the universe, as the favorites and heirs of heaven." To these, I must add the remarks of Sir Egerton Brydges, no less beautiful than just: —" He had not only every requisite of the Muse; but every one of the highest order, and in the highest degree. His invention of poetical fable, and poetical imagery, was exhaustless, and always grand,,and always colnsistent with the faith of a cultivated and sensitive mind. Sublimity was his primary and unfailing power. His characters were new, surprising, gigantic, or beautiful; and full of instruction, such as high wisdom sanctioned. His sentiments were lofty, comprehensive, eloquent, consistent, holy, original; and an amalgamation of spirit, religion, intellect, and marvellous learning. His language was his own: sometimes a little rough and unvernacular; but as magnificent as his mind: of pregnant thought; naked in its strength; rich and picturesque, where imagery was required; often exquisitely harmonious, where the occasion permitted, but sometimes strong, mighty, and speaking with the voice of thunder." When to these lofty and most richly deserved encomiums, we add that in moral character he stands among the noblest and the best; that his spirit was as holy, and his heart as sanctified as his writings; and that he so spent his mighty strength in the holy cause of liberty, and for the best good of man, that st he sat in darkness camid the blaze of noon," who can hesitate to place liril AT THE HEAD OF THE RACE! 1 Dr. Symmons, in his Life of Milton, says, " Abstinence In diet was one of Milton's favorite virlues; which he practised invariably through life, and availed himself of every opportunity to recom melid In his writings." O madness I to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God, with these forbidden, made choice to rear Ilis mighty champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook. —Sarsoi A.goistes. 1660-1685.] EARL OF CLARENDON. 269 EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON. 1608 —1674. I HE life of the celebrated Earl of Clarendon is so intimately connecte I withl the eventful times of Charles I., the Commonwealth, and the Restoration, that it would be impossible to give any thing more than a meagre outline of it in the limits to which these biographical sketches are necessarily confined.' He was born at Dinton, in Wiltshire, in 1608, and at the age of fourteen entered Oxford. After leaving the university he applied himself to the study of the law, but his father dying soon after, and leaving him in the possession of a competent fortune, it was not necessary for him to exert himself for support in the line of his profession. He therefore turned his attention to politics, and in 1640 was elected a member of parliament. Here he took the side of the royalists, and had the celebrated Hampden for one of his opponents. From the zeal and ability which he showed in the royal cause, he soon became one of the king's chief advisers, and in 1643 he was made chancellor of the exchequer, and was sworn a member of the privy council. From this time the affairs of the royal party became daily more desperate, and it being deemned best for the prince (afterwards Charles II.) to fly fronl the kingdom, Hyde accompanied him to the island of Jersey. Thence, the prince went to France, but Hyde remained, and there commenced his celebrated work, his ", History of the Rebellion." Upon the execution of the king, he went to the continent, living first at Madrid, and afterwards at Antwerp. Hore, with other members of the exiled court, he suffered much from pecuniary distress, having, as he said, " neither clothes nor fire to preserve me from the sharpness of the season." He continued to be the chief adviser of the exiled king, and was rewarded by him with the appointment of lord chancellor; an empty title, as the king was then situated, but soon to be one of substantial value; for, in June, 1660, soon after the triumphal entry of Charles II. into London, Hyde took his seat as speaker of the House of Lords, and on the same day he sat in the court of Chancery. He continued to be the principal conductor of public affairs; but such was the condition of the kingdom in politics, both foreign and domestic, the poverty of the exchequer, the difficulty of raising supplies, the profligacy of the court, and the king's absolute neglect of business on the one hand, and the relation of England to foreign powers, and the Dutch war, on the other, that he had difficulties of no ordinary magnitude to contend with. Discontent reigned through the country, and the public heaped upon Clarendon the odium of every measure and event. To such a height did feelings of anger and disgust at length reach, that articles of impeachment were drawn up against -him by the Commons, and as a compromise he agreed to leave the kingdom. He sailed with his family for Calais, November 29, 1667, and res'ded in various places in France. In 1674 he took a house at Rouen, which wa:s his last residence. Repeated attacks of the gout had enfeebled his frame and constitution, and he died on the 9th of December, 3]674, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. His body was taken to England, and interred in Westminstei Abbey. The principal literary work of Lord Clarendon, is his "History of the Re 1 For fall information concerning Lord Clarendon, consult Lister's 1' Life of Clarendon;" "Life of Lord Clarendon, written by himself;" Burnet's "History of his own Times;" Campbell's "Lives of the Chancellors;" Hallam's " Constitutional History of England;" and "Edlnburgh Review"' xl<-v iii. 1I0. 270 EA.RL OF CLAREND6N. [CHAIRLES IIL bellion;" for such was the epithet bestowed by the royalists upon that civil war which brought Charles I. to the block.' It was commenced, as before remarked, in 1646, in the island of Jersey, and finished at Moulins (France) in 1672-73, while the author was in banishment.2 The Edinburgh Review says " it is one of the noblest historical works in the English language." Some allowance, however, must, in many cases, be made for the strong partisan feelings of the. writer; though it is due to him to say, that, considering his position, and the times in which he wrote, his work is characterized by justice and impartiality. Its distinguishing excellence consists in its lively and accurate delineations of character. Of these we select the following30OHN HAMPDEN.3 Mr. Hampden was a man of much greater cunning, and it may be, of the most discerning spirit, and of the greatest address and insinuation to bring any thing to pass which he desired, of any man of that time, and who laid the design deepest. He was a gentleman of a good extraction, and a fair fortune; who, from a life of great pleasure and license, had on a sudden retired to extraordinary sobriety and strictness, and yet retained his usual cheerfulness and affability; which, together with the opinion of his wisdom and justice, and the courage he had- showed in oppos. ing the ship-money, raised his reputation to a very great height, not only in Buckinghamshire, where he lived, but generally throughout the kingdom. He was not a man of many words, and rarely begun the discourse, or made the first entrance upon any business that was assumed; but a very weighty speaker; and after he had heard a full debate, and observed how the house was 1 The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other malefactors against whom overwhelming evidence is produced, generally decline all controversy about the facts, and content themselves with calling testimony to character. He had so many private virtues I And had James II. no private virtues? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to Charles? A religious zeal, not more sincere than that of his son; and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few of the ordinary household decencies which half the tombstones in England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good father I A good husband l —Ample apologies, indeed, for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny, and falsehood.,'For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the phrase, a good man but a bad king. We can as easily conceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a good man and a treacherous friend. We cannot, in estimating the character of an individual, leave out of our consideration his conduct in the most important of all human relations. And if, in that relation, we find him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance at table, and all his regularity at Chapel."-Edinburgh Review, xlii. 324. 2 The best edition of it is that of Oxford, 1826, 8 vols. 8vo, with the notes of Bishop Warburton. 8 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood. —GRAY. It must be remembered that this character of the heroic and venerated champion of English liberty was given by one of the opposite party: yet even by him his unrivalled superiority is unquestioned. Clarendon had measured strength with him in parliament, and therefore speaks from personal knowledge. It will be remembered that Hampden was mortally wounded in a skirmish with Prince Roupert, at Chalgrove, Oxfordshire, trune 18, 1643, in his forty-ninth year, and in the dawn of his publia lieC and character. Clarendon says that his death was as great a consternation to all his party as if their whole army had been defeated. 1660-1685.] EARL OF CLARENDON, 271 like to be inclined, took up the argument, and shortly, and clearl/, and craftily so stated it, that he commonly conducted it to the conelusion he desired; and if he found he could not do that, he was never without the dexterity to divert the debate to another time, and to prevent the determining any thing in the negative, which might prove inconvenient in the future. H-e made so great a show of civility, and modesty, and humility, and always of mistrusting his own judgment, and esteeming his with whom he conferred for the present, that he seemed to have no opinions or resolutions, but such as he contracted from the information and instruction he received upon the discourses of others; whom he had a wonderful art of governing, and leading into his principles and inclinations, whilst they believed that he wholly depended upon their counsel and advice. No man had ever a greater power over himself, or was less the man that he seemed to be; which shortly after appeared to everybody, when he cared less to keep on the mask. * * * * He was rather of reputation in his own country, than of public discourse, or fame in the kingdom, before the business of shipmoney; but then he grew the argument of all tongues, every man inquiring who and what he was, that durst, at his own charge, support the liberty and property of the kingdom., and rescue his country, as he thought, from being made a prey to the court. His carriage, throughout this agitation, was with that rare temper and modesty, that they who watched him narrowly to find some advantage against his person, to make him less resolute in his cause, were compelled to give him a just testimony. He was of that rare affability and temper in debate, and of that seeming humility and submission of judgment, as if he brought no opinion of his own with him, but a desire of information and instruction; yet he had so subtle a way of interrogating, and under the notion of doubts, insinuating his objections, that he infused his own opinions into those from whom he pretended to learn and receive them. And even with them who were able to preserve themselves from his infusions, and discerned those opinions to be fixed in him, with which they could not comply, he always left the character of as ingenious and conscientious person. He was, indeed, a very wise man, and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute spirit of popularity, and the most absolute faculties to govern the people, -of any man I ever knew. In the first entrance into the troubles, he undertook the conmmand of a regiment of foot, and performed the duty of a colonel. upon all occasions, most punctually. He was very temperate in diet, and a supreme governor over all his passions and affections and had thereby a great power over other mtn's. He was of an industry and vigilance not to be tired out, or wearied by the most 272 EARL OF CLARENDON. [CHARLES II. laborious; and, of parts not to be imposed upon by the subtle or sharp; and of a personal courage equal to his best parts: so that he was an enemy not to be wished, wherever he might have been made a friend; and as much to be apprehended where he was so, as any man could deserve to be. And therefore his death was no less pleasing to the one party, than it was condoled in the other. LORD FALKLAND.i In this unhappy battle was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts, in any man; and if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, in those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied byr any pains that were necessary to that end. And, therefore, having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians. In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite and accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in any thing, yet such an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in a less volume, whither they came not so much for repose as study; and to examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation e e * He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men; and that I He was killed September 20, 1643, at Newbury, in the battle between the parliament forces under the Earj (of Essex, and the royalists commanded by Prince Rupert. 1660-1685.] EARL OF CLARENDON. 273 made him too much a contemner of those arts, which must be indulged in the transactions of human affairs. The great opinion he had of the uprightness and integrity of those persons who appeared most active, especially of Mr. Hampden, kept him longer from suspecting any design against the peace of the kingdom; and though he differed from them commonly in conclusion, he believed long their purposes were honest. When he grew better informed what was law, and discerned in them a desire to control that law by a vote of one or both houses, no man more opposed those attempts, and gave the adverse party more trouble by reason and argumentation; insomuch as he was, by degrees, looked upon as an advocate for the court; to which he contributed so little, that he declined those addresses, and even those invitations which he was obliged almost by civility to entertain. And he was so jealous of the least imagination that he should incline to preferment, that he affected even a moroseness to the court, and to the courtiers; and left nothing undone which might prevent and divert the king's or queen's favor towards him, but the deserving it. * When there was any overture, or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press any thing which he thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word Peace, Peace; and would passionately profess, s" that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, " that he was so much enamored of peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience or honor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either. In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket, in the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next morning; till when, there was some hope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much dispatched the true business of life, that the eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter.S 274 HALE. [CHARLES II. not into the world with more innocency. Whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. SIR MATTHEW HALE. 1609-1676. SIR MATTHEW HALE, one of the most upright judges that ever sat upon the English bench, was born at Alderly, in the county of Gloucester, in 1609. His parents dying when he was quite young, he was educated by a Puritan clergyman, and entered Oxford at the age of seventeen. After leaving the university he applied himself to the study of the law with great assiduity, and was called to the bar a few years previous to the commencement of the civil war. In the subsequent contests that shook the nation, Hale preserved a perfect neutrality, which was certainly favorable to his interests as an advocate. But how far it is manly and right, in times of great political agitation, for a citizen to study his own individual quiet and interests, instead of throwing the whole weight of his influence upon that cause which he deems the most just, is very questionable. Hale received a commission from Charles I., and after the execution of that monarch, he was made, under Cromwell, one of the judges of the Common Bench, the duties of which office he discharged with consummate skill and the strictest impartiality. After the death of Cromwell he was a member of the parliament which recalled Charles II., and in the year of the Restoration he was knighted. In 1671 he was raised to the chief-justiceship of the King's Bench, where he presided with great honor to himself and advantage to the public till 1675, when the state of his health obliged him to resign. He died from dropsy on Christmas day of the following year, 1676. It is not necessary to speak more fully of his character here, as in a subsequent page will be found Baxter's admirable sketch of it.1 The only spot upon his judicial reputation, is his having condemned two old women for witchcraft. This he did with the most sincere belief that he was doing right And how many other men, eminent for their piety, were also carried away by that delusion in the middle of the seventeenth century, not only in England, but in this country!2 1 Lord Erskine, in an eloquent speech in the Court of the King's Bench, upon the trial of Williams, for publishing Paine's "Age of Reason," 1797, thus addresses the jury:-" Gentlemen, in the place where we now sit to administer the justice of this great country, above a century ago the never-to. be-forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided; whose faith in Christianity is an exalted commentary upon ots truth and reason, and whose life was a glorious example of its fruits in man, administering human justice with a wisdom and purity drawn from the pure fountain of the Christian dispensaton, which has been, and will be in all ages, a subject of the highest reverence and admiration." Cowper, moo, in the third book of the Task, thus beautifully speaks of him, as one "In whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Halel for deep discernment praised, And sound integrity not more, than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled." 2 The fact of witchcraft was admitted by Lord Bacon and Mr. Addison. Dr. Johnson more than inclined to the same side of the question; and Sir William Blackstone quite frowns on opposers of this doctrine. The severe charges, therefore, which have been brought against the people of Salen, Mass., lie equally against the most learned, pious, and eminent of mankind. 1660-1685.] HALE. 275 Sir Matthew Hale wrote a number of works of a legal character, but that by which he is best known is his " Contemplations, moral and divine, and Letters to his Children." An edition of this, with his life, was published by Bishop Burnet, in three volumes. As a specimen of his style, we give the following admirable letter of advice to his children UPON REGULATING THEIR CONVERSATION. DEAR CHILDREN-I thank God I came well to Farrington this day, about five o'clock. And as I have some leisure time at my inn, I cannot spend it more to my own satisfaction and your benefit, than, by a letter, to give you some good counsel. The subject shall be concerning your speech; because much of the good or evil that befalls persons arises from the well or ill managing of their conversation. When I have leisure and opportunity, I shall give you my directions on other subjects. Never speak any thing for a truth which you know or believe to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offence against humanity itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, there can be no safe society between man and man. And it is an injury to the speaker; for, besides the disgrace which it brings npon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no color of necessity for it; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people cannot believe he speaks truth, so he himself scarcely knows when he tells a falsehood. As you must be careful not to lie, so you must avoid coming near it. You must not equivocate, nor speak any thing positively for which you have no authority but report, or conjecture, or opinion. Let your words be few, especially when your superiors or strangers are present, lest you betray your own weakness, and rob yourselves of the opportunity which you might otherwise have had, to gain knowledge, wisdom, and experience, by hearing those whom you silence by your impertinent talking. Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence your opponent with reason, not with noise. Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking; hear him out, and you will understand him the better, and be able to give him the better answer. Consider before you speak, especially when the business is of moment; weigh the sense of what you mean to utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they speak; or they speak, and then think. Some men excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in 276 HALE. [CHARLES II. nathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where the skill or excellence of any person lies; put him upon talking on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in your memory, or commit it to writing. By this means you will glean the worth and knowledge of everybody you converse with; and at an easy rate acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions. V'When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent persons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious both in your conversation with them and in your general behavior, that you may avoid their errors. If any one, whom you do not know to be a person of truth, sobriety, and weight, relates strange stories, be not too ready to believe or report them; and yet (unless he is one of your familiar acquaintances) be not too forward to contradict him. If the occasion requires you to declare your opinion, do it modestly and gently, not bluntly nor coarsely; by this means you will avoid giving offence, or being abused for too much credulity. If a man, whose integrity you do not very well know, makes you great and extraordinary professions, do not give much credit to him. Probably you will find that he aims at something besides kindness to you, and that when he has served his turn, or been disappointed, his regard for you will grow cool. Beware also of him who flatters you, and commends you to your face, or to one who he thinks will tell you of it; most probably he has either deceived and abused you, or means to do so. Remember the fable of the fox commending the singing of the crow, who had something in her mouth which the fox wanted. Be careful that you do not commend yourselves. It is a sign that your reputation is small and sinking, if your own tongue must praise you; and it is fulsome and unpleasing to others to hear such commendations. Speak well of the absent whenever you have a suitable opportunity. Never speak ill of them, or of anybody, unless you are sure they deserve it, and unless it is necessary for their amendment, or for the safety and benefit of others. Avoid, in your ordinary communications, not only oaths, but all imprecations and earnest protestations. Forbear scoffing and jesting at the condition or natural defects of any person. Such offences leave a deep impression; and they often cost a man dear. Be very carefill that you give no reproachful, menacing, or spiteful words to any person. Good words make friends; bad words make enemies. It is great prudence to gain as many friends as we honestly can, especially when it may be done at so easy a rate as a good word; and it is great folly to make an enemy by ill words, which are of no advantage to the party who uses 1660-1685.1 HALE. 277 them. When faults are committed, they may. and by a superior they must, be reproved: but let it be done without reproach or bitterness; otherwise it will lose its due end and use, and, instead of reforming the offence, it will exasperate the offender, and lay the reprover justly open to reproof. If a person be passionate, and give you ill language, rather pity him than be moved to anger. You will find that silence, or very gentle words, are the most exquisite revenge for reproaches; they will either cure the distemper in the angry man, and make him sorry for his passion, or they will be a severe reproof and punishment to him. But, at any rate, they will preserve your innocence, give you the deserved reputation of wisdom and moderation, and keep up the serenity and composure of your mind. Passion and anger make a man unfit for every thing that becomes him as a man or as a Christian. Never utter any profane speeches, nor make a jest of any Scripture expressions. When you pronounce the name of God or of Christ, or repeat any passages or words of Holy Scripture, do it with reverence and seriousness, and not lightly, for that is "taking the name of God in vain." If you hear of any unseemly expressions used in religious exercises, do not publish them; endeavor to forget them; or, if you mention them at all, let it be with pity and sorrow, not with derision or reproach. Read these directions often; think of them seriously; and practise them diligently. You will find them useful in your conversation; which will be every day the more evident to you, as your judgment, understanding, and experience increase. I have little further to add, at this time, but my wish and command that you will remember the former counsels that I have fre quently given you. Begin and end the day with private prayer; read the Scriptures often and seriously; be attentive to the public worship of God. Keep yourselves in some useful employment; for idleness is the nursery of vain and sinful thoughts, which corrupt the mind, and disorder the life. Be kind and loving to one another. Honor your minister. Be not bitter nor harsh to my servants. Be respectful to all. Bear my absence patiently and cheerfully. Behave as if I were present among you and saw you. Remember, you have a greater Father than I am, who always, and in all places, beholds you, and knows your hearts and. thoughts. Study to requite my love and care for you with dutifulness, observance, and obedience; and account it an honor that you have an opportunity, by your attention, faithfulness, and industry, to pay somre part of that debt which, by the laws of nature and of gratitude, you owe to me. Be frugal in my family, but let there be no want; and provide conveniently for the poor. 24 278 BARROW. [CHARLES II. I pray God to fill your hearts with his grace, fear, and love, and to let you see the comfort and advantage of serving him; and that his blessing, and presence, and direction may be with you, and over you all.-I am your ever loving father. ISAAC BARROW. 1630-1677. Dn. ISAAc BARROW, an eminent divine and mathematician, was the son of a linen-draper of London, and was born in that city in 1630. He studied at Cambridge for the ministry; but being a royalist, and seeing but little chance of preferment for men of his sentiments in church or state, he turned his views to the medical profession, and engaged in the study of anatomy, botany, and chemistry. In 1652, having been disappointed in his expectations of obtaining a Greek professorship, he determined to travel, and spent some years in visiting France, Italy, Smyrna, Constantinople, Germany, and Holland. He returned in 1659, and was elected, in the following year, to the professorship in Cambridge, for which he had formerly been a candidate, and in 1662 to that of geometry in Gresham College, London. In 1663 he resigned both of these, on being elected professor of mathematics in Cambridge University. After filling this professorship with distinguished ability for six years, he made a voluntary resignation of it to his illustrious friend, Sir Isaac Newton, resolving to devote himself exclusively to theological studies. In 1670 he was made doctor of divinity, and two years after he was appointed master of Trinity College, by the king, who remarked on the occasion that he had given the place to the best scholar in England. He died May 4, 1677. Dr. Barrow was a man of vast and comprehensive mind. During his life, he was more known as a mathematician, being inferior only to Newton, and the treatises he published on his favorite science were numerous and profound. They were, however, mostly written in. Latin, and designed for the learned: they are therefore now but little known. Not so with his theological works. "c His sermons," says Hallam,," display a strength of mind, a compre hensiveness and fertility which have rarely been equalled." Charles II. was accustomed facetiously to style him a most snfair preacher, because he exhausted every subject, and left nothing to be said by others. His sermons were of unusual length, being seldom less than an hour and a half; and on one occasion, in preaching a charity sermon, he was three hours and a half in the delivery. Being asked, on descending from the pulpit, whether he was not tired, he replied, " Yes, indeed, I began to be weary with standing so long:" so great was his intellectual fertility, that mental fatigue seemed to be out of the question. Dr. Dibdin remarks of him, that he "had the clearest head with which mathematics ever endowed an individual, and one of the purest and most unsophisticated hearts that ever beat in the human breast." He once uttered a most memorable observation, which characterizes both the intellectual and moral constitution of his mind,-would that it could be engraven on the mind of every youth, as his guide through life, —"A STRAIGHT LINE IS THE SHORTEST IN MORALS AS WELL AS IN GEOMETRY." THE DUTY AND REWARD OF BOUNTY TO THE POOR. He whose need craves our bounty, whose misery demands our mercy, what is he? He is not truly so mean and sorry a thing 1660-1685.] BARROW. 279 as the disguise of misfortune, under which he appears, doth represent him. Ile who looks so deformedly and dismally, who to outward sight is so ill bestead, and so pitifully accoutred, hath latent in him much of admirable beauty and glory. He within himself containeth a nature very excellent; an immortal soul, and -n intelligent mind, by which he nearly resembleth God himself, and is comparable to angels: he invisibly is owner of endowments rendering him capable of the greatest and best things. What are money and lands; what are silk and fine linen; what are horses and hounds, in comparison to reason, to wisdom, to virtue, to religion, which he hath, or (in despite of all misfortune) he may have if he please? He whom you behold so dejectedly sneaking, in' so despicable a garb, so destitute of all convenience and comfort, Jying in the dust, naked or clad with rags, meagre with hunger or pain, he comes of a most high and heavenly extraction: he was born a prince, the son of the greatest King eternal; he can truly call the Sovereign Lord of all the world his father, having derived his soul fiom the mouth, having had his body formed by the hands of God himself. In this, the rich and poor, as the wise man saith, do meet together; the Lord is the maker of them all. That same forlorn wretch, whom we are so apt to despise and trample upon, was framed and constituted lord of the visible world; had all the goodly brightnesses of heaven, and all the costly furnitures of earth created to serve him. Thou madest him (saith the Psalmist of man) to have dominion over the works of thine hands; thou hast put all things under his feet. Yea, he was made an inhabitant of Paradise, and possessor of felicities superlative; had immortal life and endless joy in his hand, did enjoy the entire favor and friendship of the Most High. Such in worth of nature and nobleness of birth he is, as a man: and highly more considerable he is, as a Christian. For, as vile and contemptible as he looks, God hath so regarded and prized him, as for his sake to descend from heaven, to clothe himself with flesh, to assume the form of a servant; for his good to undertake and undergo the greatest inconveniences, infirmities, wants, and disgraces, the most grievous troubles and most sharp pains incident to mortal nature. God hath adopted him to be his child; the Son of God hath deigned to call him brother: he is a member of Christ, a temple of the Holy Ghost, a free denizen of the heavenly city, an heir-of salvation, and candidate of eternal glory.' The greatest and richest personage is not capable of better privileges than God hath granted him, or of higher preferments than God hath. designed him to. He, 1 What noble sentiments I ow worthy of this great and good man I That will indeed be a glorious day when man everywhere shall not only speculatively believe, but practically act upon the great Christian truth, that all men, of whatever nation, color, or condition, are one universal brotherhood, as all address ( ne common Father. Then will every war be deemed a civil war-every 280 BARROW. [CHARLES II. equally with the mightiest prince, is the object of God's especial providence and grace, of his continual regard and care, of his fatherly love and affection; who, as good Elihu saith, accepteth not the persons of princes, nor regardeth the rich more than the poor; for they are all the work of his hands. In fine, this poor creature whom thou seest is a man, and a Christian, thine equal, whoever thou art, in nature, and thy peer in condition: I say not, in the uncertain and unstable gifts of fortune, not in this worldly state, which is very inconsiderable; but in gifts vastly more precious, in title to an estate infinitely more rich and excellent. Yea, if thou art vain and proud, be sober and humble; he is thy better, in true dignity much to be preferred before thee, far in real wealth surpassing thee: for, better is-the poor that walketh in his uprightness, than he that is perverse in his ways, though he be rich. THE STRUCTURE OF THE HUMAN BODY A PROOF OF DIVINE WISDOM. Can any man, endued with common sense, imagine that such a body as any of us doth bear about him, so neatly composed, fitted to so many purposes of action; furnished with so many goodly and proper organs; that eye by which we reach the stars, and in a moment have, as it were, all the world present to us; that ear by which we so subtly distinguish the differences of sound, are sensible of so various harmony, have conveyed unto our minds the words and thoughts of each other; that tongue by which we so readily imitate those vast diversities of voice and tune, by which we communicate our minds with such ease and advantage; that hand by which we perform so many admirable works, and which serves instead of a thousand instruments and weapons unto us; to omit those inward springs of motion, life, sense, imagination, mnemory, passion, with so stupendous curiosity contrived; can any reasonable man, I say, conceive that so rare a piece, consisting of such parts, unexpressibly various, unconceivably curious, the want of any of which would discompose or destroy us; subservient to such excellent operations, incomparably surpassing all the works of the most exquisite art, that we could ever observe or death on the battle-field, a murder-the soldier's name "a name abhorred "-and the slaveholder viewed by every one as Milton views him0 EXECRABLE SON I SO to aspire Above his brethren, to, himself assuming Authority usurp'd, from God not given: He gave us only over beast, fish, fowl, Dominion absolute; that right we hold By his donation; but man over men He made not lord; such title to himself Reserving, HUMAN LEFT FROM ROUIAN FREE. Paradise Lost, xii. 64. 1660-1685.] BARRlOW. 281 conceive, be the product of blind chance; arise from fortuitous jumblings of matter; be effected without exceeding great wisdom, without most deep counsel and design? Might not the most excellent pieces of human artifice, the fairest structures, the finest pictures, the most useful engines, such as we are wont so much to admire and praise, much more easily happen to be without any skill or contrivance? If we cannot allow these rude and gross imitations of nature to come of themselves, but will presently, so soon as we see them, acknowledge them the products of art, though we know not the artist, nor did see him work; how much more reasonable is it that we believe the works of nature, so much more fine and accurate, to proceed from the like cause, though invisible to us, and performing its workmanship by a secret hand? WHAT IS WIT? To the question what the thing we speak of is, or what this facetiousness doth import? I might reply as Democritus did to him that asked the definition of a Man,'Tis that which we all see and know: any one better apprehends what it is by acquaintance than I can inform him by description. It is indeed a thing so versatile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many postures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seemeth no less hard to settle a clear and certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the figure of a fleeting air. Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale: sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound: sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of humorous expression: sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude: sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd imitation, in cunningly diverting, or cleverly retorting an objection: sometimes it is couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in - a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in acute nonsense: sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or gesture passeth for it: sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a pre sumptuous bluntness, giveth it being: sometimes it riseth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange, sometimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose: often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up one can hardly tell how. Its ways are unaccountable and inexplicable, being answerable to the nurnberless rovings of fancy and Wvindings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speaking out of the simple and plain way, (such as reason teacheth and proveth things by,) which, by a pietty sur 24*' 282 MARVELL. [CILARLES II. prising uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amuse the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some delight thereto. KNOWLEDGE A SOURCE OF DELIGHT. Wisdom of itself is delectable and satisfactory, as it implies a revelation of truth and a detection of error to us.'Tis like light, pleasant to behold, casting a sprightly lustre, and diffusing a benign influence all about; presenting a goodly prospect of things to the eyes of our minds; displaying objects in their due shapes, postures, magnitudes, and colors; quickening our spirits with a comfortable warmth, and disposing our minds to a cheerful activity; dispelling the darkness of ignorance, scattering the mists of doubt; driving away the spectres of delusive fancy; mitigating the cold of sullen melancholy; discovering obstacles, securing progress, and making the passages of life clear, open, and pleasant. We are all naturally endowed with a strong appetite to know, to see, to pursue truth; and with a bashful abhorrency from being deceived and entangled in mistake. And as success in inquiry after truth affords matter of joy and triumph; so being conscious of error and miscarriage therein, is attended with shame and sorrow. These desires wisdom in the most perfect manner satisfies, not by entertaining us with dry, empty, fruitless theories upon mean and vulgar subjects; but by enriching our minds with excellent and useful knowledge, directed to the noblest objects, and serviceable to the highest ends.' ANDREW MARVELL. 1620-1678. FEW men deserve more to be remembered with admiration than Andrew Marvell; not so much for his intellectual powers and mental attainments, great though they were, as for his high moral qualities. Indeed, a character in all respects, private, literary, and patriotic, so uncommonly excellent and noble, is rarely to be met with in the annals of history. He was born at Kingston-upon-Hull, in Yorkshire, in 1620, and at the age of fifteen entered Cambridge. After leaving the university he travelled many years in Europe. 1 Bacon, in enumerating the advantages of knowledge, says, I. It relieves man's afflictions. 2. It promotes public virtue and order. 3. It promotes private virtues, by humanizing, humbling, nullifying vain admiration, improving. 4. It is power. 5. The pleasure of knowledge far exceedeth all other pleasures: for, shall the pleasures of the affections so exceed the senses, as much as the ob-h taining of desire or victory exceedeth a song or a dinner; and must not, of consequence, the pleasures of the intellect or understanding exceed the pleasures of the affections? We see in all other pleasures there is satiety, and after they be used, their verdure departeth; which showeth well they be but deceits of pleasure, and not pleasures; and that it was the novelty which pleased, and not the quality: and therefore we see that voluptuous men turn friars, and ambitious princes turn melancholy. But of knowledge there is no satiety, but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually interellangeable, and therefore appearcth to be good in itself simply, without fallacy or accident. 1660-1685.] MARVELL. 283 and on his return he became assistant Latin secretary to Milton, to whom he ever proved a most faithful friend, defending his reputation and shielding him from danger after the Restoration. In 1660 he was elected to parliament by the city of Hull, and was re elected as long as he lived. In his parliamentary duties he exhibited a zeal and faithlfulness that were never surpassed; constantly corresponding with his constituents, and earnestly contending for their public rights and local interests. He always voted on the popular side, and so great was his influence, that the court determined, if possible, to bribe him to their interests. Accordllgly they sent his old school-fellow, the lord-treasurer Danby, to him, with an order for ~1000 on the treasury. He found him in a garret, writing to his constituents. After some conversation, as he was going out, he slipped the order into Marvell's hand, who, without looking at it, accompanied him to his coach. As he was about driving off, Marvell, having opened the paper, and seen what it was, called him back, and they returned to the garret. "My lord," said Marvell, pointing to a small shoulder-bone of mutton, "Andrew Marvell's dinner is provided for; there is your piece of paper; I want it not. I know the sort of kindness you intend, but I live here to serve my cd.nstituents; the ministry may seelk men for their purpose; I am not one." How refreshing it is to the eye to look upon a character of such unsullied purity, especially if it be in the mitdst of political life, that perilous arena, from which so few return without some spots to disfigure their moral vestments.1 Marvell, from the stern integrity of his character, rendered himself more and more obnoxious to a corrupt court. His personal satire against the king himself, his tracts against popery and the ministry, and his desperate literary battles with Bishop Parlker, "that venal apostate to bigotry," (as Campbell calls him,) repeatedly endangered his life. Among other anonymous letters sent to him, was the following: " If thou darest to print or publish any lie or libel against Dr. Parlker, by the Eternal God I will cut thy throat." But all this was to no purpose. He pursued the path of duty, unfaltering, and stood like a rock amid the foaming ocean. He, at last, died suddenly, on the 29th of July, 1678, while attending a public meeting at Hull: many supposed that he was poisoned. In his prose writings Marvell defended the principles of freedom with great vigor of eloquence and liveliness of humor. He mingled a playful exu berance of fancy and figure not unlike that of Burke, with a keenness of sar castic wit not surpassed even by Swift. The following spirited irony, taken from one of his answers to Parker, is on the "DOLEFUL EVILS" OF THE PRESS.2 For the press hath owed him a shame a long time, and is but now beginning to pay off the debt,-the press, (that vllanous engine,) invented about the same time with the Reformation, that hath done more mischief to the discipline of our church, than all the doctrine can make amends for.'Twas a happy time when 1 Burke and Wilberforce in England, and John Quincy Adams in our own country, are eminent exceptions to the general rule. 2 Two well-written articles on Marvell may be found in the 10th and 11th vols. of the Retro spective Review. Read, also, an admirable life in Hartley Coleridge's "Lives of Distinguislledrl Northern i." 284 MARVELL. ECHARLES II. all learning was in manuscripts, and some little officer, like oum author, did keep the keys of the library; when the clergy needed no more knowledge than to read the Liturgy; and the laity no more clerkship than to save them from hanging. But now, since printing came into the world, such is the mischief, that a man cannot write a book, but presently he is answered! Could the press at once be conjured to obey only an Iinprimatur, our author might not disdain, perhaps, to be one of its most zealous patrons. There have been ways found out to banish ministers, to fine not only the people, but even the grounds and fields where they assembled in conventicles. But no art yet could prevent these seditious meetings of letters. Two or three brawny fellows in a corner, with mere ink and elbow-grease, do more harm than a hundred systematical divines. with their sweaty preaching.' And, which is a strange thing, the very sponges, which one would think should rather deface and blot out the whole book, and were anciently used for that purpose, are now become the instruments to make things legible. Their ugly printing-letters, that look but like so many rotten teeth,-how oft have they been pulled out by the public tooth-drawers! And yet these rascally operators of the press have got a trick to fasten them again in a few minutes, that they grow as firm a set, and as biting and talkative as ever. O Printing! how hast thou disturbed the peace of mankind! That lead, when moulded into bullets, is not so mortal, as when founded into letters. There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus; and the serpent's teeth, which he sowed, were nothing else but the letters which he invented. The first essay that was made towards this art was in single characters upon iron, wherewith of old they stigmatized slaves and remarkable offenders; and it was of good use sometimes to brand a schismatic. But a bulky Dutchman diverted it quite from its first institution, and contrived those innumerable syntagmes of alphabets. One would have thought, in reason, that a Dutchman at least might have contented himself only with the wine-press. The following is a cutting PARODY ON THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES II. My lords and gentlemen, I told you, at our last meeting, the Winter was the fittest time for business, and truly I thought so, till my lord-treasurer assured me the Spring was the best season for salads and subsidies. I hope, therefore, that April will not prove so unnatural a month, as I How unspeakably important is it, considering the mighty influence of the press, that it should be, in all its departments, the guardian of morals —the handmaid of virtue: and yet, how many publishers seem utterly reckless of the character of the books they publish, provided they " will sell:" a nd how few are the editors of our newspapers who do not appear to consider the triumphs of party deramount to the triumphs of truth and justice. 1660-1685.] MARVELL. 285 not to afford some kind showers on my parched exchequer, which gapes for want of them. Some of you, perhaps, will think it dangerous to make me too rich; but I do not fear it; for I promise you faithfully, whatever you give me I will always want; and although in other things my word may be thought a slender authority, yet in that, you may rely on me, I will never break it. My lords and gentlemen, I can bear my straits with patience; but my lord-treasurer does protest to me, that the revenue, as it now stands, will not serve him and me too. One of us must pinch for it, if you do not help me. I must speak freely to you; I am under bad circumstances. Here is my lord-treasurer can tell, that all the money designed for next Summer's guards must of necessity be applied to the next year's cradles and swaddling clothes. What shall we do for ships then? I hint this only to you, it being your business, not mine. I know, by experience, I can live without ships. I lived ten years abroad without, and never had my health better in my life; but how you will be without, I leave to yourselves to judge, and therefore hint this only by the bye: I do not insist upon it. There is another thing I must press more earnestly, and that is this: it seems a good part of my revenue will expire in two or three years, except you will be pleased to continue it. I have to say for it; pray, why did you give me so much as you have done, unless you resolve to give on as fast as I call for it? The nation hates you already for giving so much, and I will hate you too, if you do not give me more. So that, if you stick not to me, you must not have a friend in England. On the other hand, if you will give me the revenue I desire, I shall be able to do those things for youri religion and liberty, that I have had long in my thoughts, but cannot effect them without a little more money to carry me through. Therefore look to't, and take notice, that if you do not make me rich enough to undo you, it shall lie at your doors. For my part, I wash my hands on it. If you desire more instances of my zeal, I have them for you. For example, I have converted my sons from popery, and I may say, without vanity, it was my own work.'Twould do one's heart good to hear how prettily George can read already in the psalter. They are all fine children, God bless'em, and so like me in their understandings! I must now acquaint you, that, by my lord-treasurer's advice, I have made a considerable retrenchment upon my expenses in can dles and charcoal, and do not intend to stop, but will, with your help, look into the late embezzlements of my dripping-pans and kitchen-stuff. The friendship between Milton and Marvell is one of the most interesting subjects in the biography of two of the most noble characters of England. 286 MARVELL. [CHARLES II. After the Restoration he contrived varions ways to shield Milton from the rage of the reigning powers. As a member of parliament he made a considerable party fut lhini; and it is probable that his humor contrived the premature and mock funeral of Milton, which is reported, for a time, to have duped his enemies into the belief of his real death: and to this manly friendship, in conjunction with the influence of the poet Davenant, is the world probably in. debted for Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, subsequently completed and published. One of Marvell's sarcastic replies to Parker was attributed to Milton; to which'Marvell replies by telling his antagonist that " he had not seen John Milton for two years before he composed his book;" and then he thus speaks of MILTON. John Milton was, and is, a man of as great learning and sharpness of wit as any man. It was his misfortune, living in a turnul tuous time, to be tossed on the wrong side; and he wrote, Afagrante bello, certain dangerous treatises. At his majesty's happy return, John Milton did partake, even as you did yourself, for all your buffing, of his regal clemency, and has ever since expiated himself in a retired silence. It was after that, I well remember it, that being one day at his house, I there first met you, and accidentally. What discourse you there used, he is too generous to remember. But he never having in the least provoked you, for you to insult thus over his old age, to traduce him who was born and hath lived much more ingenuously and liberally than yourself; to have done all this, and lay, at last, my simple book to his charge, without ever taking care to inform yourself better, which you had so easy opportunity to do; it is inhumanly and inhospitably done, and will, I hope, be a warning to all others, as it is to me, to avoid (I will not say such a Judas, but) a man that creeps into all companies, to jeer, trepan, and betray them. Marvell's poetical productions are few, but they display a fancy lively, tender, and elegant; c" there is much in them that comes from the heart, warm, pure, and affectionate." THE EMIGRANTS. WVThere the remote Bermudas ride, In th' ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along, The listening winds received this song. What should we do, but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own! Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing; 1660-1685.] MARVELL. 287 And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night. He makes the figs our mouths to meet: And throws the melons at our feet. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. Oh! let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which then, perhaps, rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay! Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. THE NYMIPHI COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I'm sure I never wish'd them ill; Nor do I for all thlis; nor will: But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears, Rather than fail. But, 0 my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's king Keeps register of every thing, And nothing may we use in vain: E'en beasts must be with justice slain. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at my own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day It wax'd more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush'd to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say than my hand? Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a- wondrous thing how fleet'Twas on those little silver feet. With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when't had left me far away,'Twould stay, and run again, and stay, 288 FELLTHAM. [CHARLES AL, For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness, And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed; And then to me'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within. OWEN FELLTHAM. Died 1678. OF the personal history of Owen Felltham we know but very little. Even the accomplished editor of his works,L after many years of unwearied search, was not able to find any thing satisfactory relative to his life. He remarks: "There are few English writers, perhaps none, who enjoyed any considerable celebrity in the ages in which they lived, of whom less is known, than of the author of the cResolves;' and what is particularly remarkable, though this production of his pen has passed through no less than twelve editions, I do not find the name of Owen Felltham to have been made the subject of an article in any of our printed biographical collections." The chief work of Felltham is, his "Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Politi cal," consisting of two c" Centuries," as he calls them, that is, of two parts containing each one hundred Essays or ",Resolves." They consist of a series of essays on subjects corrected with religion, morality, and the conduct of life; and they appear to have been termed "6 Resolves," because, at the con elusion of each essay, the author generally forms resolutions for his own con duct drawn from his own precepts. In this direct, personal application, they differ from the c" Essays" of Lord Bacon, to which they otherwise bear a frequent resemblance in manner, and still more in matter. The style of Felltham is not always equal; but is generally strong, harmonious, and well 1 "Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Political." A new edition, &8c., by James Cumming, Esq. London, 1806. 8vo. Read, also, an excellent article in the Retrospective Review, x. 343, the writer of which concludes with these remarks: " We lay aside the'Resolves,' as we part from our dearest friends, in the hope of frequently returning to them. We recommend the whole of them to the perusal of our readers. They will find therein more solid maxims, as much piety, and far better writing, than in most of the pulpit lectures now current among us." 1660-1685.] FELLTHAM. 289 adapted to the subjects of which he treats. He is prodigal of metaphor and quotation, and on that account has been accused of pedantry; but his figures are always beautifully illustrative of his subject, and his quotations generally appropriate. As to his sentiments, they are remarkable for their sound, good sense, as well as for their great purity of moral and religious principle. WE ARE HAPPY OR MISERABLE BY COMPARISON. There is not in this world either perfect misery or perfec happiness. Comparison, more than reality, makes men happy and can make them wretched. What should we account miserable, if we did not lay it in the balance with something that hath more felicity? If we saw not some men vaulting in the gay trim of honor and greatness, we should never think a poor estate so lamentable. Were all the world ugly, deformity would be no monster. It is, without doubt, our eyes gazing at others above, casts us into a shade, which, before that time, we met not with. It is envy and ambition that makes us far more miserable than the constitution which our liberal nature hath allotted us. Many never find themselves in want, till they have discovered the abundance of some others. It was comparison that first kindled.the fire, to burn Troy withal. Give it to the fairest, was it, which jarred the Goddesses. Paris might have given the ball with less offence, had it not been so inscribed. Surely Juno was content with her beauty, till the Trojan youth cast her, by advancing Venus. VWhile we spy no joys above our own, we in quiet count them blessings. We see even a few companions can lighten our miseries: by which we may guess the effect of a generality. Blackness, a flat nose, thick lips. and goggled eyes, are beauties, where nor shapes nor colors differ. He is much impatient, that refuseth the general lot. For myself, I will reckon that misery, which I find hurts me in myself; not that which, coming from another, I may avoid, if I will. Let me examine whether that I enjoy, be not enough to felicitate me, if I stay at home. If it be, I would not have another's better fortune put me out of conceit with my own. In outward things, I will look to those that are beneath me; that if I must build myself out of others, I may rather raise content than murmur. But for accomplishments of the mind, I will ever fix on those above me; that I may, out of an honest emulation, mend myself by continual striving to imitate their nobleness. OF PRAYER. It is a hard thing among men of inferior rank to speak to an earthly prince: no king keeps a court so open as to give admittance to all comers: and though they have, they are not sure to speed; albeit there be nothing that should make their petitions T 25 290 FELLTHAM. [CHARLES nI not grantable. Oh how happy, how privileged then is a Chris tian! who though he often lives here in a slight esteem, yet cau he freely confer with the King of Heaven; who not only hears his entreaties, but delights in his requests; inites him to come, and promiseth a happy welcome; which he shows in fulfilling his desires, or better, fitter for him: in respect of whom, the greatest monarch is more base than the basest vassal in regard of the most mighty and puissant emperor. Man cannot so much exceed a beast, as God doth him: what if I be not known to the Nimrods of the world, and the peers of the earth? I can speak to their better, to their Master; and by prayer be familiar with him. Importunity does not anger him; neither can any thing but our sins make us go away empty. My comfort is, my access to heaven is as free as the prince's; my departure from earth not so grievous: for while the world smiles on him, I am sure I have less reason to love it than he. God's favor I will chiefly seek for; man's, but as it falls in the way to it: when it proves a hinderance, I hate to be loved. OF FAITH AND WORKS. Works without Faith are like a salamander without fire, or a fish without water: in which, though there may seem to be some quick actions of life, and symptoms of agility, yet they are, indeed, but forerunners of their end, and the very presages of death. Faith again without Works is like a bird without wings: who, though she may hop with her companions here upon earth, yet if she live till the world ends, she will never fly to heaven. But when both are joined together, then doth the soul mount up to the hill of eternal rest: these can bravely raise her to her first height: yea carry her beyond it; taking away both the will that did betray her, and the possibility that might. The former without the latter is self-cozenage; the last without the former is mere hypocrisy; together, the excellency of religion. Faith is the rock, while every good action is as a stone laid; one the foundation, the other the structure. The foundation without the walls is of slender value: the building without a basis cannot stand. They are so inseparable, as their conjunction makes them good. Chiefly will I labor for a sure foundation, saving Faith; and equally I will seek for strong walls, good Works. For as man judlgeth the house by the edifice, more than by the foundation: so, not according to his Faith, but according to his Works, shall God judge man. SEDULITY AND DILIGENCE. There is no such prevalent workman as sedulity, and diligence. A man would wonder at the mighty things which have been 1660 —1685.] FELLTHAM. 291 done by degrees and gentle augmentations. Diligence and moderation are the best steps, whereby to climb to any excellency. Nay, it is rare if there be any other way. The heavens send not down their rain in floods, but by drops and dewy distillations. A man is neither good, nor wise, nor rich, at once: yet softly creeping up these hills, he shall every day better his prospect; till at last he gains the top. Now he learns a virtue, and then he damns: a vice. An hour in a day may much profit a man in his study, when he makes it stint and custom. Every year something laid up, may in time make a stock great. Nay, if a man does but save, he shall increase; and though when the grains are scattered, they be next to nothing, yet together they will swell the heap. He that has the patience to attend small profits, may quickly grow to thrive and purchase: they be easier to accomplish, and come thicker. So, he that from every thing collects somewhat, shall in time get a treasury of wisdom. And when all is done, for man, this is the best way. It is for God, and for Omnipotency, to do mighty things in a moment: but, d:egreeingly to grow to greatness, is the course that he hath left for man. CONTENT MAKES RICH. Every man either is rich, or may be so; though not all in one and the same wealth. Some have abundance, and rejoice in it; some a competency, and are content; some having nothing, have a mind desiring nothing. He that hath most, wants something; he that hath least, is in something supplied; wherein the mind which maketh rich, may well possess him with the thought of store. Who whistles out more content than the low-fortuned ploughman, or sings more merrily than the abject cobbler that sits under the stall? Content dwells with those that are out of the eye of the world, whom she hath never trained with her gauds, her toils, her lures. Wealth is like learning, wherein our greater knowledge is only a larger sight of our wants. Desires fulfilled, teach us to desire more; so we that at first were pleased, by removing from that, are now grown insatiable. Wishes have neither end; nor end. So, in the midst of affluency, we complain of penury, which, not finding, we make. For to possess the whole world with a grumbling mind, is but a little more specious poverty. If I be not outwardly rich, I will labor to be poor in craving desires; but in the virtues of the mind, (the best riches,) I would not have a man exceed me. He that hath a mind contentedly good, enjoyeth in At boundless possessions. If I be pleased in myself, who can add to my happiness? as no man lives so happy. 1 Used in the Latin sense of damno, to condemn, to renounce. 292 SAMUEL. BUTLER. [CHARLES TT. but to some his life would be burdensome; so we shall find norA so miserable, but we shall hear of another that would change calamities. MORNING AND EVENING PRAYER. Though prayer should be the key of the day, and the lock of the night, yet I hold it more needful in the morning, than wher our bodies do take their repose. For howsoever sleep be the image or shadow of death,-and when the shadow is so near, the substance cannot be far,-yet a man at rest in his chamber is like a sheep impenned in the fold; subject only to the unavoidable and more immediate hand of God: whereas in the day, when he roves abroad in the open and wide pastures, he is then exposed to many more unthought-of accidents, that contingently and casually occur in the way: retireduess is more safe than business; who believes not a ship securer in the bay, than in the midst of the boiling ocean? Besides, the morning to the day, is as youth to the life of a man: if that be begun well, commonly his age is virtuous: otherwise, God accepts not the latter service, when his enemy joys in the first dish. Why should God take thy dry bones, when the devil hath sucked the marrow out? SAMUEL BUTLER. 1612-1680. WHILE Andrew Marvell was the leading prose wit of the reign of Charles II., Samuel Butler was the author of the best burlesque poem in the language. He was born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612. It cannot be ascertained whether he enjoyed a university education or not; but his writings show that his scholarship, however acquired, was both varied and profound. In early life he was employed as a clerk to the county magistrate of Worcestershire, where he enjoyed ample leisure for reading and meditation; and afterwards, in the household of the Countess of Kent, where he had the use of an ample library, which he did not fail to improve. Hence, he went into the employment of Sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's officers, where he saw much of the unfavorable side of the Puritans; and here, it is supposed, he first conceived the idea of his satirical epic upon them. The first part of the poem was published three years after the Restoration; and though it was the delight of the court, and quoted everywhere and in all circles, the poet reaped nothing but empty praise. In 1664, the second part was published, but still no pecuniary reward was received from the court, for whom he chiefly wrote, and to whose gratification he chiefly contributed. It was not till 1678 that the third part appeared, and in 1680 he died, and so poor was he, that he was buried at the sole expense of a friend, in a church. yard. after a place in Westminster Abbey had been refused. But what gratitulde, or any noble feeling could be expected from Charles II., or any of his licentious court? ThO, poem o i':Hudibras" is unique in European literature. It was evi 180O-1685.] SAM-UEL BUTLER. 293 dently suggested by the adventures of Don Quixote; for as Cervantes sent forth his hero upon a chivalrous crusade to right wrongs, and redress grievances, in order to bring the institution of chivalry, of which he claims to be the personification, into contempt; so Sir Hudibras, claiming to be a representative of the true Presbyterian character, goes forth " a colonelling," against all those popular sports, of which the Puritans of the day had such a holy horror, to make this sect appear in the most ridiculous light. But the Puritan of Butler is an aggravated caricature, rather than a faithful portrait;] and though the poem possesses c" an excess of wit, rhymes the most original and ingenious, and the most apt and burlesque metaphors, couched in an easy, gossiping, colloquial metre; yet it would be as impossible to read Hudibras to an end at once, as to dine on cayenne or pickles. It administers no food to the higher and more permanent feelings of the human mind. The moral comes to be felt to be without dignity, the wit without gayety or relief, the story lagging and flat. Even the rhymes, amusing as they are, become, after a time, like the repetitions of a mimic, tiresome and stale." DESCRIPTION OF HIUDIBRAS, When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out, they knew not why; I The following, on the character of the Puritans, is taken from an article on Milton in the 42d vol, of the Edinburgh Review; an article which, for its truth and eloquence, stands first among the writ. lngs of " the great essayist of the age"-T. B. Macaulay. "The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of tninistering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away I On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt: for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language; nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. "The Puritan, indeed, was made up of two different men; the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other, proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker: but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hynins, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judgment, and an immutability of purpose, which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were, in fact, the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. " Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans. We perceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their domestic habits. We acknowledge that the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach: and we know that In spite of their hatred of popery, they too often fell into the worst vices of that bad system, intolerance and extravagant austerity. Yet, when all circumstances are taken ilnto consideraton, we do not hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and a useful boay." 25.* 294 SAMUEL BUTLER. [CHARLES ILr When hard words. jealousies, and fears Set folks together by the ears; When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded; And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist instead of a stick;' Then did Sir Knight2 abandon dwelling, And out he rode a-colonelling. A wight he was, whose very sight would Entitle him mirror of knighthood, That never bow'd his stubborn knee3 To any thing but chivalry, Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right worshipful on shoulder-blade. But here some authors make a doubt Whether he were more wise or stout; Some hold the one, and some the other, But, howsoe'er they make a pother, The difference was so small, his brain Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain; Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, call'd a fool: We grant, although he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it, As being loath to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about; Unless on holidays or so, As men their best apparel do. Beside,'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak; That Latin was no more difficile4 Than to a blackbird'tis to whistle. HIS LOGIC. He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic: He could distinguish, and divide A hair'twixt south and south-west side; On either which he would dispute, Confute, change hands, and still confute: He'd undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man's no horse; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees. He'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination: 1 The speaking of a stick as one word, with the stress upon a, heightens the burlesque, and cons, quently is rather an excellency than a fault. 2 Butler's hero, Sir Samuel Luke, was not only a colonel in the parliament army, but also Scout. master-General in the counties of Bedford, Surrey, &c. 8 That is, he kneeled to the king when he knighted him, but seldom upon any other occasion. 4 Sancho Panza says of Don Quixote, " that he is a main scolard, Latins it hugely, and talks his own mother tongue as well as one of your varnity Doctors' 1660-1685.] SAMUIEL BUTLER. 295 All this by syllogism true, In mood and figure he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope: And when he happen'd to break off In th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by; Else when with greatest art he spoke, You'd think he talk'd like other folk; For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But when he pleased to show't, his speech, In loftiness of sound, was rich; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect; It was a party-color'd dress Of patch'd and piebald languages;'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin; It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; Which made some think, when he did gabble Th' had heard three laborers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. HIS MATHEMATICS. In Mathematics he was greater Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater;i For he, by geometric scale, Could take the size of pots of ale; Resolved by sines and tangents straight If bread or butter wanted weight; And wisely tell what hour o' th' day The clock does strike, by algebra. HIS METAPHYSICS. Beside, lie was a shrewd philosopher, And had read every text and gloss over; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, He understood b' implicit faith: Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For every why he had a wherefore; Knew more. than forty of them do, As far as words and terms could go; All which he understood by rote, And, as occasion served, would quote; No matter whether right or wrong; They might be either said or sung. 1 Tycho Brahe was an eminent Danish mathematician. 2 By Erra Pater, it is thought that Butler alluded to one William Lilly, a famous astrologer of those times. 8 As a justice of the peace, he had a right to inspect weights and measures. 296 SAMUEL BUTLER. [CHARLES H. His notions fitted things so well, That which was which he could not tell, But oftentimes mistook the one For th' other, as great clerks have done. He knew what's what,' and that's as high As metaphysic wit can fly: He could raise scruples dark and nice, And after solve'em in a trice; As if divinity had catch'd The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd; Or, like a mountebank, did wound, And stab herself with doubts profound, Only to show with how small pain The sores of Faith are cured again; Although by woful proof we find They always leave a scar behind. HIS APPAREL. His doublet was of sturdy buff, And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof, Whereby'twas fitter for his use, Who feared no blows but such as bruise. His breeches were of rugged woollen, And had been at the siege of Bullen;2 To old King Harry so well known, Some writers held they were his own: Though they were lined with many a piece Of ammunition bread and cheese, And fat black-puddings, proper food For warriors that delight in blood: For,, as we said, he always chose To carry victuals in his hose, That often tempted rats and mice The ammunition to surprise; And when he put a hand but in The one or t'other magazine, They stoutly on defence on't stood, Arid from the wounded foe drew blood. Such are a few specimens of Butler's wit as displayed in his poetry. The sa,une vein runs through his prose works, which were not published till a consi(lerable time after his death. We can give but one specimen:A SMALL POET Is one that would fain make himself that which nature never meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock, and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he A ridicule on the senseless questions in the common systems of logic, as, quid est quid t whence.ame the common proverbial expression of he knows what's what, to denote a shrewd man.? Boulognre was besieged by King Henry VIII., July 14, 1544, and surrendered in September. 1660-1685.] SAMUEL BUTLER. 297 puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit has the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of the joints. You may know his wit not to be natural,'tis so unquiet and troublesome in him: for as those that have money but seldom are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he thinks he has got something that will make him appear. He is a perpetual talker; and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as if they were but disparagements of his own; and cries down all they do, as if they were encroachments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with any thing that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve several occasions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches are unlawful, and not fit to be made by a Christian poet; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes he likes the hardest and most obscure best; for as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did; for contraries are best sort off with contraries. He has found out a new set of poetical Georgics-a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit, like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday; there has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs and shepherdesses; trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art 298 BROWNE. [CHARLES II. in the world so rich in terms as poetry; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them; for there is hardly a pond, a sheepwalk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hama dryades, a6nides, fauni, nymphae, sylvani, &c., that signify nothing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and "4 thorough' reformations" that can happen between this and Plato's great year. SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 1605-1682. ONE of the most original as well as learned men of the reign of Charles [I., was Sir Thomas Browne. He was born in London in 1605, and in 1623 ne entered Oxford, intending to devote himself to the study of medicine. Having taken his degree, he practised physic for some time in Oxfordshire. He then went abroad, and travelled in France, Italy, and Holland; and at Leyden he took the degree of doctor of physic. Returning to England in 1634, he settled at Norwich, and on account of his great reputation as a physician, he was, a few years after, made honorary fellow of the Royal College of Physicians in London. He was knighted in 1671 by Charles II., in his progress through Norwich, with singular marks of consideration; and died in 1682. The following are the principal productions of Sir Thomas Browne — 1. " The Religio Medici, or the Religion of a Physician." It is divided into two parts; the first containing his confession of faith, that is, all his curious religious opinions and feelings; the second, a confession of charity; that is, all his human feelings.1 2. His " Pseudodoxia Epidemica," more generally known by the title of i" Browne's Vulgar Errors." This is the most popular of all his works. He treats his subject very methodically, dividing the whole into seven books, considering the various errors as they arise from minerals and vegetables, animals, man, pictures, geography, philosophy, and history. Notwithstanding the singularity and quaintness which pervade this work, it is one that displays great learning and penetration, and is very interesting. 3. Another production was entitled'" Hydriotaphia, Urn-Burial; or a Discourse of the Sepulchral Urns lately found in Norfolk." " In this work," says an able critic,2'" Sir Thomas Browne hath dared to take the grave itself for his theme. He deals not with death as a shadow, but as a substantial reality. He dwelis not on it as a mere cessation of life-he treats it not as a terrible negation-but enters on its discussion as a state with its own solemnities and pomps." Dr. Johnson has described Browne's style with much critical acumen. " It is," says he, "vigorous, but rugged; it is learned, but pedantic; it is deep, but 1 of this, Dr. Johnson, in his life of Browne, thus remarks: " The Religio Medici was no sooner published, than it excited the attention of the public by the novelty of paradoxes, the dignity of sentsment, the quick succession of images, the multitude of abstruse allusions, the subtlety of disquisition, and the strength of language."' For an interesting notice of this singular work, see Retrospective Review, i. 84. Read, also, some remarks on our author in Hazlitt's "Age of Elizabeth." 1660-1685.1 BROWNE. 299 obscure; it strikes, but does not please; it commands, but does not allure: his tropes are harsh, and his combinations uncouth. He fell into an age in which our language began to lose the stability which it had obtained in the time of Elizabeth; and was considered by every writer as a subject on which he might try his plastic skill, by moulding it according to his own fancy. His style is, indeed, a tissue of many languages; a mixture of heterogeneous words, brought together from distant regions, with terms originally appropriate to one ~rt, and drawn by violence into the service of another." l THOUGHTS ON DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. In a field of Old Walsingham, not many months past, were digged up between forty and fifty urns, deposited in a dry and sandy soil, not a yard deep, not far from one another: not all strictly of one figure, but most answering these described; some containing two pounds of bones, distinguishable in skulls, ribs, jaws, thigh-bones, and teeth, with fresh impressions of their combustion; besides, the extraneous substances, like pieces of small boxes, or combs handsomely wrought, handles of small brass instruments, brazen nippers, and in one some kind of opal. That these were the urns of Romans, from the common custom and place where they were found, is no obscure conjecture; not far from a Roman garrison, and but five miles from Brancaster, set down by ancient record under the name of Brannodunum; and where the adjoining town, containing seven parishes, in no very different sound, but Saxon termination, still retains the name of Burnham; which being an early station, it is not improbable the neighbor parts were filled with habitations, either of Romans themselves, or Britons Romanised, which observed the Roman customs. * * e What song the sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture. What time the persons of these ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with princes and counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But who were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes made up, were a question above antiquarianism: not to be resolved by man, not easily perhaps by spirits, except we consult the provincial guardians, or tutelary observators. Had they made as good provision for their names, as they have done for their relics, 1 But Dr. Johnson himself did not scruple to transfer to his own pagps many of Browne's ponde ~ ous words; for, as Cumberland truly says of him, " He forced Latinisms into his lines, Like raw, undrilld recruits." "Sir Thomas Browne is among my first favorites. Rich in various knowledge, exuberant In con. ceptions and conceits; contemplative, imaginative, often truly great and magnificent in his style and diction, though, doubtless, too often big, stiff, and hypec-latzlisti."-Coleridge. 300 BROWNE. [CHARLES II, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and be but pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in duration. e * * But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids? Herostratus lives, that burnt the temple of Diana! he is almost lost that built it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations; and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamemnon, without the favor of the everlasting register. Who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot, than any that stand remembered in the known account of time? The first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselah's long life had been his only chronicle. There is nothing strictly immortal, but immortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may be confident of no end. All others have a dependent being, and within the reach of destruction, which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency, to be so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer even from the power of itself. But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthumous memory. Man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave; solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre. To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to exist in their names, and predicament of chimeras, was large satisfaction unto old expectations, and made one part of their Elysiums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of true belief. To live indeed is to be again ourselves, which being not only a hope, but an evidence in noble believers, it is all one to lie in St. Innocent's 1 churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt; ready to be any thing in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six foot as the moles (if Adrianus.2 Hydriotaphid. PRIDE. I thank God amongst those millions of vices I do inherit and nold from Adam, I have escaped one, and that a mortal enemy to charity, the first and father sin, not only of man, but of the devil, — pride; a vice whose name is comprehended in a monosyllable, but in its nature not circumscribed'with a world; I have escaped t In Paris, where bodies soon consume 2 A stately rsauso!cum, or sepulchtst pile, built by Adrianus in Rome, where now standeth the cat-le of St. Angeio 1660-1685.] BROWNE. 301 it in a condition that can hardly avoid it; those petty acquisitions and reputed perfections that advance and elevate the conceits of other men, add no feathers into mine. I have seen a grammarian tour and plume himself over a single line in Horace, and show more pride in the construction of one ode, than the author in the composure of the whole book. For my own part, besides the jargon and patois of several provinces, I understand no less than six languages; yet I protest I have no higher conceit of myself, than had our fathers before the confusion of Babel, when there was but one language in the world, and none to boast himself either linguist or critic. I have not only seen several countries, beheld the nature of their climes, the chorography of their provinces, topography of their cities, but understood their several laws, customs, and policies; yet cannot all this persuade the dulness of my spirit unto such an opinion of myself, as I behold in nimbler and conceited heads, that never looked a degree beyond their nests. I know the names, and somewhat more, of all the constellations in my horizon; yet I have seen a prating mariner that could only name the pointers and the North star, out-talk me, and conceit himself a whole sphere above me. I know most of the plants of my country, and of those about me; yet methinks I do not know so many as when I did but know a hundred, and had scarcely ever simpled further than Cheapside; for indeed heads of capacity, and such as are not full with a handful, or easy measure of knowledge, think they know nothing till they know all; which being impossible, they fall upon the opinion of Socrates, and only know they know not any thing.1 1 SOLILOQUIES OF THE OLD PHILOSOPHER AND THE YOUNG LADY. "Alas I" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, " how narrow is the utmost extent of human knowledge I how circumscribed the sphere of intellectual exertion I I have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, but how little do I know i The farther I.attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and benighted. Beyond a certain limit, all is but confusion or conjecture: so that the advantage of the learned over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained how little is to be known. " It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the distances of the planets; I can calculate their periodical movements; and even ascertain the laws by which they perform their sublime revo lutions: but with regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit them, of their condition and circumstances, whether natural or moral, what do I know more than the clown? " I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground: and I am taught to account for this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than a term? Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common centre? I observed the effect, I gave a name to the cause; but can I explain or comprehend it? "Pursuing the tract of the naturalist, I have learned to distinguish the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms: and to divide them into their distinct tribes and families:-but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its vitality?-could the most minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite pencil that paints and fringes the flower of thp field?-have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the emerald,,r the art that enamels'he delicate shell?'Alas I then, what have I gained by my laborious researches but an'humiliating conviction of my 26 302 WALTON. [CHARLES II. As a specimen of his worst Latinized English, we give the following from his " Vulgar Errors." He notices the custom of foretelling events by spots upon the nails in this curious manner: — That temperamental dignotions, and conjecture of prevalent humors, may be collected from spots in our nails, we are not averse to concede. But yet not ready to admit sundry divinations, vulgarly raised upon them. And again: — Of lower consideration is the common foretelling of strangers from the fungous parcel about the wicks of candles; which only signifieth a moist and pluvious ayr about them, hindering the avolation of the light and favillous particles. IZAAK WALTON. 1593-1683. IZAAIE WALTOW, the "Father of Angling," was born at Stafford, in 1593. Of his early education little is known; but having acquired a moderate competency in business in London, as a linen-draper, he retired from business in 1643, at the age of fifty, and lived forty years after, in uninterrupted leisure dying in 1683, in the ninetieth year of his age, exhibiting a striking proof how much calm pursuits, with a mind pure and at ease, contribute to prolong the period of human existence. Walton is celebrated as a biographer, and particularly as an angler. His first work was the 4" Life of Dr. John Donne," published in 1640. On the death of Sir Henry Wotton, he published a collection of his works, with a life prefixed. His next life was that of Dr. Richard Hooker, author of the c" Ecclesiastical Polity;" and soon after he wrote the life of George Herbert. All weakness and ignorance t of how little has man, at his best estate, to boast! what folly in him to glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions t''" Well I" exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school, "my education is at last finished: indeed it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, any thing were left incomplete. Happily that is all over now; and I have nothing to do but to exercise my various accomplishments. " Let me see i-as to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very well; as well, at least, and better, than any of my friends; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to play when we have company. I must still continue to practise a little;-the only thing, I think, that I need now to improve myself in. And then there are my Italian songs I which everybody allows I sing with tastes and, as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that I can. "My drawings are universally admired; especially the shells and flowers; which are beautiful, certainly; besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments.',And then my dancing and waltzing! in which our master himself owned that he could take me no further l-just the figure for it, certainly; it would be unpardonable if I did not excel. "As to common things, geography, and history, and poetry, and philosophy, thank my stars, I leave got. orough them aill so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly well informed.' Well, to be sure how much have I fagged through; the only wonder is, that one head can con. taln it all 11" 1660-1685.] WALTON. 803 these were collected in 1670, and published in one volume.1 It was one of Dr. Johnson's most favorite books. But the work by which he is most known is, "c The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation," a work, which, to use the words of Sir Harris Nicolas, "whether considered as a treatise on the art of angling, or a beautiful pastoral, abounding in exquisite descriptions of rural scenery, in sentiments of the purest morality, and ill unaffected love of the Creator and his works, has long been ranked among the most popular compositions in our language." In writing it, he says, he made a'"recreation of a recreation," and, by mingling innocent mirth and pleasant scenes with the graver parts of his discourse, he designed it as a picture of his own disposition. The work is, indeed, essentially autobiographical in spirit and execution. It is in the form of a dialogue; a Hunter and a Falconer are introduced as parties in it, but the whole interest of the piece centres in the venerable and complacent Piscator. The three meet accidentally near London, on a "fine fresh May" morning, and they agree each to " commend his recreation" or favorite pursuit. Piscator allows the Falconer2 to take the lead, who thus commends the sport of his choice: — And first for the element that I use to trade in, which is the air; an element of more worth than weight, an element that doubtless exceeds'both the earth and water: for though I sometimes deal in both, yet the air is most properly mine; I and my hawks use that, and it yields us most recreation: it stops not the high soaring of my noble, generous falcon: in it she ascends to such an height as the dull eyes of beasts and, fish are not able to reach to; their bodies are too gross for such high elevations. In the air, my troops of hawks soar up on high, and when they are lost in the sight of men, then they attend upon and converse with the gods. Therefore I think my eagle is so justly styled Jove's servant in ordinary: and that very falcon, that I am now going to see, deserves no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight endangers herself, like the son of Daedalus, to have her wings scorched by I "The Lives of Dr. John Donne; Sir Henry Wotton; Mr. Richard Hooker; Mr. George Herbert and Dr. Robert Sanderson, by Izaak Walton; with Notes and the Life of the Author, by Thomas Zouch, D. D." Best edition of a most admirable book. 2 Falconry, or the art of training hawks so that they would catch other birds, was a favorite sport with the English down to the middle of the seventeenth century. During the reigns of Elizabeth and James I., the rage for it was so universal, that no one could have the smallest pretensions to the character of a gentleman who kept not a "cast" of hawks; which term was applied to any num ber of hawks kept by one person, and was no more definite than the term " pack" applied to hounds. It was a very expensive diversion, and frequently involved those who were not opulent in utter fuin. For instance, in the reign of James I., a person gave one thousand pounds for a cast of hawks the training of hawks, as might well be supposed, was a work of great labor and difficulty, and he. who possessed great skill in the art was highly prized. They were taught to render perfect obe dience to the voice, and this was called "manning," or "luring;" and to fly after different birds, which was called " flying." When not flying at their game they were " hooded," having a little cap drawn over their head. When taken upon the "fist," the term used for carrying them in the hand, they had straps of leather, called "jesses," put about their legs, to which bells were also attached. To one of the "jesses" was tied a long thread, by which the bird was drawn back, after being permitted to fly, which was called the " reclaiming" of the hawk. For a more full account of this diver sion, read Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," vol. i. p 255-2172. 304 WALTON. [CHARLES II. the sun's heat, she flies so near it; but her mettle makes her careless of danger; for then she heeds nothing, but makes her nimble pinions cut the fluid air, and so makes her highway over the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and in her glorious career looks with contempt upon those high steeples and magnificent palaces which we adore and wonder at; from which height I can make her to descend by a word from my mouth, which she both knows and obeys, to accept of meat from my hand, to own me for her master, to go home with me, and be willing the next day to afford me the like recreation. Nay more, the very birds of the air, those that be not hawks, are both so many, and so useful and pleasant to mankind, that I must not let them pass without some observations.' * As first, the lark, when she means to rejoice; to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and having ended her heavenly employment, grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but from necessity.' How do the blackbird and thrassel with their melodious voices bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed months warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to! Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as namely, the leverock, the tit-lark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead. But the nightingale,a another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music, out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should hear as I have, very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth! This for the birds of pleasure, of which very much more might be said. My next shall be of birds of political use: I think'tis not to be doubted that swallows have been taught to carry letters between two armies. But it is certain, that when the Turks besieged Malta or Rhodes, I now remember not which it was, 1,, What can be more delightful than this description of the lark I In all the poets there is nothing said of the lark or of the nightingale comparable to this exquisite passage of our pious author. The thrassel is the song-thrush; leverock is a name still used in Scotland for the skylark; and the fondness of the robin for churchyards is well known."-American Editor of Walton. 2 What a favorite the nightingale has been with the best poets, ancient and modern! Iomer, Theocritus. Virdil. and Horace have sung its praises; Milton has shown his regard for it in numerous passages, and in a sonnet dedicated to it; Thomson, the poet of nature, has celebrated it; and Gray bas remembered it in his ode to Spring. But which of these has any thing superior to this most beau tlful description of it by our author t 1660-1685.] IWALI ON. 305 pigeons are then related to carry and recarry letters. And Mr. G. Sandys,l in his travels, relates it to be done between Aleppo and Babylon. But if that be disbelieved, it is not to be doubted that the dove was sent out of the ark by Noah, to give him notice of land, when to him all appeared to be sea, and the dove proved a faithful and comfortable messenger. And for the sacrifices of the law, a pair of turtle-doves or young pigeons were as well accepted as costly bulls and rams. And when God would feed the prophet Elijah, after a kind of miraculous manner, he did it by ravens, who brought him meat morning and evening. Lastly, the Holy (Ghost, when he descended visibly upon our Saviour, did it by assuming the shape of a dove.2 And to conclude this part of my discourse, pray remember these wonders were done by birds of the air, the element in which they and I take so much pleasure. There is also a little contemptible winged creature, an inhabitant of my aerial element, namely, the laborious bee, of whose prudence, policy, and regular government of their own commonwealth, I might say much, as also of their several kinds, and how useful their honey and wax is, both for meat and medicines to mankind; but I will leave them to their sweet labor, without the least disturbance, believing them to be all very busy at this very time amongst the herbs and flowers that we see nature puts forth this May-morning. Venator then takes his turn-discoursing largely upon the rich bounty of the earth on which he hunts, as "bringing forth herbs, flowers, and fruits, both for physic and the pleasure of manlkind," and concludes by "c enlarging himself in the commendation of hunting, and of the noble hound especially, as also of the docibleness of dogs in general." After a few preliminary remarks, the i" honest angler" thus breaks forth: — And now for the water, the element that I trade in. The water is the eldest daughter of the creation, the element upon which the spirit of God did first move, the element which God commanded to bring forth living creatures abundantly; and without which, those that inhabit the land, even all creatures that have breath in their nostrils, must suddenly return to putrefaction. Moses, the great lawgiver, and chief philosopher, skilled in all the learning of the Egyptians, who was called the friend of God, and knew the mind of the Almighty, names this element the first in the creation; this is the element upon which the spirit of God did first move, and is the chief ingredient in the creation: many philosophers have made it to comprehend all the other elements, and must allow it the chiefest in the mixtion of all living creatures. The water is more productive than the earth. Nay, the earth 1 See a notice of Sandys' Travels, p. 180. 2 The Evangelist does not mean that the Holy Ghost assumed the form of a dove, but descended ouering, gently fluttering like a dove. U 26 306 WALTON. [CHARLES II. hath no fruitfulness without showers or dews; for all the herbs, and flowers, and fruits are produced and thrive by the water. Then how advantageous is the sea for our daily traffic: without which we could not now subsist! How does it not only furnish us with food and physic for the bodies, but with such observations for the mind as ingenious persons would not want! Piscator then discourses most interestingly upon the variety of the fish, and of its use to man; not forgetting, in speaking of the honesty of his calling, to mention that " the Apostles Peter, James, and John, were all fishers." So -excellent and convincing is his discourse, that Venator is fairly won over, and says to him, 4" If you will but meet me to-morrow, at the time and place appointed, and bestow one day with me in hunting the otter, I will dedicate the next two days to wait upon you, and we two, for that time, will do nothing but angle, and talk of fish and fishing." This is agreed to, and in the fourth dialogue or chapter, while they are engaged earnestly in angling for trout, Piscator thus speaks: — Look! under that broad beech-tree I sat down, whens I was last this way a-fishing, and the birds in the adjoining groves seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill: there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble stones, which broke their waves and turned them into foam: and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams.' As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it, I was for that time lifted above earth; And possess'd joys not promised in my birth. As I left this place and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do, but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it: it was that smooth song, which was made by Kit Marlow,l now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh," in his younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this,:ritical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be 1 This heauttful description is almost word for word from Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia." S( e p. 81 2 See p 87. 3 See p. 150. 1660-1685.] WALTON. 307 a-milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us. God speed you, good woman! I have been a-fishing, and am going to Bleak-hall, to my bed; and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none. Milk-woman. Marry, God requite you, sir, and we'll eat it cheerfully; and if you come this way a-fishing two months hence, a grace of God, I'll give you a syllabub of new verjuice in a newmade haycock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men: in the mean time will you drink a draught of red cow's milk? You shall have it freely. Piscator. No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy, that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last past over this meadow, about eight or nine days since. Milk-woman. What song was it, I pray? Was it Come, shepherds, deck your herds? or,;ts at noon Dulcina rested? or,. Phillida flouts me? or, Chevy-chase? or, Johnny Arrmstrong? or, Troy-town? Piscator. No, it is none of those; it is a song that your daugh ter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it. 2M~ilk-woman. Oh, I know it now'i; I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter, and the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me: but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can; for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentleman with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second when you have done. Here follows the milk-maid's song, " Come live with me and be my love," after which Venator speaks: Venator. Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause that our good queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milkmaid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night; and without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's milk-maid's wish] upon her, "That she may die in the spring, and, being dead. may have good store of flowers stuck round about her windingsheet." 1 See page 127. 308 WALTON. [CHARLES II. Then comes the milk-maid's mother's answer, " If all the world and love were young," which done, the mother adds: Well, I have done my song; but stay, honest anglers, for I will make Maudlin to sing you one short song more. Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last night when young Coridon the shepherd played so purely on his oaten pipe to you and your cousin Betty. 11iaudlin. I will, mother. I married a wife of lateThe more's my unhappy fate, &c. Piscator. Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I'll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you. Come, scholar, let Maudlin alone: do not you offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine hostess to call us to supper. How now! is my brother Peter come? Hostess. Yes, and a friend with him; they are both glad to hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you, and long to be at supper, for they be very hungry. The following most beautiful exhortation to contentment, which comes from the mouth of Piscator, is a perfect gem. Who would not be wiser and better for reading it every day? Walton's own life seems to have illustrated, in an emsinent degree, the character he here describes-" The meek, who shall inherit the earth." CONTENTMENT. I knew a man that had health and riches, and several houses, all beautiful and ready furnished, and would often trouble himself' and family to be removing from one house to another; and being asked by a friend why he removed so often from one house to another, replied, " It was to find content in some of them." But his friend, knowing his temper, told him, " If he would find content in any of his houses, he must leave himself behind him; for content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul." And this may appear, if we read and consider what our Saviour says in St. Matthew's Gospel, for he there says, 1" Blessed be the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, for they shall possess the earth." Not that the meek shall not also obtain mnercy, and see God, and be comforted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven; but, in the mean time, he, and he only, possesses the earth, as he goes toward that kingdom of heaven, by being humble and cheerful, and content with what his good God has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining, vexatious thoughts that he deserves better; nor is vexed when he sees 1660-1685.] LEIGHTON. 309 others possessed of more honor or more riches than his wise God has allotted for his share; but he possesses what he has with a meek and contented quietness, such a quietness as makes his very dreams pleasing, both to God and himself.1 ROBERT LEIGHTON. 1613-1684. TEis eminent divine was born in London in 1613, and educated at the University of Edinburgh. He was first settled as a Presbyterian clergyman in a small church near Edinburgh; but being disapproved of by his brethren, because he did not sufficiently "cpreach to the times," he resigned his living, and soon after was chosen principal of the University of Edinburgh. When Charles II. resolved to make the attempt to introduce episcopacy into Scotland, Leighton was induced to accept a bishopric, but he chose the humblest of the whole, that of Dumblane, and would not join in the pompous entry of his brethren into Edinburgh. On the contrary, he conducted himself with so much moderation and humility, that he won the affections of even the most rigid Presbyterians. Subsequently, when the court of Charles II., failing to attain their object by cruelty and butchery, resolved to accomplish it more in the way of persuasiveness and gentlentss, Leighton was induced to accept the archbishopric of Glasgow. Still he found it an affair of contention little suited to his habits or turn of mind; accordingly he resigned his situation, and retired to the county of Sussex in England, where he ended his days in 1684.2 The following character of this most excellent man is given by Bishop Burnet, in his "History of His Own Times." "( He had great quickness of parts, a lively apprehension, with a charming vivacity of thought and expression. He had the greatest command of the purest Latin that ever I knew in any man. He was a master both of Greek and Hebrew, and of the whole compass of theological learning, chiefly in the study of the Scriptures. But that which excelled all the rest was, he was possessed with the highest and noblest sense of divine things that I ever saw in any man. He had no regard to his person, unless it was to mortify it by a constant low diet, that was like a perpetual fast. He had a contempt both of wealth and reputation. He seemed to have the lowest thoughts of himself possible, and to desire that all other persons should think as meanly of him as he did himself. He bore all sorts of ill usage and reproach like a man that took pleasure in it. Hu had so subdued the natural heat of his temper, that in a great variety of accidents, and in a course of twenty-two years' intimate conversation with him, I never observed the least sign of passion but upon one single occasion. He brought himself into so composed a gravity, that I never saw him laugh, and but sel. dom smile. And he kept himself in such a constant recollection, that I do 1 The editions of Walton's " Angler" are almost innumerable; but the most splendid is that by sir Harris Nicolas, published by Pickering, London, 1836, in one tall, imperial octavo, with numerous plates. But the American reader has nothing more to desire than the beautiful edition recently piub lished by Wiley & Putnam, prepared with great learning and taste by the "American Editor," well understood to be the Rev. George W. Bethune, D. D. 2 Coleridge's " Aids to Reflection" has for its foundation selections from the writings of Leighton: fail not, reader, to possess thyself of it, and make the rich treasure thy manual. 81.0 LEIGHTON. [CHARLES II. not remember that ever I heard himn say one idle word. There was a visible tendency in all he said to raise his own mind, and those he conversed with, to serious reflections. He seemed to be in a perpetual meditation. His preaching had a sublimity both of thought and expression in it. The grace and gravity of his pronunciation was such, that few heard him without a very sensible emotion: I am sure I never did. His style was rather too fine; but there was a majesty and beauty in it that left so deep an impression, that I cannot yet forget the sermons I heard him preach thirty years ago. And yet *with this he seemed to look on himself as so ordinary a preacher, that while he had a cure, he was ready to employ all others. And when he was a bishop, he chose to preach to small auditories, and would never give notice beforehand: he had, indeed, a very low voice, and so could not be heard by a great crowd." DESPISE NOT THE LEAST. We are to observe and to respect the smallest good that is irn any. Although a Christian be never so base in his outward condition in body or mind, of very mean intellectual and natural endowments; yet they that know the worth of spiritual things will esteem the grace of God that is in him, in the midst of all those disadvantages, as men esteem a pearl, though in a rough shell. Grace carries still its owvn worth, though under a deformed body and ragged garments; yea, though they have but a small measure of that either; yea, the very lowest degree of grace, as a pearl of the least size, or a small piece of gold, yet men will not throw it away. But, as they say, the least shavings of gold are worth the keeping. The Jews would not willingly tread upon the smallest piece of paper in their way, but took it up; for possibly, say they, the name of God may be on it. Though there was a little superstition in that, yet truly there is nothing but good religion in it, if we apply it to men. Trample not on any; there may be some. work of grace there that thou knowest not of. The name of God may be written upon that soul thou treadest on. THE BEASTS WITHIN US. What, you will say, have I beasts within me? Yes; you have beasts, and a vast number of them. And that you may not think I intend to insult you, is anger an inconsiderable beast, when it barks in your heart? What is deceit, when it lies hid in a cunning mind; is it not a fox? Is not the man who is furiously bent upon calumny, a scorpion? Is not the person who is eagerly set on resentment and revenge, a most venomous viper? What do you say of a covetous man; is he not a ravenous wolf? And is not the luxurious man, as the prophet expresses it, a neighing horse? Nay, there is no wild beast but is found within us. And do you consider yourself as lord and prince of the wild beasts, because you command those that are without, though you never 1660-1685.] LEIGHTON. 311 think of subduing or setting bounds to those that are within you? What advantage have you by your reason, which enables you to overcome lions, if, after all, you yourself are overcome by anger? To what purpose do you rule over the birds, and catch them with gins, if you yourself, with the inconstancy of a bird, or hurried hither and thither, and sometimes flying high, are ensnared by pride, sometimes brought down and caught by pleasure? But, as it is shameful for him who rules over nations to be a slave at home, will it not be, in like manner, disgraceful for you, who exercise dominion over the beasts that are without you, to be subject to a great many, and those of the worst sort, that roar and domineer in your distempered mind? ALL CHRISTIANS, PREACHERS. What the apostles were in an extraordinary way befitting the first annunciation of a religion for all mankind, this all teachers of moral truth, who aim to prepare for its reception by calling the attention of men to the law in their own hearts, may, without presumption, consider themselves to be, under ordinary gifts and circumstances: namely, ambassadors for the Greatest of Kings, and upon no mean employment, the great Treaty of Peace and Reconcilement betwixt Him and Mankind. TEMPERANCE. As excessive eating or drinking both makes the body sickly and lazy, fit for nothing but sleep, and besots the mind, as it clogs up with crudities the way through which the spirits should pass, bemiring them, and making them move heavily, as a coach in a deep way; thus doth all immoderate use of the world and its de. lights wrong the soul in its spiritual condition, makes it sickly and feeble, full of spiritual distempers and inactivity, benumbs the graces of the Spirit, and fills the soul with sleepy vapors, makes it grow secure and heavy in spiritual exercises, and obstructs the way and motion of the Spirit of God, in the soul. Therefore, if you would be spiritual, healthful, and vigorous, and enjoy much of the consolations of Heaven, be sparing and sober in those of the earth; and what you abate of the one, shall be certainly made up in the other. THE HEART THE GREAT REGULATOR. To set the outward actions right, though with an honest intention, and not so to regard and find out the inward disorder of the heart, whence that in the actions flows, is but to be still putting the index of a clock right with your finger, while it is foul, or out of order within, which is a continual business, and does no good. Oh! but a purified conscience, a soul renewed and refined in its 312 ANNE KILLEGREW. [CHAILES II. temper and affections, will make things go right without, in all the duties and acts of our callings. A CONTRACTED SPHERE NO SECURITY AGAINST WORLDLINESS. The heart may be engaged in a little business as much, if thou watch-it not, as in many and great affairs. A man may drown in a little brook or pool, as well as in a great river, if he be down and plunge himself into it, and put his head under water. Some care thou must have, that thou mayest not care. Those things that are thorns indeed, thou must make a hedge of them, to keep out those temptations that accompany sloth, and extreme want that waits on it; but let them be the hedge: suffer them not to grow within the garden. ANNE KILLEGREW. Died 1685. Tais very accomplished young woman, whom Dryden has immortalized, was the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Henry Killegrew, one of the prebendaries of Westminster. She gave strong indications of genius at a very early age, and became equally eminent in the sister arts of poetry and painting, as well as distinguished for her unblemished virtue and exemplary piety, amid the seductions of a licentious court. She was one of the maids of honor to the Duchess of York, but was cut off in the midst of her usefulness and fame, falling a victim to the small-pox in the summer of 1685, in her twenty-fifth year. THE DISCONTENT. I. HERE take no care, take here no care, my Muse, Nor aught of art or labor use: But let thy lines rude and unpolish'd go, Nor equal be their feet, nor numerous let them flow. The ruggeder my measures run when read, They'll livelier paint th' unequal paths fond mortals tread. Who when th' are tempted by the smooth ascents Which flattering hope presents, Briskly they climb, and great things undertake; But fatal voyages, alas! they make: For'tis not long before their feet Inextricable mazes meet; Perplexing doubts obstruct their way; Mountains withstand them of dismay; Or to the brink of black despair them lead, Where's nought their ruin to impede: In vain for aid they then to reason call, Their senses dazzle, and their heads turn roand, The sight does all their powers confound, And headlong down the horrid precipice they fall: Where storms of sighs for ever blow, Where rapid streams of tears do flow, 1&o 9-1685.3 ANNE KILLEGREW. 813 Which drown them in a briny flood. My Muse, pronounce aloud, there's nothing good, Nought that the world can show, Nought that it can bestow. II. Not boundless heaps of its admired clay, Ah! too successful to betray, When spread in our frail virtue's way: For few do run with so resolved a pace, That for the golden apple will not lose the race. And yet not all the gold the vain would spend, Or greedy avarice would wish to save, Which on the earth refulgent beams doth send, Or in the sea has found a grave, Join'd in one mass, can bribe sufficient be, The body from a stern disease to free, Or purchase for the mind's relief One moment's sweet repose, when restless made by grief, But what may laughter more than pity move: When some the price of what they dearest love Are masters of, and hold it in their hand, To part with it their hearts they can't command: But choose to miss, what miss'd does them torment, And that to hug affords them no content. Wise fools, to do them right, we these must hold, Who Love depose, and homage pay to Gold. IV. But, oh, the laurell'd fool! that doats on fame, Whose hope's applause, whose fear's to want a name, Who can accept for pay Of what he does, what others say, Exposes now to hostile arms his breast, To toilsome study then betrays his rest; Now to his soul denies a just content, Then forces on it what it does resent; And all for praise of fools! for such are those, Which most of the admiring crowd compose. O famish'd soul, which such thin food can feed! O wretched labor, crown'd with such a meed I Too loud, 0 Fame! thy trumpet is, too shrill To lull a mind to rest, Or calm a stormy breast, Which asks a music soft and still.'Twas not Amalek's vanquish'd cry, Nor Israel's shouts of victory, That could in Saul the rising passion lay;'Twas the soft strains of David's lyre the evil spirit chased away rI. Is there that earth by human foot ne'er press'd? That air which never yet by human breast Respired, did life supply? Oh! thither let me fly! Where from the world at such a distance set, All that's past, present, and to come, I may forget;-' 27 314 WALLER. [JAMES It, The lover's sighs, and the afflicted's tears, Whate'er may wound my eyes or ears; The grating noise'of private jars, The horrid sound of public wars, Of babbling fame the idle stories, The short-lived triumph's noisy glories, The curious nets the subtle weave, The word, the look that may deceive. No mundane care shall more affect my breast, My profound peace shake or molest: But stupor, like to death, my senses bind, That so I may anticipate that rest Which only in my grave I hope to find. EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687. EDMUND WALLERn hardly deserves a place among the best names in Eng lish literature, either as a poet or as a man; and in giving him a small space here, I yield my own judgment to that of Dryden and Pope. He was born in 1605, studied at Cambridge, and was admitted into parliament as early as his eighteenth year. In political life he was a mere time-server, veering from the king to the parliament, and from the parliament to the king, as each might happen for the time to possess the ascendency. As a member of par. liament he at first took the popular side, but soon after he joined in a plot to let the king's forces into the city, for which he was tried and sentenced to one year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of ~10,000, and it is said that he spent three times that sum in bribes. He acquired the means to do this from having married in 1630 a rich heiress of London, who died the same year. After his release from prison he went to France, where it is said he lived on the proceeds of his wife's jewels which he took with him. At the Restoration he returned, and wrote a congratulatory address to Charles II., as he had before done to Cromwell; and when the monarch frankly told him how inferior the verses in his own praise were to those addressed to his predecessor, the hollow-hearted, selfish sycophant replied, "Poets, sire, succeed better in fiction than in truth." Of his conduct when in parliament, Bishop Burnet says, "c He never laid the business of the House to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty man." On the accession of James II., though eighty years of age, he was elected representative for a borough in Cornwall; but he did not live to witness the glorious Revolution, having died the year before, October 21, 1687. As a poet, Waller is certainly (" smooth," as Pope styles him, and compara tively destitute of that affectation which characterizes most of his contemporaries. c"If he rarely sinks, he never rises very high; and we find much good sense and selection, much skill in the mechanism of language and metre, without ardor and without imagination.- In his amorous poetry he has little passion or sensibility; but he is never free and petulant, never tedious, and never absurd. His praise consists much in negations."l The following is d portion of what I deem his best piece, his Eulogy on Cromwell. "4 Of these lines," says Dr. Johnson, 1" some are grand, some are graceful, and all are musical." I 1Hallam's "Introduction to the Literature of Europe," ii. 372, Harper's edition 1685 —1688.] WALLER. 315 A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR While with a strong, and yet a gentle hand, You bridle faction, and our hearts command; Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too: Let partial spirits still aloud complain; Think themselves injured that they cannot reign; And own no liberty, but where they may Without control upon their fellows prey. Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race, So has your Highness, raised above the rest, Storms of ambition tossing us, represt. Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Restored by you, is made a glorious state; The seat of empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom. The sea's our own: and now, all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet: Your power extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. Heaven (that hath placed this island to give law, To balance Europe, and her states to awe) In this conjunction doth on Britain smile; The greatest Leader, and the greatest Isle! Hither the oppressed shall henceforth resort, Justice to crave. and succor, at your Court; And then your Highness, not for ours alone, But for the world's Protector shall be known. * * * * Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds; Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds: Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown, Could never make this island all her own. Your never-failing sword made war to cease; And now you heal us with the acts of peace: Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Invite affection, and restrain our rage. Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone: Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can,whom he conquers, spare. To pardon, willing; and to punish, loath; You strike with one hand, but you heal with both Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve You cannot snake the dead again to tive. Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace A mind proportioned to such things as these; How such a ruling spirit you could restrain, And practise first over yourself to reign. I 6t3 WALLER. [JAMES II. Your private life did a just pattern give. How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should live; Born to command, your Princely virtues slept, Like humble David's, while the flock he kept. But when your troubled country call'd you forth, Your flaming courage and your matchless worth, Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend, The fierce contention gave a prosperous end. Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, Finds no distemper while'tis changed by you; Changed like the world's great scene! when, without noise, The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys. Had you, some ages past, this race of glory Run, with amazement we should read your story: But living virtue, all achievements past, Meets envy still to grapple with at last. * * ok * * * Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a Muse: Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing; But there, my Lord! we'll bays and olive bring To crown your head: while you in triumph ride O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside: While all your neighbor-princes unto you, Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow. Of his shorter pieces, the following has been pronounced "one of the most graceful poems of an age from which a taste for the highest poetry was fast vanishing." Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 1685-168'8.] BUNYANo 317 JOHN BUNYAN. 162E-1688. Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober gray, Revere the man, whose pilgrim marks the road, And guides the progress of the soul to God.-CowPER. WITH what pleasure do we turn from the character of Waller, to tha never Ikn-be-forgotten and ever-to-be-revered name-John Bunyan, the poor "tinker of Bedford." If there was danger in Cowper's time of "moving a sneer" at the mention of his name, there is none now; for it is doubtful whether, within the last fifty years, more editions have been published of any.one book in the English language, the Bible excepted, than of Pilgrim's Progress. John Bunyan was born in the village of Elston, near Bedford, in the year 1628. His father was a brazier or tinker, and the son was brought up to the same trade. Though his parents were extremely poor, they put him to the best school they could afford, and thus he learned to read and write. He says of himself, that he was early thrown among vile companions, and initiated into profaneness, lying, and all sorts of boyish vice and ungodliness. Thus plainly he speaks of himself in view of his early sins, but it is just to say that to drinking and to licentiousness in its grossest forms, he was never addicted. He married very early, at the age of nineteen. " My mercy was," he says, " to light upon a wife whose father was counted godly." Who can tell the happy influence that this connection exerted over him? And how vastiy would the sum of human happiness be increased, if, in choosing a companion for life, moral and religious character were regarded more, and worldly circulnstances less. Soon after this, Bunyan left off his profanity, and began to think more seriously. "ccMy neighbors were amazed," he says, "at this my great conversion from prodigious profaneness to something like a moral life: they began to praise, to commend, and to speak well of me." Flattered by these commendations, and proud of his imagined godliness, he concluded that the Almighty " could not choose but be now pleased with him. Yea, to relate it in. nine own way, I thought no man in England could please God bet ter than I." He was awakened from this self-righteous delusion by accidentally overaearing the discourse of three or four poor women, who were sitting at a doof in the sun, in one of the streets of Bedford, "1 talking about the things of God." What especially struck him was, that they conversed about matters of religion i" as if joy did make them speak," and "I as if they had found a new world." He was most deeply impressed by this, and carried the words of these poor women with him wherever he went. His spiritual conflict was long, and attended with many and sore temptations; but God heard his prayer; his views of truth became clear, and in 1653, when twenty-five years aI, O Lord, I am a fool, and not able to know the truth from error; Lord, leave me not to my owvn blindness. Lord, I lay my soul only at thy feet; let me not be deceived, I humbly beseech thee." Such a prayer was never made in vain, "v7* 818 BUNYAN. [JAMES II. of age, he joined the Baptist church at Bedford. He occasionally addressed small meetings of the church, and at their urgent request, so full of power and unction did they deem his preaching, when their pastor died in 1655, he was desired by them to fill, for a time, his place. He did so, and also preached in other places, and attancted great attention. But " bonds and imprisonments awaited him." He had, for five or six years, without any interruption, freely preached the gospel; but, in November, 1660, he was taken up by a warrant from a justic e, who resolved, as he said, c" to break the neck of such meetings." Such was one of the first-fruits of the Restoration. The bill of indictment against him ran to this effect: "That John Bunyan, of the town of Bedford, laborer, hath devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church to hear divine service, and is a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles," &c. The result was, of course, that he was convicted; and accordingly he was sent to Bedford jail, where he was confined for twelve long years, lest, like the great apostle of the Gentiles, he should persuade and 1" turn away much people." But how impotent is the rage of man! " He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh, the Lord shall have them in derision." In the inscrutable purposes of Providence, this was the very way designed for this humble individual to do the greatest amount of good. It was there, in the damps of his prison-house, that he, ignorant of classic lore, but deeply read in the word of God, composed a work full of the purest spirit of poetry; caught indeed from no earthly muse, but from the sacred volume of inspiration: —a work which is read with delight by all,-by the man of the world, who has no sympathy with its religious spirit, and by the Christian, who has the key to it in his own heart; a work which has been the delight of youth, and the solace of age; a work which has given comfort to many a wounded spirit, which has raised many a heart to the throne of God. What an illustrious instance of the superiority of goodness over learning! Who now reads the learned wits of the reign of Charles the Secondl Who, comparatively, reads even Dryden, or Tillotson, or Barrow, or Boyle, or Sir William Temple? Who has not read, who will not read the immortal epic of John Bunyan? Who does not, who will not ever, with Cowper, "Revere the man whose pilgrim marks the road, And guides the progress of the soul to God I" What an affecting account he gives of his feelings during his imprisonment! "I found myself a man encompassed 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 after brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants that my poor family was likely to meet with, should I be taken from them, especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all beside. Oh! the thoughts of the hardship I thought my poor blind one might undergo, would break my heart to pieces. Poor child! thought I, what sorrow thou art 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 wine should blow upon thee. But yet recalling myself, thought I, I must venture you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you." What a heavenly spirit! siwhat true sublimity of character does such language display I 1 Meaning, of course, the "established" church. 1685-1688.] BUNYAN. 319 The only books that Bunyan had with him in prison, were the Bible and Fox's Book of Martyrs. What use he made of the former the wide world knows, in that immortal fruit of his imprisonment-the " Pilgrim's Progress." Well is it that wicked men, persecutors, and oppressors cannot chain the mind: "The oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; And, that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells." COWPER. He was not released from prison till 1672. But no sooner was he out than, like the early apostles after their imprisonment, he entered at once on his Great Master's work, preaching his word not only to his former congregation, but wherever he went. Every year he paid a visit to his friends in London, where his reputation was so great that thousands flocked to hear him; and if but a day's notice were given, the meeting-house could not hold half the people that attended. It is said that Dr. Owen was among his occasional auditors; and an anecdote is on record, that, being asked by Charles II. how a learned man, such as he was, could " sit and hear an illiterate tinker prate," he replied: "c May it please your majesty, could I possess that tinker's abilities for preaching, I would most gladly relinquish all my learning." He continued his labors until 1688, when, having taken a violent cold in a rain-storm, while on a journey to preach, he died August 12th, in the 61st year of his age. Bunyan was a voluminous writer, having written, it is said, as many books as he was years old. Of these, the Holy War would have immortalized him, had lie written nothing else. The title of this is, "The Holy War made by King Shaddai upon Diabolus, for the Regaining the Metropolis of the World, or the Losing and Retaking of Mansoul." Here the fall of man is typified by the capture of the flourishing city of Mansoul by Diabolus, the enemy of its rightful sovereign, Shaddai or Jehovah; whose son Immanuel recovers it after a tedious siege. Some of his other works are,," Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners," being an account of his own life: c" The Doctrine of the Law and Grace unfolded:" "The Life and Death of Mr. Badman," in the form of a dialogue, giving an account of the different stages of a wicked man's life, and of his miserable death: " The Barren Fig Tree, or the Doom and Downfall of the fruitless Professor:" " One Thing is Needful:" "A Discourse touching Prayer," &c. But his great work, and that by which he will ever best be known, is, Thtl Pilgrim's Progress," an allegorical view of the life of a Christian, his difficulties, temptations, encouragements, and ultimate triumph. This work is so universally known as to render all comment unnecessary. No bdook has re ceived such general commendation. As to the number of editions througl which it has passed, it is impossible to form a conjecture. Mr. Southey thlinks it probable that "' no other book in the English langiuage' has obtained so collstant and so wide a sale," and that "there is no European language into which it has not been translated." Dr. Johnsons, Cowper. Scott, Byrol, Wordsworth, Southey, Montgomery, have united to extol this truly original worli: indeed, pages might be occupied with the encorniums with which poets al:d 1 The Bible, of course, excepted. and probably Watts's Psalms and Hymns. 320 BUNYAN. [JAMES II. critics have delighted to honor this once obscure and despised religious writer. We will make but one extract from the Pilgrim's Progress, as it is in the hands of almost every one, and that will be the case of CHRISTIAN IN DOUBTING CASTLE. Now there was, not far from. the place where they lay, a castle, called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping; wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake, and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his grounds? They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. Then said the giant, You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling and lying on my ground, and therefore you must go along with me. So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in fault. The giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, in a very dark dungeon, nasty, and stinking to the spirits of those two men. Here they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did: they were therefore here in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now, in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised haste that they were brought into this distress.2 Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence: so when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done, 1 The poet Southey has written his life; but he was not qualified for it, having little sympathy with Bunyan as a Reformer. Read an excellent article in the 79th number of the North American Review: also, another in Macaulay's Miscellanies, i. 428. From the latter I cannot but extract the following: -" The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language. The vocabulary 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 single 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 disquisition, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the 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 unpolluted Lnglish 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." And again: " We are not afraid to say, that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the' Paradise Lost,' the other the' Pilgrim's Progress."' 2 "s What I these highly favored Christians in Doubting Castle I Is it possible, after having travelled so far in the way of salvation, seen so many glorious things in the way, experienced so much of the grace and love of their Lord, and having so often proved his faithfulness, yet after all this to get into Doubting Castle I Is not this strange f No, it is common I the strongest Christians are liable to err, and get out of the way, and then to be beset with very great and distressing doubts." 1685-1688.] BUNYAN. 321 to wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked hei also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound, and he told her. Then she counselled him, that when he arose in the morning, he should beat them without mercy. So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating them as if they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste: then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves, or turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress: so all that day they spent their time in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night she talked with her husband about them further, and understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves. So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner, as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them, that since they were never lice to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison: For why, said he, should you choose life, seeing it is attended with so much bitterness? But they desired him to let them go; with which he looked ugly upon them, and rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits, (for he sometimes in sun-shiny weather fell into fits,) and lost for a time the use of his hands: wherefore he withdrew, and left them, as before, to consider what to do. Then did the prisoners consult between themselves whether it was best to take his counsel or no: and thus they began to discourse:Chr1'. Brother, said Christian, what shall we do? The life that we now live is miserable. For my part, I know not whether it is best to live thus, or die out of hand., "My soul chooseth strang — ling rather than life," and the grave is more easy for me than this dungeon! Shall we be ruled by the giant? Hope. Indeed our present condition is dreadful, and death would be far more welcome to me, than thus for ever to abide; but let us consider, the Lord of the country to which we are going hath said, "Thou shalt do no murder:" no, not to any man's person; much more then are we forbidden to take his counsel to kill ourselves. Besides, he that kills another can but commit murder on Lis own body; but for one to kill himself, is to kill body and soul at once. And, moreover, my brother, thou talkest of ease in the grave; but hast thou forgotten the hell, whither for certain the murderers go? For no murderer hath eternal life. And let X 322 BUNYAN. EJAMES II. us consider, again, that all laws are not'n the hand of Giant Despair: others, so far as I can understand, have been taken by him as well as we, and yet have escaped out of his hands. Who knows but that God, who made the world, may cause that Giant Despair may die; or that, at some time or other, he may forget to lock us in; or that he may in a short time have another of his fits before us, and may lose the use of his limbs? and if ever that should come to pass again, for my part I am resolved to pluck up the heart of a man, and to try my utmost to get from under his hand. I was a fool that I did not try to do it before; but, however, my brother, let us be patient, and endure awhile: the time may come that he may give us a happy release; but let us not be our own murderers. With these words Hopeful at present did moderate the mind of his brother; so they continued together (in the dark) that day in their sad and doleful condition. Well, towards the evening, the giant goes down into the dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there he found them alive; and truly, alive was all; for now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them, that seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born. At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon; but coming a little to himself again, they renewed their discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they had best take it or no. Now, Christian again seemed to be for doing it; but Hopeful made his second reply as followeth:Hope. My brother, said he, rememberest thou not how valiant thou hast been heretofore? Apollyon could not crush thee, nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel in the Vallev of the Shadow of Death: what hardships, terror, and amazement hast thou already gone through, and art thou now nothing but fear? Thou seest that I am in the dungeon with thee, a far weaker man by nature than thou art; also this giant has wounded me as well as thee, and hath also cut off the bread and water from my mouth, and with thee I mourn without the light. But let us exercise a little more patience: remember how thou playedst the man at Vanity Fair, and wast neither afraid of the chain nor the cage, nor yet of bloody death; wherefore let us (at least to avoid the shame that becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with patience as well as we can. Now, night being come again, and the giant and his wife being a-bed, she asked concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel; to which he replied, They are sturdy rogues; they 1685-1688.] BUNYAN. 323 choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with themselves. Then said she, Take them into the castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou wilt also tear them in pieces, as thou hast done their fellows before them. So when the morning was come, the giant goes to them again, a.d takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him. These, said he, were pilgrims, as you are, once: and they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done: and, when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces, and so within ten days I will do you; go, get ye down to your den again; and with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, as before. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband the giant were got to bed, they began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and, withal, the old giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, that they live in hope that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape. And sayest thou so, my dear? said the giant; I will therefore search them in the morning. Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.: Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed, brake out in this passionate speech: What a fool (quoth he) am I thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle. Then said Hopeful, That's good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy boscm and try.2 Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the dungeon-door, whose bolt (as he turned the key) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outer door that leads into the 1 " What I pray in custody of Giant Despair, in the midst of Doubting Castle; and when their folly brought them there, tool Yes. Mind this, ye pilgrims. Ye are exhorted,'I will that men Dray everywhere, without doubting.' 1 Tim. ii. 8. We can be in no place but God can hear; nor in any circumstance but God is able to deliver from. And be assured, when tne spirit of prayer comes, deliverance is nigh at hand. So it was here." 2 ", Precious promise I The promises of God in Christ are the life of faith, and the quickeners of prayer. O how oft do we neglect God's great and precious promises in Christ Jesus, whlie doubts ancd despair keep us prisoners. So it was with these pilgrims: they were kept under hard bondage of soul for four days. Hence we see what it is to grieve the Spirit of God, and should dread it; tor he only is the Comforter; and if he withdraws his influences, who or what can comfort us P' 324 BARCLAY. [WILLIAM & MARY, castle-yard, and with his key opened that door also. After, he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too; but that lock went very hard, yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open the door to make their escape with speed; but that gate, as it opened, made such a cracking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail; for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they went on, and came to the king's highway, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction. Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to contrive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the stile thereof this sentence: —' Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims." Many, therefore, that followed after, read what was written, and escaped the danger.' ROBERT BARCLAY. 1648-1690. ROBERT BARCLAY, the distinguished writer of the Society of Friends, was born in Elginshire, in the north of Scotland,2 south-east of the Moray frith, December 23, 1648, of a highly respectable family. After receiving the rudiments of his education at home, he was sent to Paris to pursue his studies under the direction of his uncle, who was rector of the Scots' College in that capital. It was a dangerous experiment, and might have proved permanently injurious, had not young Barclay been possessed of the strictest moral principles, and the highest sense of filial obligation: for he, by his deportment and character, had endeared himself so to his uncle that he offered to make him his heir, and to settle a large estate immediately iron him, if he would remain in France. But his father, knowing that his son was strongly inclined to join the Papal church, directed him to return home. He did- not hesitate between what seemed interest and duty, and at once abandoned all his prospects of wealth and aggrandizement, to comply with his father's wishes. Such filial obedience is never left without a witness. In Barclay's case the blessing that attended it was most signal. Had he remained in France, though his wealth might have surrounded him with a crowd of flatterers, in all probability he would never have been known after his death. But he returned, and gained a world-wide fame. He returned, and became the ablest expounder of a sect, that as a sect has taken the lead of all others in three great 1'Recording our own observations, and the experience we have had in God's dealing with our souls, are made of special and peculiar use to our fellow-Christians." 2 Not in Edinturgh, as stated by William Penn. 1689-1702.] BARCLAY. 325 subjects, inseparably connected with practical' Christianity,-Intemperance, Slavery, and War.2 A short time before young Barclay left France, his father had been converted to the views and principles of a sect which had existed only ten years -the Quakers. On his return, Robert, after giving to the subject a degree of thought and investigation almost beyond his years, followed the example of his father, though only nineteen. He applied himself diligently to the study of the original languages of the Bible, of the Fathers, and of ecclesiastical history; and seeing how much the Friends were misunderstood and abused, he wrote several works in their defence, and in explanation of their principles. But the great work on which his fame rests is entitled "iAn Apology for the true Christian Divinity, as the same is held forth and practised by the People called, in scorn, Quakers." The effect produced by this able work soon became visible, for it proved beyond dispute that this proscribed sect professed a system of theology that was capable of being defended by strong, if not unanswerable arguments. Some portions of this work became tile subject of very animated controversy, not in England only, but on the continent. This occasioned Barclay to appear again in defence of his principles. He also wrote to vindicate the internal arrangements and government of the Friends. He wrote, besides, two treatises on Peace, declaring his opinion that all war is indefensible, on account of its incompatibility with the principle of universal benevolence. One of these he addressed to the ambassadors of the several princes of Europe, then assembled at Nimeguen. "The latter years of Robert Barclay's life were spent in the quiet of his family, in which his mild and amiable virtues found their happiest sphere of exercise. He died October 3, 1690, in the forty-second year of his age —the prime of life-his death having been occasioned by a violent fever, which came on immediately after his return from- a religious visit in some parts of Scotland. His moral character was free from every reproach, and his temper was so well regulated, that he was never seen in anger. In all the relations of life, and in his jntercourse with the world, he was conspicuous for the exercise of those virtles which are the best test of right principles, and the most unequivocal proof of their practical influence." The following is a part of the Dedication of his great work, the "Apology," to Charles II. It has been justly praised for its high and fearless tone of Christian faithfulhess and independent truth; the more to be admired, as it was written and published in times of great licentiousness, and servility to the reigning monarch. DEDICATION TO CHARLES SECOND. As it is inconsistent with the truth I bear, so it is far from me to use this epistle as an engine to flatter thee, the usual design of such works: and therefore I can neither ledicate it to thee, nor 1 And what other than practical is of any worth? " He shall reward every man according to his WORKS:" Matt. xvi. 27. "Inasmuch as ye have DONE it unto one of the least, ye have:DONE it unto Me:" Matt. xxv. 40. " Ye see then how that by works a man is justified, and not by faith only:" James ii. 24. "What doth the Lord require of thee but to DO justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?" Micah vi. 8. "If no faith be living nor yet available to jikstlfication without works, then works are necessary to justification." —Barclay. 2 The three great scourges of the human race, which have done more than every thing else to degrade and brutalize man, and therefore are most diametrically opposed to the principles and teach, ings of Him, who came to bring "PEACE on earth and GOOD-WILL to man." 28 326 BARCLAY. [WILLIAM & MARY, crave thy patronage, as if thereby I might have more confidence to present it to the world, or be more hopeful of its success. To God alone I owe what I have, and that more immediately in matters spiritual, and therefore to Him alone, and to the service of His truth, I dedicate whatever work He brings forth in me, to whom only the praise and honor appertain, whose truth needs not the patronage of worldly princes, His arm and power being that alone by which it is propagated, established, and confirmed. * There is no king in the world, who can so experimentally testify of God's providence and goodness; neither is there any, who rules so many free people, so many true Christians; which thing renders thy government more honorable, thyself more considerable, than the accession of many nations filled with slavish and superstitious souls. Thou hast tasted of prosperity and adversity; thou knowest what it is to be banished thy native country, to be overruled, as well as to rule and sit upon the throne; and being oppressed, thou hast reason to know how hateful the oppressor is to both God and man:I if after all these warnings and advertisements, thou dost not turn unto the Lord with all thy heart, but forget Him, who remembered thee in thy distress, and give up thyself to follow lust and vanity; surely great will be thy condemnation. Against which snare, as well as the temptation of those that may or do feed thee, and prompt thee to evil; the most excellent and prevalent remedy will be, to apply thyself to that light of Christ, which shineth in thy conscience, which neither can nor will flatter thee, nor suffer thee to be at ease in thy sins; but doth and will deal plainly and faithfully with thee, as those that are followers thereof have also done. God Almighty, who hath so signally hitherto visited thee with His love, so touch and reach thy heart, ere the day of thy visitation be expired, that thou mayest effectually turn to Him, so as to improve thy place and station for His name. So wisheth, so prayetlh, Thy faithful friend and subject, ROBERT BARCLAY. AGAINST TITLES OF HONOR. We affirm positively, that it is not lawful for Christians either to give or receive these titles of honor, as Your Holiness, Your Majesty, Your Excellency, Your Eminency, &c. 1 A similar sentiment was expressed by William Pinckney, in the Maryland House of Delegates in 1789: "It will not do thus to TALK like philosophers, and, as slaveholders, ACT like unrelenting tyrants; to be per.ltually sermonizing it, with liberty for our text, and actual oppression for our commentary." So, also, Edward Rushton, in his letter to General Washington:' Man is never so truly odious as when he inflicts upon others that which he himself abominates. 1689-1702.] BARCLAY. 327 First, because these titles are no part of that obedience w hich is due to magistrates or superiors; neither doth the giving them add to or diminish from that subjection we owe to them, which consists in obeying their just and lawful commands, not in titles and designations. Secondly, we find not that in the Scripture any such titles are used, either under the law or the gospel; but that, in speaking to kings, princes, or nobles, they used only a simple compellation, as, "6O King!" and that without any further designation, save, perhaps, the name of the person, as, " O King Agrippa," &c. Thirdly, it lays a necessity upon Christians most frequently to lie; because the persons obtaining these titles, either by election or hereditarily, may frequently be found to have nothing really in them deserving them, or answering to them: as some, to whom it is said, "Your Excellency," having nothing of excellency in them; and who is called, "Your Grace," appear to be an enemy to grace; and he who is called "; Your Honor," is known to be base and ignoble. I wonder what law of man, or what patent, ought to oblige me to make a lie, in calling good evil, and evil good. I wonder what law of man can secure me, in so doing, from the just judgment of God, that will make me count for every idle word. And to lie is something more. Surely Christians should be ashamed that such laws, manifestly crossing the law of God, should be among them. * * e Fourthly, as to those titles of " Holiness," " Eminency," and -" Excellency," used among the Papists to the pope and cardinals, &c.; and "Grace," "Lordship," and "Worship," used to the clergy among the Protestants, it is a most blasphemous usurpation. For if they use 1" Holiness" and " Grace" because these things ought to be in a pope or in a bishop, how come they to usurp that peculiarly to themselves? Ought not holiness and grace to be in every Christian? And so every Christian should say "Your Holiness," and " Your Grace," one to another. Next, how can they in reason claim any more titles than were practised and received by the apostles and primitive Christians, whose successors they pretend they are; and as whose successors (and no otherwise) themselves, I judge, will confess any honor they seek is due to them? Now, if they neither sought, received, nor admitted such honor nor titles, how came these by them? If they say they did, let them prove it if they can: we find no such thing in the Scripture. The Christians speaiK to the apostles without any such denomination, neither saying, 1" If it please your Grace,' " your Holiness," nor " your Worship;" they are neither called My Lord Peter, nor My Lord Paul; nor yet Master Peter, noi Master Paul; nor Doctor Peter, nor Doctor Paul; but singly Peter and Paul: and that not only in the Scripture. but for some hun 328 BOYLE. [WILLIAM & MARY,.dreds of years after: so that this appears to be a manifest fruit of the apostasy.l For if these titles arise either from the office or worth of the persons, it will not be denied but the apostles deserved them better than any now that call for them. But the case is plain; the apostles had the holiness, the excellency, the grace; and because they were holy, excellent, and gracious, they neither ued nor admitted such titles; but these having neither holiness, excellency, nor grace, will needs be so called to satisfy their ambitious and ostentatious mind, which is a manifest token of their hypocrisy. Fifthly, as to that title of " Majesty" usually ascribed to princes, we do not find it given to any such in the Holy Scripture; but that it is specially and peculiarly ascribed unto God. We find in the Scripture the proud king Nebuchadnezzar assuming this title to himself, who at that time received a sufficient reproof, by a sudden judgment which came upon him. Therefore, in all the cormpellations used to princes in the Old Testament, it is not to be found, nor yet in the New. Paul was very civil to Agrippa, yet he gives him no such title. Neither was this title used among Christians in the primitive times. ROBERT BOYLE. 1626-1692. ROBERT BOYLE, the son of Richard Boyle, Earl of Cork, was born at Lismore, in the county of Cork, January 25, 1626. When eight years of age he entered Eton School, and having pursued his studies there with great success for one so young, he was sent with his brother Francis, who had lately nmarried, to travel upon the continent. At Geneva he and his brother remained for some time, and pursued their studies, Robert resuming his mathematics, in which he had been initiated at Eton. An anecdote, which explains the cause of his first attention to mathematical subjects, ought not to be passed over in silence, as it not only indicates the early development of his reasoning powers, but exhibits, in a striking manner, a general and important fact in education. WThen at Eton School, and before he was ten years of age, while recovering from a severe illness, some romances were put into his hands to divert and amuse him. His good habits of study were thereby so weakened, that on his restoration to health he found it difficult to fix his attention to any one subject. To recover his former habits. he resorted to an expedient certainly remarkable for one so young. He applied himself forcibly to 4"the extraction of the square and cube roots, and especially those more laborious operations of algebra which so entirely exact the 1 "The title of Rabbi corresponds with the title' Doctor of Divinity,' as applied to ministers of the gospel; and so far as I can see, the spirit of the Saviour's command is violated by the reception of such a title, as it would have been by their being called Rabbi. It makes a distinction among ministers, tending to engender pride and a sense of superiority in those who obtain it; and envy and a sense of inferiority in those who do not; and is in its whole spirit and tendency contrary to the'simplicity that is in Christ.' "-Albert Barnes. Is not the same argument as strong against the title of "Reverend," a word which is found but once in the Scriptures, and there applied to tiCd? Ps. cxi. 9. 1689-1702.] BOYLE. 329 whole mind, that the s nallest distraction or heedlessness constrains us to renew our trouble, and re-begin the operation." This had the desired effect. It gave also a permanent direction to his talents, and was the commencement of that series of philosophical investigations and discoveries which have ren. dered his name immortal. He quitted Geneva in 1641, and spent the next winter in Florence. During his stay in this city, the famous astronomer Galileo died at a village in the vicinity. He thence visited Rome, Leghorn, and Genoa, and in 1644 he returned with his brother to England. He found that his father, who had removed from Ireland to Stalbridge, in Dorsetshire, had recently died, and that he himself had come into the possession of the manor at Stalbridge, with other property. From this time to the end of his life, he appears to have been engaged in study. He was one of the first members of the " Invisible College," as he calls it, which, after the Restoration, became the Royal Society. In 1654 he took up his residence at Oxford, on account of the favorableness of the place to retirement study, and philosophical intercourse. During his residence here he made great improvements in the air-pump, though he did not invent it, as some have stated. But Boyle did not devote all his time to Natural Philosophy: he gave a portion of it to the study of the original languages of the Scriptures, and of the Scriptures themselves. He also took an interest in every plan for the circulation of the Word of Truth, and as a member of the East India Company, in 1676, pressed upon that body the duty of promoting Christianity in the East. He continued up to the close of his life to devote himself to the study of philosophy, and like Newton le will ever be known as a "Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious." He died on the 30th of December, (Old Style,) 1691. The writings of Boyle are very voluminous, the greater part being on sub. jects of mechanical philosophy; though he wrote not a few on moral subjects.1 Of the latter are "Considerations on the Style of the Holy Scriptures;" ", Occasional Reflections on several Subjects;" -' Considerations about the Reconcilableness of Reason and Religion;" " The Christian Virtuoso," showing that "r by being addicted to experimental philosophy, a man is rather assisted than indisposed to be a good Christian," &c. As a man, it is said of him by a biographer, that " his benevolence, both in action and sentiment, distinguished him from others as much as his acquirements and experiments: and that, in an age when toleration was unknown." He has been styled the author of the " New or Experimental Philosophy," but it should always be recollected that Bacon pointed out the way. "6 The excellent Mr. Boyle," says Mr. Hughes,2 "( was the person who seems to have been designed by nature to succeed to the labors and inquiries of that extraordinary genius, Lord Bacon. By innumerable experiments, he in a great measure filled up those plans and outlines of science which his predecessor had sketched out. His life was spent in the pursuit of nature, through a great variety of forms and changes, and in the most rational as well as devout adoration cf its divine Author." Bishop Burnet sums up a brilliant eulogiuml of his character in the following strain -"I:1 will not amuse you with a list of his astonishing knowle-:ge, or of his great performances in this way. They are highly valued all the world 1 His complete works were published in 1744, by Dr. Birch, in 5 vols. folho 2 Spectator, No. 55i. P8 330 BOYLE. [WILLIAM & MARY, over, and his name is everywhere mentioned with particular characters of respect. Few men, if any, have been known to have made so great a compass, and to have been so exact in all parts of it, as Boyle." THE STUDY OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY FAVORABLE TO RELIGION. The first advantage that our experimental philosopher, as such, hath towards being a Christian, is, that his course of studies conduceth much to settle in his mind a firm belief of the existence, and divers of the chief attributes, of God; which belief is, in the order of things, the first principle of that natural religion which itself is pre-required to revealed religion in general, and consequently to that in particular which is embraced by Christians. That the consideration of the vastness, beauty, and regular motions of the heavenly bodies, the excellent structure of animals and plants, besides a multitude of other phenomena of nature, and the subserviency of most of these to man, may justly induce him, as a rational creature, to conclude that this vast, beautiful, orderly, and (in a word) many ways admirable system. of things, that we call the world, was framed by an author supremely powerful, wise, and good, can scarce be denied by an intelligent and unprejudiced considerer. And this is strongly confirmed by experience, which witnesseth, that in almost all ages and countries the generality of philosophers and contemplative men were persuaded of the existence of a Deity, by the consideration of the phenomena of the universe, whose fabric and conduct, they rationally concluded, could not be deservedly ascribed either to blind chance, or to any other cause than a divine Being. The works of God are so worthy of their author, that, besides the impresses of his wisdom and goodness that are left, as it were, upon their surfaces, there are a great many more curious and excellent tokens and effects of divine artifice in the hidden and in nermost recesses of them; and these are not to be discovered by the perfunctory looks of oscitant and unskilful beholders; but require, as well as deserve, the most attentive and prying inspection of inquisitive and well-instructed considerers. And sometimes in one creature there may be I know not how many admirable things, that escape a vulgar eye, and yet may be clearly discerned by that of a true naturalist, who brings with him, besides a more than common curiosity and attention, a competent knowledge of ana torny, optics, cosmography, mechanics, and chemistry. But treat ing elsewhere purposely of this subject, it may here suffice to say, that God has couched so many things in his visible works, that the clearer light a man has, the more he may discover of their unobvious exquisiteness, and the more clearly and distinctly he may discern those qualities that lie more obvious. And the more wonderful things he discovers in the works of nature, the more auxiliary proofs he meets with to establish and enforce the argu 1689-1702.] BOYLE. 331 ment, drawn from the universe and its parts, to evince that there is a God; which is a proposition of that vast weight and importance, that it ought to endear every thing to us that is able to confirm it, and afford us new motives to acknowledge and adore the divine Author of things. To be told that an eye is the organ of sight, and that this is performed by that faculty of the mind which, from its function, is called visive, will give a man but a sorry account of the instruments and manner of vision itself, or of the knowledge of that Opificer who, as the Scripture speaks, " formed the eye." And he that can take up with this easy theory of vision, will not think it necessary to take the pains to dissect the eyes of animals, nor study the books of mathematicians, to understand vision; and, accordingly, will have but mean thoughts of the contrivance of the organ, and the skill of the artificer, in comparison of the ideas that will be suggested of both of them to him that, being profoundly skilled in anatomy and optics, by their help takes asunder the several coats, humors, and muscles, of which that exquisite diop trical instrument consists; and having separately considered the figure, size, consistence, texture, diaphaneity or opacity, situation, and connection of each of them, and their coaptation in the whole eye, shall discover, by the help of the laws of optics, how admirably this little organ is fitted to receive the incident beams of light, and dispose them in the best manner possible for completing the lively representation of the almost infinitely various objects of sight. It is not by a slight survey, but by a diligent and skilful scrutiny of the works of God, that a man must be, by a rational and affective conviction, engaged to acknowledge with the prophet, that the Author of nature is " wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working." DISCRIMINATION NECESSARY IN READING THE SCRIPTUIZES. We should carefully distinguish betwixt what the Scripture itself says, and what is only said in the Scripture. For we must not look upon the Bible as an oration of God to men, or as a body of laws, like our English statute-book, wherein it is the legislctor that all the way speaks to the people; but as a collection of cormposures of very differing sorts, and written at very distant times, and of such composures, that though the holy men of God (as St Peter calls them) were acted by the Holy Spirit, who both excited and assisted them in penning the Scripture, yet there are many others, besides the Author and the penmen, introduced speaking there. For besides the books of Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, Chronicles, the four Evangelists, the Acts of the Apostles, and 332 BAXTER. [WILLIAM & MIARY, other parts of Scripture that are evidently historical, and wont to be so called, there are, in the other books, many passages that deserve the same name, and many others wherein, though. they be not mere narratives of things done, many sayings and expressions are recorded that either belong not to the Author of the Scripture, or must be looked upon as such wherein his secretaries personate others. So that, in a considerable part of the Scripture, not only prophets, and kings, and priests being introduced speaking, but soldiers, shepherds, and women, and such other sorts of persons, from whom witty or eloquent things are not (especially when.they speak ex tempore) to be expected, it would be very injurious to impute to the Scripture any want of eloquence, that may be noted in the expressions of others than its Author. For though, not only in romances, but in many of those that pass for true histories, the supposed speakers may be observed to talk as well as the historian, yet that is but either because the men so introduced were ambassadors, orators, generals, or other eminent men for parts as well as employments; or because the historian does, as it often happens, give himself the liberty to make speeches for them, and does not set down indeed what they said, but what he thought fit that such persons on such occasions should have said. Whereas the penmen of the Scripture, as one of them truly professes, having not followed cunningly devised fables in what they have written, have faithfully set down the sayings, as well as actions, they record, without making them rather congruous to the conditions Df the speakers than to the laws of truth. RICHARD BAXTER. 1615-1691. FEW writers in the English language have obtained a wider fame than the celebrated non-conformistl divine, Richard Baxter. He was born at Rowdon, a small village in Shropshire, on the 12th of November, 1615. Being seriously imipressed at an early age, it was his great desire to enter one of the,niversities, and study for the ministry. But want of means prevented the former, though he was enabled to reach the ultimate object of his wishes, by studying withl a clergyman, Mr. Francis Garbett, who conducted him through a course of theology, and gave him much valuable assistance in his general reading. In 1638 he received ordination in the Church of England, having at that time no scruples on the score of subscription. In 1640 he was invited to preach to a congregation at Kidderminster, which invitation he acceptedl, and there labored many years with signal success. When the civil war broke out, he sided with the parliament, and of course after the Restoration he had I In the year 1662, two years after the Restoration of Charles II., a law was passed, called the Act of Ulniformity, which enjoined upon every beneficed person, not only to use the Prayer-book, but to declare his assent and consent to every part of it, with many other very severe restrictions. It had the effect of banishing at once two thousand divines from the pale of the English church, who are calleu " Nor-conformists:" of this number was Baxter. 1689-1702.] BAXTER. 333 his share of the sufferings that attended all the non-conformist divines. On the accession of James II., 1685, he was arrested by a warrant from that most infamous of men, lord chief justice Jeffries, for some passages in his "G Commentary on the New Testament," supposed hostile to Episcopacy, and was tried for sedition. The brutal irsolence and tyranny of Jeffries on this trial have signalized it as one of the most disgraceful proceedings on legal record. He acted the part of prosecutor as well as judge, insulting his counsel in the coarsest manner, refusing to hear his witnesses, and saying he was " sorry that the Act of Indemnity disabled him from hanging him." He was fined five hundred marks, and sentenced to prison till it was paid. He was confined in plrison nearly. eighteen months, when he was pardoned and the fine remitted. The solitude of his prison was enlivened on this, as on former occasions, by the affectionate attentions of his wife; for it was his good fortune to marry one who cheerfully submitted to, and shared all his sufferings on the score of conscience. He lived to see that favorable change in reference to religious toleration which commenced at the Revolution of 1688, and died on the 8ha1 of December, 1691. Baxter was a most voluminous writer, above one hundred and forty-five treatises of his being enumerated. Two of them, the " Saint's Everlasting Rest," and the 4" Call to the Unconverted," have been extremely popular, and met with a circulation which few other books have attained. The learned and unlearned hive alike united to extol them, for they are admirably adapted to persons of every class and rank in life. The reason is, they are addressed to the heart and to the conscience, which are common to all; that they appertain to that ipurity of heart and life which are indispensable to the happiness of all; and that they treat of those eternal things in which the king and the peasant, the rich and the poor, have an equal interest.' Baxter left behind him a "' Narrative of tile most Memorable Passages of his Life and Times," which was published in a folio volume after his death. It is here we find that review of his religious opinions, written in the latter part of his life, which Coleridge2 speaks of as one of the most remarkable pieces of writing that have come down to us. It was one of Dr. Johnson's favorite books. The following are some extracts from it: —EXPERIENCE OF HUMAN CHARACTER. I now see more good and more evil in all men than heretofore I did. I see that good men are not so good as I once thought they were, but have snore imperfections; and that nearer approach and fuller trial doth make the best appear more weak and faulty than their admirers at a distance think. And I find that few are so bad as either malicious enemies or censorious separating professors do imagine. In some, indeed, I find that human nature is corrupted into a greater likeness to devils than I once thought any on earth had been. But even in the wicked, usually there is more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God and holiness, than I once believed there had been. I less admire gifts of utterance, and bare profession of rel'gion, 1 Dr. Isaac Barrow has said, that " his practical writings were never mended, and his controversial ones seldom confuted." 2 Biographia Literaria. 334 BAXTER. [WILLIAM & MARY, than I once did; and have much more charity for many who, by the want of gifts, do make an obscurer profession than they. I once thought that almost all that could pray movingly and fluently, and talk well of religion, had been saints. But experience hath opened to me what odious crimes may consist with high profession; and I have met with divers obscure persons, not noted for any extraordinary profession, or forwardness in religion, but only to live a quiet blameless life, whom I have after found to have long lived, as far as I could discern, a truly godly and sanctified life; only, their prayers and duties were by accident kept secret from other men's observation. Yet he that upon this pretence would confound the godly and the ungodly, may as well go about to lay heaven and hell together. DESIRE OF APPROBATION. I am much less regardful of the approbation of man, and set much lighter by contempt or applause, than I did long ago. I am oft suspicious that this is not only from the increase of selfdenial and humility, but partly from my being glutted and surfeited with human applause: and all worldly things appear most vain and unsatisfactory, when we have tried them most. But though I feel that this hath some hand in the effect, yet, as far as I can perceive, the knowledge of man's nothingness, and God's transcendent greatness, with whom it is that I have most to do, and the sense of the brevity of human things, and the nearness of eternity, are the principal causes of this effect; which some have imputed to self-conceitedness and morosity. CIARACTER OF SIR MATTHEW HALE. He was a man of no quick utterance, but spake with great reason. He was most precisely just; insomuch that, I believe, he would have lost all he had in the world rather than do an unjust act: patient in hearing the most tedious speech which any man had to make for himself: the pillar of justice, the refuge of the subject who feared oppression, and one of the greatest honors of his majesty's government; for, with some other upright judges, he upheld the honor of the English nation, that it fell not into the reproach of arbitrariness, cruelty, and utter confusion. Every man that had a just cause, was almost past fear if he could but bring it to the court or assize where he was judge; for the other judges seldom contradicted him. He was the great instrument for rebuilding London; for when all act was made for deciding all controversies that hindered it, he was the constant judge, who for nothing followed the work, and, by his prudence and justice, removed a multitude of great impediments. 1689-1702.] BAXTER. 335 His great advantage for innocency was, that he was no lover of riches or of grandeur. His garb was too plain; he studiously avoided all unnecessary familiarity with great persons, and all that manner of living which signifieth wealth and greatness. He kept no greater a family than myself. I lived in a small house, which, for a pleasant back opening, he had a mind to; but caused a stranger, that he might not be suspected to be the man, to know of me whether I were willing to part with it, before he would meddle with it. In that house he lived contentedly, without any pomp, and without costly or troublesome retinue or visitors; but not without charity to the poor. He continued the study of physics and mathematics still, as his great delight. He hath himself written four volumes in folio, three of which I have read, against atheism, Sadduceeism, and infidelity, to prove first the Deity, and then the immortality of man's soul, and then the truth of Christianity and the Holy Scripture, answering the infidel's objections against Scripture. It is strong and masculine, only too tedious for impatient readers. He said he wrote it only at vacant hours in his circuits, to regulate his meditations, finding, that while he wrote down what he thought on, his thoughts were the easier kept close to work, and kept in a method. But I could not persuade him to publish them. The conference which I had frequently with him, mostly about the immortality of the soul, and other philosophical and foundation points, was so edifying, that his very questions and objections did help me to more light than other men's solutions. Those who take none for religious who frequent not private meetings, &c., took him for an excellently righteous moral man; but I, who heard and read his serious expressions of the concernments of eternity, and saw his love to all good men, and the blamelessness of his life, thought better of his piety than my own. When the people crowded in and out of my house to hear, he openly showed me so great respect before them at the door, and never spake a word against it, as was no small encouragement to the common people to go on; though the other sort muttered, that a judge should seem so far to countenance that which they took to be against the law. IIe was a great lamenter of the extremities of the times, and of the violence and foolishness of the predominant clergy, and a great desirer of such abatements as might restore us all to serviceableness and unity. He had got but a very small estate, though he had long the greatest practice, because he would take but little money, and undertake no more business than he could well despatch. He often offered to the lord chancellor to resign his place, when he was blamed for doing that which he supposed was justice. 336 TILLOTSON. [WILLIAM & MARY, THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES. My mind being these many years immersed in studies of this nature, and having also long wearied myself in searching what fathers and schoolmen have said of such things before us, and my genius abhorring confusion and equivocals, I came, by many years' longer study, to foresee that most of the doctrinal controversies among Protestants are far more about equivocal words than matter; and it wounded my soul to perceive what work, both tyrannical and unskilful, disputing clergymen had made these thirteen hundred years in the world! Experience, since the year 1643, till this year, 1675, hath loudly called me to repent of my own prejudices, sidings, and censurings of causes and persons not understood, and of all the miscarriages of my ministry and life which have been thereby caused; and to make it my chief work to call men that are within my hearing to more peaceable thoughts, affections, and practices. And my endeavors have not been in vain, in that the ministers of the county where I lived, were very many of such a peaceable temper; and a great number more through the land, by God's grace (rather than any endeavors of mine) are so minded. But the sons of the cowl were exasperated the more against me, and accounted him to be against every man that called all men to love and peace, and was for no man as in a contrary way. JOHN TILLOTSON. 1630-1694 JoHN TILLOTS1ON, Archbishop of Canterbury, was born in Sowerby, in Yorkshire, in 1630. His father was a strict Puritan, and carefully instilled his own principles into the mind of his son, and in 1647 sent him to Cambridge to be under the tuition of David Clarkson, an eminent Presbyterian divine. After leaving college he became tutor in the family of Edmund Prideux, the attorney-general of Cromwell. In 1661, one year after the accession of Charles LI., he complied with the act of uniformity, and consequently soon received a curacy in the Established Church; after which he rose successively, through the many gradations, till in 1690 lie was elevated to the see of Canterbury. He lived to enjoy his new honors but four years, dying in 1694. The sermons of Tillotson are his principal compositions, and so very popular was he, in his day, as a preacher, that a bookseller gave to his widow two thousand five hundred guineas for the copyright. They were proposed to divines as "models of correct and elegant composition," but they will not quite bear such eulogy. Perspicuity, smoothness, and verbal purity belong to them, but thiey do not possess much richness or vigor of thought. Still, however, his writings may be read with great pleasure as well as profit.1 1 " The sermons of Tillotson were, for half a century, more read than any in our language: they are now bought almost as waste paper, and hardly read at all."-Hallam. "Simpllicty is the great beauty of Tillotson's manner. His style is always pure, indeed, and persplcuous, but careless and remiss; too often feeble and languid; with little beauty in the construction of his sentences, which are frequently suffered to drag unharmoniously; seldom any attempt 1689-1702.] TILLOTSON. 837 FALSE AND TRUE PLEASURE. Nothing is more certain in reason and experience, than that every inordinate appetite and affection is a punishment to itself; and is perpetually crossing its own pleasure, and defeating its own satisfaction, by overshooting the mark it aims at. For instance, intemperance in eating and drinking, instead of delighting and satisfying nature, doth but load and clog it; and instead of quenching a natural thirst, which it is extremely pleasant to do creates an unnatural one, which is troublesome and endless. The pleasure of revenge, as soon as it is executed, turns into grief and pity, guilt and remorse, and a thousand melancholy wishes that we had restrained ourselves from so unreasonable an act. And the same is as evident in other sensual excesses, not so fit to be described. We may trust Epicurus, for this, that there can be no true pleasure without temperance in the use of pleasure. And God and reason hath set us no other bounds concerning the use of sensual pleasures, but that we take care not to be injurious to ourselves, or others, in the' kind or degree of them. And it is r'ery visible, that all sensual excess is naturally attended with a double inconvenience: as it goes beyond the limits of nature, it begets bodily pains and diseases: as it transgresseth the rules of reason and religion, it breeds guilt and remorse in the mind. And these are, beyond comparison, the two greatest evils in this world; a diseased body, and a discontented mind; and in this I am sure I speak to the inward feeling and experience of men; and say nothing but what every vicious man finds, and hath a more lively sense of, than is to be expressed by words. When all is done, there is no pleasure comparable to that of innocency, and freedom from the stings of a guilty conscience; this is a pure and spiritual pleasure, much above any sensual delight. And yet among all the delights of sense, that of health (which is the natural consequent of a sober, and chaste, and regular life) is a sensual pleasure far beyond that of any vice. For it is the life of life, and that which gives a grateful relish to all our other enjoyments. It is not indeed so violent and transporting a pleasure, but it is pure, and even, and lasting, and hath no guilt or regret, no sorrow and trouble in it, or after it: which is a worm that infallibly breeds in all vicious and unlawful pleasures, and makes them to be bitterness in the end. EVIDENCE OF A CREATOR IN THE STRUCTURE OF THE WORLD. How often might a man, after he had jumbled a set of letters in a bag, fling them out upon the ground before they would fall into towards strength or sublimity. But notwithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of piety and good sense runs through his works, such an earnest and serious manner, and so much useful instruction conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as willi ustly commend him to high regard."-Bltir's Lectures on Rhotoric and Belles Lettre., Lect. xix. ~ 29 838 TILLOTSON. WILLIAm & MARY. an exact poem, yea, or so much as make a good discourse in prose! And may not a little book be as easily made by chance, as this great volume of the world! How long might a man be in sprinkling colors upon a canvas with a careless hand, before they could happen to make the exact picture of a man? And is a man easier made by chance than this picture? How long might twenty thousand blind men, which should be sent out from the several remote parts of England, wander up and down before they would all meet upon Salisbury Plains, and fall into rank and file in the exact order of an army? And yet this is much more easy to be imagined, than how the innumerable blind parts of matter should rendezvous themselves into a world. EDUCATION.1 Such ways of education as are prudently fitted to the particular disposition of children, are like wind and tide together, which will make the work go on amain: but those ways which are applied cross to nature are like wind against tide, which will make a stir and conflict, but a very slow progress. The principles of religion and virtue must be instilled and dropped into them by such degrees, and in such a measure, as they are capable of receiving them: for children are narrowmouthed vessels, and a great deal cannot be poured into them at once. Young years are tender, and easily wrought upon, apt to be moulded into any fashion: they are like moist and soft clay, which is pliable to any form; but soon grows hard, and then nothing is to be made of it. Great severities do often work an effect quite contrary to that which was intended; and many times those who were bred up in a very severe school, hate learning ever after for the sake of the cruelty that was used to force it upon them. So, likewise, an endeavor to bring children to piety and goodness by unreasonable strictness and rigor, does often beget in them a lasting disgust and prejudice against religion, and teacheth them to hate virtue, at the same time that they teach them to know it. FORMATION OF A YOUTHFUL MIND. Men glory in raising great and magnificent structures, and find a secret pleasure to see sets of their own planting grow up and I,Alas how many examples are now presented to our memory, of young persons the most anxiously and expensively be-schoolmastered, be-tutored, be-lectured, any tning but EDUCATED; who have received arms and ammunition, Instead of skill, strength, and courage; varnished rather than polished; perilously over-civilized, and most pitiably uncultivated I And all from inattention to the method dictated by nature herself,-to the simple truth, that, as the forms in all organized existence, so must all true and living knowledge proceed FROM WITHIN; that it may be trained, supported, fed, excited. but can never be- infused or impressed."-Coleridge, " Friend," iii. 224. 1689-17 02.] VAU GHAN. 339 flourish; but it is a greater and more glorious work to build up a man; to see a youth of our own planting, from the small beginnings and advantages we have given him, to grow up into a considerable fortune, to take root in the world, and to shoot up into such a height, and spread his branches so wide, that we who first planted him may ourselves find comfort and shelter under his shadow. WORLDLY INFLUENCES. How easily are men checked and diverted from a good cause by the temptations and advantages of this world! How many are cold in their zeal for religion, by the favor and friendship of the world! and as their goods and estates have grown greater, their devotion hath grown less. How apt are they to be terrified at the apprehension of danger and sufferings, and by their fearful imaginations to make them greater than they are, and with the people of Israel to be disheartened from all future attempts of entering into the land of promise, because it is full of giants and the sons of Anak! How easily was Peter frightened into the denial of his Master! And when our Saviour was apprehended, how did his disciples forsake him and fly from him! and though they were constant afterwards to the death, yet it was a great while before they were perfectly armed and steeled against the fear of suffering. HENRY VAUGHAN. 1621-1695. HENRY VAUGHAN, the Silurest," as he called himself, from that part of Wales whose inhabitants were the ancient Silures, was born on the banks of the UJsk, in Brecknockshire, in 1621, and in 1638, at the age of seventeen, entered Oxford. He was designed for the profession of the law, but retiring to his home at the commencement of the civil wars, he became eminent in the practice of physic, and was esteemed by scholars, says Wood, "an inge nious person, but proud and humorous." He died in 1695. Vaughan's first publication was entitled, Olor Iscanus,l a Collection of some Select Poems and Translations." In his latter days he became very serious, having met with the works 1" of that blessed man, Mr. George Herbert." He then published his 1" Silex Scintillans,2 or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations." Of the poems of this author, Mr. Campbell speaks rather too severely, when he calls them the production of "one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit." True, he is very often dull and obscure, and spends his strength on frigid and bombastic conceits; but occasionally, and especially in his sacred poems, he exhibits considerable originality and picturesque grace, and breathes forth a high strain of morality and piety. Hi;b best piece, I think, is the following upon 1 That is, "The Iscan Swan," the adjective " Iscanus" being formed from Isea, the Latin name of his favorite river Usk. 2 "The Spark-emitting Flint." Read, an article on Vaug'aan's poetry in the Retrospect.ve Review, iii. 136. 840 VAUGHAN. [WILLIAM & MARY. EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun: Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep. Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers: Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. ~Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush And oak doth know I aMr. Canst thou not sing? O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before the world; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. Mornings are mysteries; the first, world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth, Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food: Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move-they make us holy, happy, rich. When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay; Despatch necessities; life hath a load Which must be carried on, and safely may; Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part. Vaughan's prose writings are more easy and natural than his poetry, as will be seen by the following beautiful piece upon THE PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY. This privilege also, above others, makes the countryman happy, that he hath always something at hand which is both useful and pleasant; a blessing which has never been granted, either to a courtier or a citizen: they have enemies enough, but few friends that deserve their love, or that they dare trust to, either for counsel or action. O who can ever fully express the pleasures and happiness of the cuuntry-life; with the various and delightful sports of fishing, hunting, and fowling, with o-ns, greyhounds, 1689-1702.] VAUGHAN. 341 spaniels, and several sorts of nets! What oblectation and refreshment it is to behold the green shades, the beauty and majesty of the tall and ancient groves; to be skilled in planting and dressing of orchards, flowers, and pot-herbs; to temper and allay these harmless employments with some innocent, merry song; to ascend sometimes to the fresh and healthful hills; to descend into the bosom of the valleys, and the fragrant, dewy meadows; to hear the music of birds, the murmurs of bees, the falling of springs, and the pleasant discourses of the old ploughmen. These are the blessings which only a countryman is ordained to, and are in vain wished for by citizens and courtiers. The following remarks upon the guilt of writing or pulblishing books of an immoral tendency, it would be well for a large number of publishers carefully to read, and seriously to ponder. Would that they might be governed by such excellent sentiments, rather than, as they too often seem to be, by the mere consideration of profit or loss. RESPONSIBILITY OF EDITORS AND PUBLISIERSo If, every idle word shall be accounted for, and if one corrupt communication should proceed out of our mouths, how desperate (I beseech you) is their condition, who all their lifetime, and out of mere design, study lascivious fictions; then carefully record and publish them, that instead of grace and life, they may minister sin and death unto their readers! It was wisely considered, and piously said by one, that he would read no idle books; both in regard of love to his own soul, and pity unto his that made them, for (said he) if I be corrupted by them, their composer is immediately a cause of my ill, and at the day of reckoning (though now dead) must give an account for it, because I am corrupted by his bad example which he left behind him. I will write none, lest I hurt them that come after me; I will read none, lest I augment his punishment that is gone before me. I will neither write nor read, lest I prove a foe to my own soul: while I live, I sin too much; let me not continue longer in wickedness than I do in life. It is a sentence of sacred authority, that he that is dead, is freed from sin, because he cannot, in that state, which is without the body, sin any more; but he that writes idle books, makes for himself another body, in which he always lives, and sins (after death) as fast and as foul as ever he did in hq' life; which very consider: ation deserves to be a sufficient antidote against thin3 evil disease. 842 TEMPLE. [WILLIAM & MARY, SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. 1628-1698. WILLIAM. TEMPLE, otherwise Sir William Temple, an eminent statesma.n and writer of his day, was born in London, 1628, and at the age of seventeen entered Emanuel College, Cambridge. After spending about two years at the university, he spent six years in travelling upon the continent, andli'eturning in 1654, he married and lived in privacy under the Protectorate, declining all office: but soon after the Restoration, Charles II. bestowed a baronetcy upon him, and appointed him English resident at the court of Brussels. He paid a visit to the Dlutch governor, De Witt, at the Hague, and with great skill brought about, in 1668, the celebrated "triple alliance" between England, Holland, and Sweden, which for a time checked the ambitious career of Louis XIV. Here, too, he formed an intimacy with the young Prince of Orange, afterwards William III. of England. His subsequent public employments were numerous; but when he discovered that Charles determined to govern without his Parliament, he quitted the court in disgust, and retired to his house at Sheen, near Richmond, in Surrey, whence he sent by his son a message to his majesty, stating that "he would pass the rest of his life as good a subject as any in his kingdoms, but would never more.neddle with public affairs." Froim this period he lived *so retired a life, that the transactions which brought about the Revolution of 1688 were unknown to him. After the abdication of James, the Prince of Orange pressed him to become secretary of state, but could not prevail upon him to accept the post. He died in 1698, at the age of sixty nine. The works of Sir William Temple consist, chiefly, of short miscellaneous pieces. His longest productions aree, A" Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands," composed during his first retirement at Sheen; and an i" Essay on the Original and Nature of Government." Besides several political -tracts of temporary interest, he wrote 1"Essays" on "Ancient and Modern -Learning;" the "iGardens of Epicurus;" " Heroic Virtue;" " Poetry;" and iHealth and Long Life." His " Essay upon Ancient and Modern Learning" gave rise to one of the most celebrated literary controversies which have occurred in England. In it he maintained the position, that the ancients were far superior to the moderns, not in genius only, but in learning and science. After citing many works of the ancients to sustain his position, he adduced the "Epistles of Phalaris,"l which he declared genuine, and ventured to pronounce them as one of the greatest works of antiquity. This led to a publication of a new edition of them at Oxford, under the name of Charles Boyle, as editor. Im.] mediately appeared "A Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris," by that celebrated critic and profound Greek scholar, Richard Bentley; clearly showing them to be a forgery. Then appeared "Bentley's Dissertation Examined," ostensibly by Boyle, but really by Atterbury, Smialridge, Aldrich, and other Oxford divines; which seemed to give the Boyle party the advantage, till Bentley published his rejoinder, which showed such depth and extent of learning, and such powers of reasoning, as completely prostrated all his antagonists. But what could not be done by argument, was attempted to be done 1 Phalaris was a tyrant of Agrigentum, in Sicily, who flourished more than five hundred years before Christ. The Epistles which bear his name, and which are utterly worthless in a literary point of view, were probably written by some rhetorician or sophist in the time of the Caesars. 1689-1702.] TEMPLE. 343 by ridicule, and Pope,' Swift, Garth, Middleton, and others came into the field. In the use of this weapon, Swift, of course, proved the ablest champion, and in that work of infinite humor, entitled "The Battle of the Boolos," he not only ridiculed Bentley, but also his friend, the Rev. William Wotton, who had opposed Temple in a treatise, entitled "Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning." " Sir William Temple," says Dr. Blair, " is another remarkable writer in the style of simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree above Tillotson; though for correctness he is not in the higliest rank. All is easy and flowing in him; he is exceedingly harmonious; smoothness, and what may be called amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his manner, relaxing sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his style i. more lively impression of his own character." PLEASURES OF A RURAL LIFE. For my own part, as the country life, and this part of it more particularly, (namely, gardening,) were the inclination of my youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age; and I can truly say, that among many great employments that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often endeavored to escape fiom them, into the ease and freedom of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his own pace, in the common paths or circles of life. The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes what he has chosen, which, I thank God, has befallen me; and though among the follies of my life, building and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more than I have the confidence to own; yet they have been fully recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into any public employments, I have passed five years without ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought it, but a mere want of desire or hunmor to make so small a remove. COMPARISON BETWEEN HOMER AND VIRGIL. Homer was, without dispute, the most universal genius that haus been known in the world, and Virgil the most accomplished. To the first, must be allowed the most fertile invention, the richest vein, the most general knowledge, and the most lively expression: to the last, the noblest ideas, the justest institution, the 1 Pope says that Boyle wrote only the narrative of what passed between him and the booksellers, which, too, was corrected for him; that Atterbury and Freind, the master of Westminster school, wrote the body of the criticisms; and that Dr. King wrote the droll argument to prove that Dr. Bentley was not the author of the Dissertation on the Epistles. This falnous controversy excited the literary world for years. Eustice Budgell, the greatest con tributor to the Spectator, next to Addison and Steele, rtblished an account of it. 344 TEMPLE. [WILLIAM & MARY, wisest conduct, and the choicest elocution. To speak in the painter's terms, we find in the works of Homer, the most spirit, force, ard life; in those of Virgil, the best design, the truest proportions, and the greatest grace; the coloring in both seems equal, and, indeed, is in both admirable. Homer had more fire and rapture, Virgil more light and swiftness; or, at least, the poetical fire was more raging in one, but clearer in the other, which makes the first more amazing, and the latter more agreeable. The ore was heavier in one, but in the other more refined, and better alloyed to make up excellent work. Upon the whole, I think it must be confessed, that Homer was of the two, and perhaps of all others, the vastest, the sublimest, and the most wonderful genius; and that he has been generally so esteemed, there cannot be a greater testimony given, than what has been by some observed, that not only the greatest masters have found in his works the best and truest principles of all their sciences or arts, but that the noblest nations have derived from them the original of their several races, though it be hardly yet agreed, whether his story be true or fiction. In short, these two immortal poets must be allowed to have so much excelled in their kinds, as to have exceeded all comparison, to have even extinguished emulation, and in a manner confined true poetry, not only to their two languages, but to their very persons. And I am apt to believe so much of the true genius of poetry in general, and of its elevation in these two particulars, that I know not, whether of all the numbers of mankind, that live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man that is born capable of making such a poet as Homer or Virgil, there may not be a thousand born capable of making as great generals of armies, or ministers of state, as any the most renowned in story. AGAINST EXCESSIVE GRIEF.1 I know no duty in religion more generally agreed on, nor more justly required by God Almighty, than a perfect submission to his will in all things; nor do I think any disposition of mind can either please him more, or becomes us better, than that of being satisfied with all he gives, and contented with all he takes away. None, I am sure, can be of more honor to God, nor of more ease to ourselves. For, if we consider him as our Maker, we cannot contend with him; if as our Father, we ought not to distrust him: so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for good; and whatever happens that we interpret otherwise, yet we call get nothing by repining, nor save any thing by resisting. It is true you have lost a child, and all that could be lost in a child of that age; but you have kept one child, and you are likely' From a letter addressed to the Countess of Essex, in 1674,, after the death of her only daughter. 1689-1702.] TEMPLE. 345 to do so long; you have the assurance of another, and the hopes of many more. You have kept a husband, great in employment, in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your beauty and your health, unless you have destroyed them yourself, or discouraged them to stay with you by using them ill. You have friends who are as kind to you as you can wish, or as you can give them leave to be. You have honor and esteem from all who know you; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon that point of your seeming to be fallen out with God and the whole world, and neither to care for yourself, nor any thing else, after what you have lost. You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all to you, and your fondness of it made you indifferent to every thing else. But this, I doubt, will be so far from justifying you, that it will prove to be your fault, as well as your misfortune. God Almighty gave you all the blessings of life, and you set your heart wholly upon one, and despise or undervalue all the rest: is this his fault or yours? Nay, is it not to be very unthankful to Heaven, as well as very scornful to the rest of the world? is it not to say, because you have lost one thing God has given, you thank him for nothing he has left, and care not what he takes away? is it not to say, since that one thing is gone out of the world, there is nothing left in it which you think can deserve your kindness or esteem? A friend makes me a feast, and places before me all that his care or kindness could provide: but I set my heart upon one dish alone, and, if that happens to be thrown down, I scorn all the rest; and though he sends for another of the same kind, yet I rise from the table in a rage, and say, " My friend is become my enemy, and he has done me the greatest wrong in the world." Have I reason, madam, or good grace in what I do? or would it become me better to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of what had happened, and could not be remedied? Christianity teaches and commands us to moderate our passions; to temper our affections towards all things below; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss, whenever He who gave shall see fit to take away. Your extreme fondness was perhaps as displeasing to God before, as now your extreme affliction is; and your loss may have been a punishment for youi faults in the manner of enjoying what you had. It is at least pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us. to our own demerits, ra ther than to injustice in God. And it becomes us better to adore the issues of his providence in the effects, than to inquire into the causes; for submission is the only way of reasoning between a creature and its Maker; and contentment in his will is the greatest duty we can pretend to, and the best remedy we can apply to all our misfortunes. 346 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MAIRY, JOHN DRYDEN. 1630-1700. " Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine." —PoPs. JOtI 1I)RTDEX, the celebrated English poet, was born in Aldwinkle, it. Northamptonshire, 1631. He was educated in Westminster school, and in Trinity College, Cambridge. His first poem that attracted notice was his stanzas on Cromwell's death; but so exceedingly pliable was he, that, in 1660, he wrote a congratulatory address to Charles II., on his restoration to the throne of his ancestors. But this did not " put money in his purse," and he was soon obliged to betake himself to what was then a more profitable department of poetry, and write for the stage, which he continued to do for many years. In these literary labors he debased his genius to an extent which no "' circumstances of the times" can excuse, by writing in a manner and style that entirely harmonized with the licentious spirit and taste of the court and age of Charles II. In 1668 he succeeded Davenant as poet-laureate, which excited the envy of those who aspired to the same royal distinction. The most powerful of his enemies were the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Rochester, the former of whom ridiculed the poet in that well-known farce called 4"The Rehearsal." In return, Dryden, in 1681, published his satire of "Absalom and Achitoplhel," perhaps the inost vigorous as well as the most popular of all his poetical writings. This was speedily followed by "The Medal+" a bitter lampoon on Shaftesbury, and was followed up the next year by," Mac Flecknoe," I and the second part of c Absalom and Achitophel." These were all most bitter satires upon his personal enemies, Buckingham, Monmouth, Shaftesbury, Settle, Shadwell, and others. In "Absalom and Achitophel," Monmouth figures under the former, and Shaftesbury under the latter name. After the accession of James, (1685,) when Popery became the chief qualification for court favor, Dryden renounced Protestantism and turned Papist. He gained but little by it, though he wrote in defence of the Romish faith in c"cThe Hind and the Panther."2 In 1689, one year after the abdication of James, he would not take the required oaths to the government of William and Mary, and was therefore compelled to resign his office of poet-laureate, which, with a salary increased to ~300, was conferred on'Thomas Shadwell,,whom Dryden thus satirized in his c" Mac Flecknoe:" The rest to some faint meaning makle pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no day.3 1 Mac is the Celtic for sons; and Richard Flecknoe was an Irish Roman Catholic priest, and a well. known hackneyed poetaster. The leading idea of the poem, therefore, is, to represent the solemn Inauguration of one inferior poet as the successor (" son") of another, in the monarchy of nonsense. 2 The idea of two beasts discussing arguments in theology, and quoting the Fathsrs, excited disgust or merriment, -so that, as a work of controversy, it proved a complete failure. 3 That this is the language of bitter personal enmity, no one can doubt, from the fact that such a one as Dryden describes would not be honored with such a post. Accordingly, a modern critic (Retrospective Review, xvi. 56) says of Shadwell, "He was an accomplished observer of human nature, had a ready power of seizing the ridiculous in the manners of the times, was a mWn of sense and information, and displayed in his writings a very considerable fund of humor." 1689-1702.] DRYDEN. 347 The latter years of his life were devoted to the translation of Juvenal and Perseus, and of the iEneid, by which he is more known than by any of his original poetry, if we except the "'Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," which he "finished at one sitting," as he himself said, while he was engaged in trans lating the Mantuan-bard. This ode ranks among the best lyrical pieces in our language; but it contains some licentiousness of imagery and description which justly detracts from its general popularity. His last work was a Masque, composed about three weeks before his death, which took place on the 1st of May, 1700. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. The character of Dryden is not such as to command our respect or esteem He seems to have had no sound principles, either in morals or in religion. His movements were those of the weathercock, showing the current of the popular breeze. He wrote for the day, and he had his reward,-popularity for the time, but comparative neglect with posterity. As a poet he cannot take rank in the first class. A writer in the Retrospective Review1 very justly remarks, that ccit is well that his fame has become a settled conviction in the public mind, for were a man casually called upon to prove the truth of the position, though secure of ultimate victory, he would find the task not unencumbered with difficulty-he could not appeal to any particular work, as being universally read, and as universally admired and approved. His translations, it is true, are spirited, and convey all, and frequently more than the writer's meaning; but then, he has taken improper liberties with his author, and fills the mind of the reader with emotions of a different character than would be produced by the original. Then his plays are bombastic, and as a proof of their worthlessness, it may be alleged they are forgotten. His fables, his odes, his tales, his satires remain; all of which, it is clear, on the reading, could only be written by a man of gigantic genius, but are, as wholes, from the lapse of time and the occasional nature of many, and from the imperfections of haste and carelessness, far from being among the choice favorites of the common reader."' To these remarks may be added the discriminating criticism of Campbell:2 c" He is a writer of manly and elastic character. His strong judgment gave force as well as direction to a flexible fancy; and his harmony is generally the echo of solid thoughts. But he was not gifted with intense or lofty sen sibility; on the contrary, the grosser any idea is, the happier he seems ti expatiate upon it. The transports of the heart, and the deep and varied delineations of the passions, are strangers to his poetry. He could describe character in the abstract, but could not embody it in the drama, for he entered into character more from clear perception than fervid sympathy. This great High Priest of all the Nine was not a confessor to the finer secrets of the hu man breast. Had the subject of Eloisa fallen into his hands, he would have left but a coarse draft of her passion." Such, I think, is a fair view of Dryden's poetical character. True, Gray in his " Progress of Poesy," alludes to 1" the stately march and sounding energy of his rhymes;" and these qualities they certainly possess: and the same fas tidious critic has justly immortalized the " thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," in his celebrated lyric, "Alexander's Feast." But after all, he possesses in a slight degree, comparatively, those great qualities which make the true poet-imagination-fancy-invention-pathos-sublimity. That he mnight have done better than he has, I have not the least doubt. Hence, his case reads a most instructive lesson to men of intellect. Endowed with ab;1 Retrospective Review, i 113. 2 Specimens, i. 257 348 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MARY, lities of the highest order, he was clearly capable of producing such works as posterity would "not willingly let die." But instead of spending his mighty strength upon those principles of immutable truth and of universal human nature, which will ever find a response in the human heart as long as there are hearts to feel; he wasted his time and debased his genius, by waiting too much upon subjects of merely temporal interest, and in such a manner as to be in keeping with the corrupt sentiments and the licentious spirit of the age. When will men of genius, capable of exerting a mighty influence for good, for all coming time, learn to trample under their feet the false and debasing sentiments, dishonoring to God and degrading to man, that exist around them, and rise to immortality by the only sure paths,-virtue and truth? ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANNE KILLEGREIV. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green, above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, Or, in procession fix'd and regular, Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st, with seraphirns, the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thine own voice did practise here, When thy first-fruits of poesy were given; To make thyself a welcome inmate there: While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven. If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood: So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, 0 heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find 1 Read-two articles on Dryden in the Retrospective Review, i. 113, and iv. 55: also, one in the Edinburgh, xiii. 116, and another in Macaulay's Miscellanies, i. 127. Also, in Blair's lectures, lect. xviii., and in Hallam's Literature, pp. 377 and 378. The best edition of Dryden's works is that by Sir Walter Scott, IS vols. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1821. 1689-1702.] DRYDEN. 349 Than was the beauteous frame she left behind. Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. O gracious God! how far have we Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tong-Les of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adulterate age, (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t' excuse our second fall? Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all; Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiled; Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child. When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last assizes keep For those who wake, and those who sleep; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below. ON MILTON. Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third, she join'd the other two. VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,1 Paraphrased from the Latin Hymrn. Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come v-sit every pious mind; Come I-OUr thy joys on hluman kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee. O source of uncreated light, rThe. Father's promised Paraclete!2 Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; 1 Come, Creator Spirit. 2 A Greek word signifying advocate, helper, comforter, 30 850 DRY1EN. [WILLIAM & MARYP Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence! Refine and purge our earthly parts; But oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe: Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee. Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died: And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee. ENJOYMENT OF THE PRESENT HOUR RECOMMENDED. Imitated from Horace. Enjoy the present smiling lour, And put it out of Fortune's power: The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course It keeps within the middle bed; Anon it lifts aloft the head, And bears down all before it with impetuous force; And trunks of trees come rolling down; Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homestead into seas are borne; And rocks are from their old foundations torn; And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honors mourn. Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own: He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 1689-1702.] DRYDEN. 851 Fortune, that with malicious joy Does man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless: Still various, and inconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes her wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black; If the mast split, and threaten wreck? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain; And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar: And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore. The prose of Dryden, however, is superior to his poetry, and richly deserves all the commendation it has received. His style is clear, vigorous, eloquent. "' No writer, indeed," says Dr. Drake, ": seems to have studied the genius of our language with happier success. If in elegance and grammatical precision he has since been exceeded, to none need he give way, in point of vigor, variety, richness, and spirit." His chief prose compositions are his "-Essay on Satire," his Prefaces, and his " Essay on Dramatic Poetry." Of the latter, Dr. Johnson says, that it "cwas the first regular and valuable treatise on the art of writing. His portraits of the English dramatists are wrought with great spirit and diligence. The account of Shakspeare may stand as a perpetual model of encorniastic criticism; being lofty without exaggeration. In a few lines is exhibited a character so extensive in its comprehension and so curious in its limitations, that nothing can be added, diminished, or reformed; nor can tWe editors and admirers of Shakspeare, in all their emulation and reverence, boast of much more than of having diffused and paraphrased this epitome of excellence, —of having changed Dryden's gold for baser metal, of lower value though of greater bulk."1 1 The highest compliment ever paid to his diction has been recorded by Mr. Malone; namely, THz IMITATION OF EDMUND BURKE, "who," says the critic, " had very diligently read all his miscellaneous essays, which he held in high estimnation, not only for the instruction which they coatain, but on account of the rich and numerous prose in which that instruction is conveyed." 852 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MARY, SHAKSPEARE. rTo begin, then, with Shakspeare. He was the man, who, of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it-you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is presented to him; no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, Quantium lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.l The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eaton say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better done in Shakspeare; and however others are now generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to him in their esteem: and in the last king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakspeare far above him. BEN JONSON. As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, if we look upon him while he was himself, (for his last plays were but his dotages,) I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit, and language, and humor, also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavoring to move the passions; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humor was his proper sphere; and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly finom 1 " As the cypresses are wont to do among the slender shrubs." 1689-1702.] DRYDEN. 353 them; there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times, whom he has not translat~ed in Sejanus and Catiline. But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us, in his rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language,'twas that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially: perhaps, too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets: Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing: I admire him, but I love Shakspeare. CHAUCER AND COWLEY. In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so I hold him in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense, learned in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all subjects. As he knew what to say, so he knows also when to leave off; a continence which is practised by few writers, and scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace. One of our late great poets, is sunk in his reputation, because he could never forgive any conceit which came in his way; but swept, like a drag-net, great and small. There was plenty enough, but the dishes were ill-sorted; whole pyramids of sweet-meats for boys and women, but little of solid meat for men. All this proceeded not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment. Neither did he want that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets, but only indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and perhaps knew it was a fault, but hoped the reader would not find it. For this reason, though he must always be thought a great poet, he is no longer esteemed a good writer; and for ten impressions, which his works have had in so many successive years, yet at present a hundred books are scarcely purchased once a twelve-month; for, as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat profanely, Not being of God, he could not stand. Chaucer followed nature everywhere; but was never so bold to go beyond her: and there is a great difference of being poeta, 1 Cowley. Z 330) 354 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MARY, and nimnis poeta,' if we may believe Cat-ullus, as much as betwixt a modest behaviorand affectation. The verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious to us; but it is like the eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends-it was auribus istius temporis accommnodata.2 They who lived with him and sometime after him, thought it musical, and it continues so even in our judgment, if compared with the numbers of Lydgate and Gower, his contemporaries: there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. It is true, I cannot go so far as he who published the last edition of him; for he would make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there were really ten syllables in a verse, where we find but nine. But this opinion is not worth confuting; it is so gross and obvious an error, that common sense (which is a rule in every thing but matters of faith and revelation) must convince the reader, that equality of numbers in every verse which we call heroic, was either not known, or not always practised in Chaucer's age. It were an easy matter to produce some thousands of his verses, which are lame for want bf half a foot, and sometimes a whole one, and which no pronunciation can make otherwise.4 We can only say, that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is brought to perfection at the first. We must be children, before we grow men. There was an Ennius, and in process of time a Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Horace. Even after Chaucer, there was a Spenser, a Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller and Denham were in being; and our numbers were in their nonage till these last appeared. THE HEATHEN-REASON AND REVELATION. It has always been my thought, that heathens who never did, nor without miracle could, hear of the name of Christ, were yet in a possibility of salvation. Neither will it enter easily into my belief, that before the coming of our Saviour, the whole world, excepting only the Jewish nation, should lie under the inevitable necessity of everlasting punishment, for want of that revelation. which was confined to so small a spot of ground as that of Palestine. Among the sons of Noah we read of one only who was accursed; and if a blessing in the ripeness of time was reserved for Japhet, (of whose progeny we are,) it seems unaccountable to me, why so many generations of the same offspring as preceded our Saviour in the flesh, should be all involved in one common con1 ", A poet and too much of a poet:" by the latter expression is meant conceit and affectation in poetry. 2 i" Adapted to the ears of the times." I Speght, in 1597. 4 This position, however, has been completely disproved by Mr. Tyrwhitt, who, in his edition of the CanteIbury Tales, has admirably explained the versification and language of Chaucer, and uhows the former to be in general correct. 1689-1702.J D RYDEN. 355 demnation, and yet that their posterity should be entitled to the hopes of salvation: as if a bill of exclusion had passed only on the fathers, which debarred not the sons from their succession. 0: that so many ages had been delivered over to hell, and so many reserved for heaven, and that the devil had the first choice, and God the next. Truly, I am apt to think, that the revealed religion which was taught by Noah to all his sons, might continue for some ages in the whole posterity. That afterwards it was included wholly in the family of Sern, is manifest; but when the progenies of Chain and Japhet swarmed into colonies, and those colonies were subdivided into many others, in -rocess of time their descendants lost by little and little the primltiv, and purer rites of divine worship, retaining only the notion of one deity; to which succeeding generations added others, for men took their degrees in those ages from conquerors to gods. Revelation being thus eclipsed to almost all mankind, the light of nature, as the next in dignity, was substituted; and that is it which St. Paul concludes to be the rule of the heathens, and by which they are hereafter to be judged. If my supposition be true, then the consequence which I have assumed in my poem may be also true; namely, that Deism, or the principles of natural worship, are only the faint remnants or dying flames of revealed religion in the posterity of Noah: and that our modern philosophers, nay, and some of our philosophizing divines, have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that, by their force, mankind has been able to find out that there is one supreme agent or intellectual being, which we call God: that praise and prayer are his due worship; and the rest of those deducements, which I am confident are the remote effects of revelation, and unattainable by our discourse; I mean as simply considered, and without the benefit of divine illumination. So that we have not lifted up ourselves to God, by the weak pinions of our reason, but he has been pleased to descend to us; and what Socrates said of him, what Plato writ, and the rest of the heathen philosophers of several nations, is all no more than the twilight of revelation, after the sun of it was set in the race of Noah. That there is something above us, some principle of motion, our reason can apprehend, though it cannot discover what it is by its own virtue. And indeed it is very im probable, that we, who by the strength of our faculties cannot enter into the knowledge of any Being, not so much as of our own, should be able to find out, by them, that supreme nature, which we cannot otherwise define than by saying it is infinite; as if infinite were definable, or infinity a subject for our narrow understanding. They who would prove religion by reason, do but weaken the cause which they endeavor to support: it is to take away the pillars from our faith, and to prop it only with a txvig; 356 LOCKE. [ANNE, it is to design a tower like that of Babel, which, if it were possible, as it is not, to reach heaven, would come to nothing by the confusion of the workmen. For every man is building a severalway; impotently conceited of his own model and his own materials: reason is always striving, and always at a loss; and of necessity it must so come to pass, while it is exercised about that which is not its proper object. Let us be content at last to know God by his own methods; at least, so much of him as he is pleased to reveal to us in the sacred Scriptures: to apprehend them to be the word of God, is all our reason has to do; for all beyond it is the work of faith, which is the seal of heaven impressed upon our human understanding. JOHN LOCKE. 1632-1704. JoHNr LOCKE, the eminent philosophical writer, was born at Wrington, in Somersetshire, on the 29th of August, 1632. He was educated at Westminster school, and at the age of nineteen entered the University of Oxford. He applied himself with great diligence to the study of classical literature, and to the philosophical works of Bacon and Descartes. He made choice of medicine as a profession, and after taking his degrees in the arts, he practised for a short time in the university. But he was soon compelled to relinquish it from the weakness of his constitution. In 1664 he visited Berlin, as secretary to the English minister; but after a year he returned to Oxford, where he formed an acquaintance with Lord Ashley, afterwards the Earl of Shaftesbury, and accepted his invitation to reside in his house; where he became acquainted with some of the most emi. nent men of the day. Here he drew up a constitution for the government of South Carolina, which province had been granted by Charles II. to Lord Ash. ley, with seven others.' In 1670 he commenced his investigations in meta. physical philosophy, and laid the plan of that great work, his "c Essay on the Human Understanding." In 1675, being apprehensive of consumption, Locke went to Montpelier, in France, and after residing there four years, he was invited to England by the Earl of Shaftesbury, who had been restored to favor' and appointed president of the new council. But this prosperity was not of long duration, for in 1682 the earl was obliged to flee to Holland, to avoid a prosecution for high treason. Locke followed his patron, where, even after his death, he continued to reside, for the hostility felt towards Shaftesbury was transferred to Locke. On the Revolution of 1688, he returned with the fleet,hat brought over the Prince of Orange; and accepted the offer of apartments in the house of his friend Sir Francis Masham, in Oates, in Essex, where he resided for the remainder of his life, devoting it mostly to the study of the Scriptures, and died on the 28th of October, 1704. 1 The main provisions of his constitution were, that "all men are free and equal by nature," and that "the object of government is the security of persons and property." What a melancholy reflection it is, that a state which can trace its constitutional history to such a man as John Locke, should hold more than half of its population as "chattels personal, to all intents, constructions, and Du'rposes whatsoever." 1702-1714.] LOCKE. 35]J The great work of Locke, and that which has immortalized his name, is (1.) his ", Essay concerning Human Understanding." It applies the Baconian method of observation and experience to establish a theory of human know ledge, showing that we have no innate ideas; that the only source of our knowledge is experience; that this experience is twofold, either internal or external, according as it is employed about sensible objects or the operations of our minds; and hence that there are two kinds of ideas,-ideas of sensation, and ideas of reflection. These positions, with many others collateral and connected, this great work establishes on a basis that can never be shaken.' His other works, scarcely inferior in value and importance to his " Essay," are, (2.) " On the Reasonableness of Christianity," published in 1695. This was intended to aid the reigning monarch, William III., in his design to reconcile and unite all sects of professing Christians; and accordingly, the object. of the tract was to determine what, amid so many conflicting views of religion, were the points of belief common to all. (3.) " Letters on Toleration." (4.)'"Two Treatises on Civil Government," in defence of the Revolution, and in answer to the partisans of the exiled king, who called the existing government a usurpation. In this he maintains conclusively, that the legitimacy of a government depends solely and ultimately on the popular sanction, or the consent of men, making use of their reason, to unite and form soe;eties. (5.) c" Thoughts on Education." (6.) "A Discourse on Miracles." (7.) ". araphrases, with notes, of the Epistles of St. Paul," together with, (8.) an c"Essay for the Understanding of St. Paul's Epistles, by consulting St. Paul himself." To these were added many minor treatises, with that most useful book, entitled "A New Method of a Common-Place Book." As to the style of Locke, Dr. Drake makes the following just remarks: cc The diction he has adopted is, in general, such as does honor to his judgment. Relinquishing ornament and studied cadences, he is merely solicitous to convey his ideas with perspicuity and precision. No affectation, no conceits, no daring metaphors or inverted periods, disfigure his pages; all is clear, easy, and natural, exhibiting a plain and simple style accommodated to the purposes of philosophy." As to his personal character, it was in complete harmony with the opinions, political, moral, anjd religious, which he so zealously and so ably advocated. A more happy combination of the Christian, the gentleman, and the scholar, has, perhaps, never been exhibited than in the person of this distinguished philosopher. While his talents were devoted to works which take the highest rank in English literature, his pure and virtuous life gave the most satisfactory proof of the practical efficacy of a piety, the sincerity of which was clearly proved by his efforts to show that all the parts of the Christian system are reconcilable to human reason.2 PRACTICE AND HABIT. We are born with faculties and powers capable almost of any hing, such at least as would carry'us farther than can be easily 1 ", Few books," says Sir James Mackintosh, " have contributed more to rectify prejudice, to undermine established errors, to diffuse a just mode of thinking, to excite a fearless spirit of inquiry, and yet to contain it within the boundaries which nature has prescribed to the human understanding." 2'" His writings have diffused throughout the civilized world the love of civil liberty; the spirit of toleration and charity in religious differences; the disposition to reject whatever is obscure, fantastic, or hypothetical in speculation; to abandon problems which admit of no solution; to distrust whatever cannot be clearly expressed; and to prefer those studies which most directly contribute to human happiness."-Sir Jumes lacekintosh. 358 LOCKE. [ANNE, imagined; but it is only the exercise of those powers which gives us ability and skill in any thing, and leads us towards perfection. A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever be brought to the carriage and language of a gentleman, though his body be as well proportioned, and his joints as supple, and his natural parts not an)y way inferior. The legs of a dancing-master, and the fingers of a musician, fall, as it were, naturally, without thought or pains, into regular and admirable motions. Bid them change their parts, and they will in vain endeavor to produce like motions in the members not used to them, and it will require length of time and long practice to attain but some degrees of a like ability. What incredible and astonishing actions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers bring their bodies to! not but that sundry in almost all manual arts are as wonderful; but I name those which the world takes notice of for such, because, on that very account, they give money to see them. All these admired motions, beyond the reach and almost the conception of unpractised spectators, are nothing but the mere effects of use and industry in men, whose bodies have nothing peculiar in them from those of the amazed lookers on. As it is in the body, so it is in the mind; practice makes it what it is; and most even of those excellencies which are looked on as natural endowments, will be found, when examined into more narrowly, to be the product of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch only by repeated actions. Some men are remarked for pleasantness in raillery, others for apologues and apposite diverting stories. This is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature, and that the rather, because it is not got by rules, and those who excel in either of them, never purposely set themselves to the study of it as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true, that at first some lucky hit which took with somebody, and gained him commendation, encouraged him to try again, inclined his thoughts and endeavors that way, till at last he insensibly got a facility in it without perceiving how; and that is attributed wholly to nature, which was much more the effect of use and practice. I do not deny that natural disposition may often give the first rise to it; but that never carries a man far without use and exercise, and it is practice alone that brings the powers of the mind as well as those of the body to their perfection. Many a good poetic vein is buried under a trade, and never produces any thing for want of improvement. We see the ways of discourse and reasoning are very different, even concerning the same matter, at court and in the university. And he that will go but from Westminster Hall to the Exchange, will find a different genius and turn in their ways of talking; and one cannot think that all whose lot fell in the city were born with different parts from those who were bred at the university or inns of court. 1702 —1714,] LOCKE. 359 To what purpose all this, but to show that the difference, so observable in men's understandings and parts, does not arise so much from the natural faculties as acquired habits? He would be laughed at that should go about to make a fine dancer out of a country hedger, at past fifty. And he will not have much better success who shall endeavor at that age to make a man reason well, or speak handsomely, who has never been used to it, though you should lay before him a collection of all the best precepts of logic or oratory. Nobody is made any thing by hearing of rules, or laying them up in his memory; practice must settle the habit of doing, without reflecting on the rule; and you may as well hope to make a good painter or musician, extempore, by a lecture and instruction in the arts of music and painting, as a coherent thinker, or strict reasoner, by a set of rules, showing him wherein right reasoning consists. This being so, that defects and weakness in men's understand ings, as well as other faculties, come from want of a right use of their own minds, I am apt to think the fault is generally mislaid upon nature, and there is often a complaint of want of parts, when the fault lies in want of a due improvement of them. We see men frequently dexterous and. sharp enough in making a bargain, who, if you reason with them about matters of religion, appear perfectly stupid. INJUDICIOUS HASTE IN STUDY. The eagerness and strong bent of the mind after knowledge, if not warily regulated, is often a hinderance to it. It still presses into farther discoveries and new objects, and catches at the variety. of knowledge, and therefore often stays not long enough on what is before it, to look into it as it should, for haste to pursue what is yet out of sight. He that rides post through a country may be able, from the transient view, to tell in general how the parts lie, and may be able to give some loose description of here a mountain and there a plain, here a morass and there a river; woodland in one part and savannas in another. Such superficial ideas and observations as these he may collect in galloping over it; but the more useful observations of the soil, plants, animals, and inhabitants, with their several sorts and properties, must necessarily escape him; and it is seldom men ever discover the rich mines without some digging. Nature commonly lodges her treasures and jewels in rocky ground. If the matter be knotty, and the sense lies deep, the mind must stop and buckle to it, and stick upon it with labor and thought, and close contemplation, and not Aeave it until it has mastered the difficulty and got possession of truth. But here, care must be taken to avoid the other extreme: a man murt not stick at every useless nicety, and expect myste 360 LOCKE.. ANNI, ries of science in every trivial question or scruple that he may raise. He that will stand to pick up and examine every pebble that comes in his way, is as unlikely to return enriched and laden with jewels, as the other that travelled full speed. Truths are not the better nor the worse for their obviousness or difficulty, but their value is to be measured by their usefulness and tendency. Insignificant observations should not take up any of our minutes; oand those that enlarge our view, and give light towards further and useful discoveries, should not be neglected, though they stop our course, and spend some of our time in a fixed attention. IMPORTANCE OF MORAL EDUCATION. Under whose care soever a child is put to be taught during the tender and flexible years of his life, this is certain; it should be one who thinks Latin and languages the least part of education; one who, knowing how much virtue and a well-tempered soul- is to be preferred to any sort of learning or language, makes it his chief business to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right disposition; which, if once got, though all the rest should be neglected, would in due time produce all the rest; and which, if it be not got, and settled so as to keep out ill and vicious habitslanguages, and sciences, and all the other accomplishments of education, will be to no purpose but to make the worse or more dangerous man." THE RIGHT IMPROVEMENT OF HISTORY. The stories of Alexander and Cmesar, farther than they instruct us in the art of living well, and furnish us with observations of wisdom and prudence, are not one jot to be preferred to the history of Robin Hood, or the Seven Wise Masters. I do not deny but history is very useful, and very instructive of human life; but if it be studied only for the reputation of being an historian, it is a very empty thing; and he that can tell all the particulars of Herodotus and Plutarch, Curtius and Livy, without making any other use of them, may be an ignorant man with a good memory, and with all his pains hath only filled his head with Christmas tales. And, which is worse, the greatest part of history being made up of wars and conquests, and their style, especially the Romans, speaking of valor as the chief if not the only virtue, we are in 1 "Next in rank and in efficacy to that pure and holy source of moral influence-the mother-is that of the schoolmaster. It is powerful already. What would it be if, in every one of those schooIdistricts which we now count by annually increasing thousands, there were to be found one teacher well-informed without pedantry, religious without bigotry or fanaticism, proud and fond of his profession, and honored in the discharge of its duties I How wide would be the intellectual, the moral influence of such a body of men. But to raise up a body of such men, as numerous as the wants aind dignity of the country demand, their labors must be fitly remunerated, and themselves and their ealling cherished and honored."-Diacourse of Hon. Gulian C. Verplanock, of zNew York. 1702-1714.] LOCKE. 861 danger to be misled b) the general current and business of history; and, looking on Alexander and Ceesar, and such-like heroes, as the highest instances of human greatness, because they each of them caused the death of several hundred thousand men, and the ruin of a much greater number, overran a great part of the earth, and killed the inhabitants to possess themselves of their countries-we are apt to make butchery and rapine the chief marks and very essence of human greatness. And if civil history be a great dealer of it, and to many readers thus useless, curious and difficult inquirings in antiquity are much more so; and the exact dimensions of the Colossus, or figure of the Capitol, the ceremonies of the Greek and Roman marriages, or who it was that first coined money; these, I confess, set a man well off in the world, especially amongst the learned, but set him very little on in his way. * I shall only add one word, and then conclude: and that is, that whereas in the beginning. I cut off history from our study as a useless part, as certainly it is where it is read only as a tale that is told; here, on the other side, I recommend it to one who hath well settled in his mind the principles of morality, and knows how to make a judgment on the actions of men, as one of the most useful studies he can apply himself to. There he shall see a picture of the world and the nature of mankind, and so learn to think of men as they are. There he shall see the rise of opinions, and find from what slight and sometimes shameful occasions some of them have taken their rise, which yet afterwards have had great authority, and passed almost for sacred in the world, and borne down all before them. There, also, one may learn great and useful instructions of prudence, and be warned against the cheats and rogueries of the world, with many more advantages which [ shall not here enumerate. ORTHODOXY AND HERESY. The great division among Christians is about opinions. Every sect has its set of them, and that is called Orthodoxy; and he that professes his assent to them, though with an implicit faith, and without examining, is orthodox, and in the way to salvation. But if he examines, and thereupon questions any one of them, he is presently suspected of heresy; and if he oppose them or hold the contrary, he is presently condemned as in a damnable error, and in the sure way to perdition. Of this, one may say, that there is nor can be nothing more wrong. For he that examines, and upon a fair examination embraces an error for a truth, has done his duty more than he who embraces the profession (for the truths themselves he does not embrace) of the truth, without having examined whether it be true or no. And he that has-done his duty accord31 362 SOUTH. [GEORGE I. ing to the best of his ability, is certainly more in the way to heaven than he who has done nothing of it. For if it be our duty to search after truth, he certainly that has searched after it, though he has not found it, in some points has paid a more acceptable obedience to the will of his Maker, than he that has not searched at all, but professes to have found truth, when he has neither searched nor found it. For he that takes up the opinions of any church in the lump, without examining them, has truly neither searched after nor found truth, but has only found those that he thinks have found truth, and so receives what they say with an implicit faith, and so pays them the homage that is due only to God, who cannot be deceived, nor deceive. In this way the several churches (in which, as one may observe, opinions are preferred to life, and orthodoxy is that which they are concerned for, and not morals) put the terms of salvation on that which the Author of our salvation does not put them in. The believing of a collection of certain propositions, which are called and esteemed fundamental articles, because it has pleased the compilers to put them into their confession of faith, is made the condition of salvation. DUTY OF PRESERVING I-IEALTH. If by gaining knowledge we destroy our health, we labor for a thing that will be useless in our hands; and if, by harassing our bodies, (though with a design to render ourselves more useful,) we deprive ourselves of the abilities and opportunities of doing that good we might have done with a meaner talent, which God thought sufficient for us, by having denied us the strength to improve it to that pitch which men of stronger constitutions can attain to, we rob God of so much service, and our neighbor of all that help which, in a state of health, with moderate knowledge, we might have been able to perform. He that sinks his vessel by overloading it, though it be with gold, and silver, and precious stones, will give his owner but an ill account of his voyage. ROBERT SOUTH. 1633-1716. Dit. ROBERT SOUTH, a divine celebrated for his wit as well as his learning was born at Hackney, in Middlesex, in 1633, being the son of a London merchant. Hie entered Westminster school, under Dr. Bushy, in 1647, and on the day of the execution of Charles I., (January 20, 1649,) he read the Latin prayers in the school, and prayed for his majesty by name; apparently an indication that even then he had embraced those principles of attachment to the estabiished form of government, in church and state, of which he was through all his life a most strenuous and able champion. In one of his sermons, for instance, he maintains that "akings are endowed with more than ordinary sagacity ard quickness of understanding; they have a singular courage and 171.4-1727.] SOUTH. 363 presence of mind in cases of difficulty; and their hearts are disposed to virtu. ous courses." One is astonished that a man of learning and sense could be so blinded by party feeling as to utter such sentiments. But he was exceedingly violent in his feelings, continuing through life to pour forth upon all sects that dissentel from the church of England, as well as upon all who doubted the (" divine right" of kings to rule their subjects with unrestricted sway, his inexhaustible sarcasm, ridicule, and contempt. He died in 1716. As a writer, Dr. South is conspicuous for good practical sense, for a deep insight into human character, for liveliness of imagination, and exuberant invention, and for a wit that knew not always the limit of propriety. In perspicuity, copiousness, and force of expression, he has few superiors among English writers; which qualities fully compensate for the " forced conceits, unnatural metaphors, and turgid and verbose language which occasionally disfigure his pages." THE WILL FOR THE DEED. The third instance in which men used to plead the will instead of the deed, shall be in duties of cost and expense. Let a business of expensive charity be proposed; and then, as I showed before, that, in matters of labor, the lazy person could find no hands wherewith to work; so neither, in this case, can the religious miser find any hands wherewith to give. It is wonderful to consider how a command or call to be liberal, either upon a civil or religious account, all of a sudden impoverishes the rich, breaks the merchant, shuts up every private man's exchequer, and makes those men in a minute have nothing, who, at the very same instant, want nothing to spend. So that, instead of relieving the poor, such a command strangely increases their number, and transforms rich men into beggars presently. For, let the danger of their prince and country knock at their purses, and call upon them to contribute against a public enemy or calamity, then immediately they have nothing, and their riches upon such occasions (as Solomon expresses it) never fail to make thenmselves wings, and fly away. But do men in good earnest think that God will be put off so. or can they imagine that the law of God will be baffled w.ith a lie clothed in a scoff? For such pretences are no better, as appears from that notab!e account given us by the apostle of this windy, insignificant charity of the will, and of the worthlessness of it, not enlivened by deeds. " If a brother or a sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit " Profit, does he say? Why, it profits just as much as fair words command the market, as good wishes buy food and raiment, ard pass for current payment in the shops. 1 Read-an article in "Retrospecti,e Review," ix. 291. 364 SOUTH. [GEORGE I. Come we now to a rich old pretender to godliness, and tell him that there is such a one, a man of good family, good education, and who has lost all his estate for the kingc, now ready to rot in prison for debt; come, what will you give towards his release 1 Why, then answers the will instead of the deed, as much the readier speaker of the two, c" The truth is, I always had a respect for such men; I love them with all my heart; and it is a thousand pities that any that had served the king so faithfully should be in such want." So say I too, and the more shame is it for the whole nation that they should be so. But still, what will you give? Why, then, answers the man of mouth-charity again, and tells you that "you could not come in a worse time; that now-a-days' money is very scarce with him, and that therefore he can give nothing; but he will be sure to pray for the poor gentleman." Ah, thou hypocrite! when thy brother has lost all that ever he had, and lies languishing, and even gasping under the utmost extremities of poverty and distress, dost thou think thus to lick him up again only with thy tongue? Just like that old formal hocus, who denied a beggar a farthing, and put him off with his blessing. Why, what are the prayers of a covetous wretch worth? what will thy blessing go'for? what will it buy? Is this the charity that the apostle here, in the text, presses upon the Corinthians?i This the case in which God accepts the willingness of the mind instead of the liberality of the purse? No, assuredly; but the measures that God marks out to thy charity are these: thy superfluities must give place to thy neighbor's great convenience; thy convenience must veil thy neighbor's necessity; and, lastly, thy very necessities must yield to thy neighbor's extremity. COVETOUSNESS. Of covetousness we may truly say, that it makes both the Alpha and Omega in the devil's alphabet, and that it is the first vice in corrupt nature which moves, and the last which dies. For look upon any infant, and as 5oon as it can but move a hand, we shall see it reaching out after something or other which it should not have; and he who does not know it to be.the proper and peculiar sin of old age, seems himself to have the dotage of that age upon him, whether he has the years or no. The covetous person lives as if the world were made altogether for him, and not he for the world, to take in every thing, and to part with nothing. Charity is accounted no grace with him, nor gratitude any virtue. The cries of the poor never enter into hi-, ears; or if they do, he has always one ear readier to let them out than the other to take them in. In a word, by his rapines and 1 " For if there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath and not accordtnit to that he hath ilot."-2 Cor. viii. 12. 1714-1727.] SOLTIL. 365 extortions, he is always for making as many poor as he can, but for relieving none whom he either finds or makes so. So that it is a question, whether his heart be harder, or his fist closer. In a word, he is a pest and a monster: greedier than the sea, and barrener than the shore. THE GLORY OF THE CLERGY. God is the fountain of honor; and the conduit by which he conveys it to the sons of men are virtues and generous practices. Some, indeed, may please and promise themselves high matters from full revenues, stately palaces, court interests, and great deoendences. But that which makes the clergy glorious, is to be:snowing in their profession, unspotted in their lives, active and aborious in their charges, bold and resolute in opposing seducers, and daring to look vice in the face, though never so potent and llustrious.l And, lastly, to be gentle, courteous, and compassionate to all. These are our robes and our maces, our escutcheons and highest titles of honor. THE PLEASURES OF AMUSEMENT AND INDUSTRY COMPARED. Nor is that man less deceived that thinks to maintain a constant tenure of pleasure by a continual pursuit of sports and recreations. The most voluptuous and loose person breathing, were he but tied to follow his hawks and his hounds, his dice and his courtships every day, would find it the greatest torment and calamity that could befall him; he would fly to the mines and galleys for his recreation, and to the spade and the mattock for a diversion from the misery of a continual unintermitted pleasure. But, on the contrary, the providence of God has so ordered the course of things, that there is no action, the usefulness of which has made:t the matter of duty and of a profession, but a man may bear the continual pursuit of it without loathing and satiety. The same shop and trade that employs a man in his youth, employs him also n his age. Every morning he rises fresh to his hammer andl;'nvil; he passes the day singing; custom has naturalized his labor to him; his shop is his element, and he cannot with any enjoyment of himself live out of it. THE EYE OF CONSCIENCE. That the eye of conscience may be always quick and lively, let constant use be sure to keep it constantly open, and thereby ready 1 This is in accordance with Ezekiel xxxiii. 1-6. The ancient prophets, faithful and fearless men, thinking more of " the heathen" at home than "the heathen" abroad, did rot reprove the Jews for the sins of the people of Kamtschatka; but it was, ", wash You, make You clean; put away the evil of YOUR doings; seek justice; break every yoke; loose the bands or wickedness, and let the oppressed go free," &c. Whenever and wherever the pulpit is silent on great national sins, it is false to its high and holy trust. Even bad men will respect faithfulness more than e time-servills silence. 366 PARNELL. [GEORGE i. and prepared to admit and let in those heavenly beams which are always streaming forth from God upon minds fitted to receive them. And to this purpose let a man fly from every thing which may leave either a foulness or a bias upon it; let him dread every gross act of sin; for one great stab may as certainly and speedily destroy life as forty lesser wounds. Let him carry a jealous eye over every growing habit of sin: let him keep aloof from all commerce and fellowship with any vicious and base affection, especially from all sensuality: let him keep himself untouched with the hellish, unhallowed heats of lust and the noisome steams and exhalations of intemperance: let him bear himself above that sordid and low thing, that utter contradiction to all greatness of mindcovetousness: let him disenslave himself from the pelf of the world, from that amor sceleratus habendi.' Lastly, let him learn so to look upon the honors, the pomp, and greatness of the world, as to look through them. Fools indeed are apt to be blown up by them and to sacrifice all for them: sometimes venturing their heads only to get a feather in their caps. THOMAS PARNELL. 1679-1717. TaoMAs PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679. After receiving the ele ments of education at a grammar-school, he was admitted to the University of Dublin; after leaving which he was ordained a deacon, in 1700, and in fivr years afterwards, he was promoted to the archdeaconry of Clogher. Up to this time he had sided with the Tory party, but now found it convenient to change his politics; he therefore went over to the Whigs, who received him with open arms, deeming him a valuable auxiliary to their cause. Parnell endeavored to recommend himself by his eloquence in the pulpits of London, but from the new ministry he received nothing more substantial than caresses and empty protestations. To imlbitter his disappointment, he lost, in 1712, his amiable wife, to whom he was affectionately devoted. His private friends, however, were not unmindful of his interests, and obtained for him a vicarage in the vicinity of Dublin, worth ~400 per annum: but he did not live long to enjoy his promotion. He died in 1717, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. "' The compass of Parnell's poetry is not extensive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful: not from mere correctness of expression, to which some critics have stinted its praises, but from the graceful and reserved sensibility that accompanied his polished phraseology. The studied happiness of his diction dloes not spoil its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that has been trained and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its culturec state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air."2 The poem by which Parnell is chiefly known, is i" The Hermit," which has always been a favorite with every class of readers. It is a revolving pantrama of beautiful pictures, each perfect in itself. But the story is not original, as it appeared as early as the fifteenth century in a collection of tales entitled 1 That wicked love of acquisition. 2 Campbell. 1714-1727.] PARNELL. 367 the " Gesta RomanoruLn," and we present the v'adbr with the analysis of it below, as given byWarton in his Historyof Eng s3h Poetry.' The poem,however, is too long for our limits, and no extracts woln'd do it justice; but we will give a few lines to show its style. The last instasrce of the angel's seeming injustice, is that of pushing the guide from the bridge into the river. At this the Hermit is unable to suppress his indignation: Wild sparkling rage inflames the Father's eyes; He bursts the bonds of fear, and madly cries, "Detested wretch!"-but scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odors fill the purple air; And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes -display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Another very interesting piece of Parnell's is his ballad, "Edwin of the Green, a fairy tale, in the ancient English style:" but its length excludes it 1 A devout hermit lived in a cave, near which a shepherd folded his flock. Many of the sheep being stolen, the shepherd was unjustly killed by his master, as being concerned in the theft. The hermit, seeing an innocent man put to death, began to suspect the existence of a Divine Providence, and resolved no longer to perplex himself with the useless severities of religion, but to mix in the world. In travelling from his retirement, he was met by an angel in the figure of a man, who said, "I am an angel, and am sent by God to be your companion on the road." They entered a city, and begged for lodging at the house of a knight, who entertained them at a splendid supper. In the night, the angel rose from his bed and strangled the knight's only child, who was asleep in the cradle. The hermit was astonished at this barbarous return for so much hospitality, but was afraid to mlake any rensonstrance to his companion. Next morning they went to another city. Here they were liberally received in the house of an opulent citizen; but in the night the angel rose, and stole a golden cup of inestimable value. The hermit now concluded that his companion was a bad angel. In travelling forward the next morning, they passed over a bridge, about the middle of which they mnet a poor man, of whom the angel asked the way to the next city. Having received the desired information, the angel pushed the poor man into the water, where he was immediately drowned. In the evening they arrived at the house of a rich man, and begging for a lodging, were ordered to sleep in a shed with the cattle. In the morning the angel gave the rich man the cup which he had stolen. Tile hermit, amazed that the cup which was stolen from their friend and benefactor should be given to one who refused them a lodging, began to be now convinced that his companion was the devil; and begged to go on alone. But the angel said, "Hear me, and depart. When you lived in your hermitage, a shepherd was killed by his master. He was innocent of the supposed offence; but had he not been then killed, he would have committed crimes in which he would have died impenitent. His master endeavors to atone for the murder, by dedicating the remainder of his days to alms and deeds of charity. I strangled the child of the knight. But know, that the father was so Intent on heaping up riches for his child, as to neglect those acts of public munificence for which he was before so distinguished, and to which he has now returned. I stole the golden cup of the hospitable citizen. But know, that from a life of the strictest temperance, he became, in consequence of possessing this cup, a perpetual drunkard, and is now the miost abstemious of men. I threw the poor man into the water. He was then honest and religious. But know, had he walked one half of a mile further, lie would have murdered a man in a state of mortal sin. I gave the golden cup to the rich man, who refused to take us within lhis roof. He has therefore received his reward in this world, and in the next wilt suffer the pains of sell for his inhospitality." The hermit fell prostrate at the angel's feet, ansd, requesting forgiveness, returned to lsis hermlitage, fully,ss nvinced of the wisdomn and justice of God's government. 868 PARNELL. [GEORGE I. from our pages. The following very beautiful " Hymn to Contentment" will, however, give a very good idea of this author's mannerHYMN TO CONTENTMENT. Lovely, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favorites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, 0 whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head; What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and easel Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Increasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way, Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground: Or in a soul exalted high, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All Nature in its forms below; The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last for knowledge rise. Lovely. lasting peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, Ahd man contains it in his breast. Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wiahes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as they waved: It seenm'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of his grace. When thus she spoke-Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still, Know God-and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest. Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat, Might I thus my soul employ, 1714-1727.] PENN. 369 With sense of gratitude and joy: Raised as ancient prophets were, In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleased and bless'd with God alone: Then while the gardens take my sight, With all the colors of delight; While silver waters glide along, To please my ear, and court my song; I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, And thee, great Source of Nature, sing. The sun that walks his airy way, To light the world, and give the day; The moon that shines with borrow'd light; The stars that gild the gloomy night; The seas that roll unnumnber'd waves; The wood that spreads its shady leave,; The field whose ears conceal the grain The yellow treasure of the plain; All of these, and all I see, Should be sung, and sung by me: They speak their Maker as they can, But want and ask the tongue of man. Go search among your idle dreams, Your busy or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this. WILLIAM PENN. 1644-1718. WE come now to one of the purest and most exalted characters Atn the page of history;-to one who laid the foundation of a great state in the strictest justice and equity; established the utmost freedom of conscience in religion; and demonstrated to the world that the most potent weapons to subdue the savage heart, are the peace principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. William Penn, the only son of Admiral Penn, was born in London, October 14, 1644. His early education was very carefully attended to, and in 1660 he entered Oxford University. His first bias towards the doctrines of the Society of Friends was produced by the preaching of Thomlas Loe, the effect of which was, that Penn and some of his fellow-students withdrew from attendance on the public worship of the established church, and hleld private prayer meetings. They were fined by the college, but this did not deter them. The principles which he adopted displeased his father very much, who repeatedly banished him froim his house; but when it appeared that lisi son's opinions were unalterable, a reconciliation took place between thern. In 1668, he began to preach, and also published his first work, " Truth Ex. alted." Like many others of the early Friends, Penn was repeatedly thrown into prison; and during his confinement in the Tower of London, he wrote his most popular work,,"No Cross, no Crown," —an able exposition of the views of his society. In 1670 the Conventicle act was passed; and Penn was one of the first sufferers under it. He was tried for preaching to what was called "a riotous and seditious assembly;" but the jury, in opposition to the 2A 370 PENN. [GEORGE I. direction of the bench, had the firmness and moral courage to give a verdict of acquittal. We now come to the most important event of Penn's life, —the establishment of the colcxny of Pennsylvania. In 1681 a large tract of country on the west side of the Delaware was granted by Charles II. to Penn and his heirs in consideration of a debt of ~16,000 due from the Crown to Admiral Penn, for money advanced for the service of the navy. He set sail from England in August, 1682, in the ship Welcome, and arrived at Newcastle on the 27th of October, where he was hailed with acclamations by the Swedes and Dutch already there. Thence the colony proceeded up the river, and in the latter end of the year located the town and borough of Philadelphia, "having a high and dry bank next to the water, with a shore ornamented with a fine view of pine trees growing upon it." Penn solemnly declared that he 9" came to the charge of the province for the Lord's sake." "9 I wanted," says he, " to afford an asylum to the good and oppressed of every nation. I aimed to form a government which might be an example. I desired to show men as free and happy as they could be. I had also kind views towards the Indians." In about two years Penn was called to return back to England; and from his intimacy with James II., he was enabled to procure the release of his Quaker brethren, of whom fourteen hundred and eighty were in prison at the accession of that monarch. Indeed he was perpetually engaged in deeds of kindness for his people, at the same time endeavoring to clear the way for his return, and to bring out his family to abide for life. But various obstacles hindered him from year to year, so that it was not till 1699 that he and his family embarked for America. They arrived in November, and were received with universal joy, on account of his known intention to stay for life. But in this intention he was overruled, partly by the owners of land in Pennsylvania, dwelling in England, who felt that Penn could plead their interests withe crown better than any other one; and partly by the female members of the family, who, after the style to which they had been accustomed, could not well bear the rude and unformed state of things in the new colony. He says in a letter to James Logan, July, 1701: "(I cannot prevail on my wife to stay, and still less with Tishe.1 I know not what to do." Accordingly he returned the latter part of that year; and after experiencing various vicissitudes, and especially the most heartless ingratitude from those whom he had most served, he died at his seat in Ruscombe, in Berkshire, July 30, 1718. Penn was the author of numerous works, which were collected and published in 1726, in two volumes, folio. Besides the many able works in defence of the religious views of his sect, he wrote others which would be considered of more general interest. Of these are his " Reflections and Maxims relating to the Conduct of Life." It is doubtful whether any other work of the size can be found, containing so much sound, practical wisdom. The following is the preface to the same.PREFACE TO HIS ";MAXIMS." Reader, this Enchiridion' I present thee with, is the fruit of solitude: a school few care to learn in, though none instruct us better. Some parts of it are the result of serious reflection, others 1 Ris daughter Letitia. 2 A Greek word, compounded of en (sv), "in," and cheir (XOp), "the hand," and corresponds to our word "manual." See the same word in the selections front Quarles, page 188. 1714-1727.] PENN. 3t the flashings of lucid intervals, written for private satisfaction, and now published for a help to human conduct. The author blesseth God for his retirement, and kisses that gentle hand which led him into it: for though it should prove barren to the world, it can never do so to him. He has now had some time he could call his own, a property he was never so much master of before: in which he has taken a view of himself and the world; and observed wherein he hath hit and missed the mark; what might have been done, what mended, and what avoided in his human conduct: together with the omissions and excesses of others, as well societies and governments, as private families and persons. And he verily thinks, were he to live over his life again, he could not only, with God's grace, serve him, but his neighbor and himself, better than he hath done, and have, seven years of his time to spare. And yet, perhaps, he hath not been the worst or the idlest man in the world; nor is he the oldest. And this is the rather said, that it might quicken thee, reader, to lose none of the time that is yet thine. There is nothing of which we are apt to be so lavish as of time, and about which we ought to be more solicitous; since without it we can do nothing in this world. Time is what we want most, but what, alas! we use worst; and for which God will certainly most strictly reckon with us, when time shall be no more. It is of that moment to us in reference to both worlds, that I can hardly wish any man better, than that he would seriously consider what he does with his time; how and to what end he employs it; and what returns he makes to God, his neighbor, and himself for it. Will he never have a ledger for this; this, the greatest wisdom and work of life? To come but once into the world, and trifle away our true enjoyment of it, and of ourselves in it, is lamentable indeed. This one reflection would yield a thinking person great instruction. And, since nothing below man can so think, man in being thoughtless must needs fall below himself. And that, to be sure, such do, as are unconcerned in the use of their most precious time. This is but too evident, if we will allow ourselves to consider, that there is hardly any thing we take by the right end, or improve to its just advantage. We understand little of the works of God, either in nature or grace. We pursue false knowledge, and mistake education ex*. tremely. We are violent in our affections; confused and imme-. thodical in our whole life; making that a burden which was given for a blessing; and so of little comfort to ourselves or others! misapprehending the true notion of happiness, and so missing o' the right use of life, and way of happy living. 372 PENN. [GEORGE I. And until we are persuaded to stop, and step a little aside, out of the noisy crowd and encumbering hurry of the world, and calmly take a prospect of things, it will be impossible we should be able to make a right judgment of ourselves, or know our own misery. But after we have made the just reckonings, which retirement will help -us to, we shall begin to think the world in great measure mad, and that we have been in a sort of Bedlam all this while. Reader, whether young or old, think it not too soon or too late to turn over the leaves of thy past life; and be sure to fold down where any passage of it may affect thee; and bestow thy remainder of time, to correct those faults in thy future conduct, be it in relation to this or the next life. What thou wouldst do, if what thou hast done were to do again, be sure to do as long as thou livest, upon the like occasions. Our resolutions seem to be vigorous as often as we reflect upon our past errors; but, alas! they are apt to flag again upon fresh temptations to the same things. The author does not pretend to deliver thee an exact piece; his business not being ostentation, but charity. It is miscellaneous in the matter of it, and by no means artificial in the composure. But it contains hints, that may serve thee for texts to preach to thyself upon, and which comprehend much of the course of human life: since whether thou art parent or child, prince or subject, master or servant, single or married, public or private, mean or honorable, rich or poor, prosperous or unprosperous, in peace or controversy, in business or solitude; whatever be thy inclination or aversion, practice or duty, thou wilt find something not unsuitably said for thy direction and advantage. Accept and improve what deserves thy notice; the rest excuse, and place to account of good-will to thee and the whole creation of God. PENN S ADVICE TO HIS CHILDREN.1 Next, betake yourself to some honest, industrious course of life, and that not of sordid covetousness, but for example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change your condition and marry, choose with the knowledge and consent of your mother, if living, or of guardians, or those that have the charge of you. Mind neither beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable disposition, such as you can love above all this world, and that may make your habitations pleasant and desirable to you. And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and meek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and he will bless you and your offspring. Be sure to live within compass; borrow not, neither be X Read, espicially, " Life by Samuel M. Janney," undoubtedly the life of Penn. Also, an admirable " Discourse on the Virtues and Public Services of William Penn," by Albert Barnes. 1714-1727.] PENN. 373 beholden to any. Ruin not yourselves by kindness to others; for that exceeds the due bounds of friendship, neither will a true friend expect it. Small matters I heed not. Let your industry and parsimony go no further than for a suffi. ciency for life, and to make a provision for your children, and that in moderation, if the Lord gives you any. I charge you help the poor and needy; let the Lord have a voluntary share of your income for the good of the poor, both in our society and others; for we are all his creatures; remembering that i" he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord." Know well your incomings, and your outgoings may be better regulated. Love not money nor the world: use them only, and they will serve you; but if you love them you serve them, which will debase your spirits as well as offend the Lord. Pity the distressed, and hold out a hand of help to them; it may be your case, and as you mete to others, God will mete to you again. Be humble and gentle in your conversation; of few words I charge you, but always pertinent when you speak, hearing out before you attempt to answer, and then speaking as if you would persuade, not impose. Affront none, neither revenge the affronts that are done to you; but forgive, and you shall be forgiven of your heavenly Father. In making friends, consider well first; and when you are fixed, be true, not wavering by reports, nor deserting in affliction, for that becomes not the good and virtuous. Watch against anger; neither speak nor act in it; for, like drunkenness, it makes a man a beast, and throws people into desperate inconveniences. Avoid flatterers, for they are thieves in disguise; their praise is costly, designing to get by those they bespeak; they are the worst of creatures; they lie to flatter, and flatter to cheat; and, which is worse, if you believe them, you cheat yourselves most dangerously. But the virtuous, though poor, love, cherish, and prefer. Remember David, who, asking the Lord, " Who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell upon thy holy hill?" answers, "He that walketh uprightly, worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart; in whose eyes the vile person is contemned, but honoreth them who fear the Lord." Next, my children, be temperate in all things: in your diet, for that is physic by prevention; it keeps, nay, it makes people healthy, and their generation sound. This is exclusive of the spiritual advantage it brings. Be also plain in your apparel, keep out that lust which reigns too much over some; let your virtues be your ornaments, remembering life is more than food, and the body than raiment; Let your furniture be simple and 32 374 ADDISON. [GEORGEc I. cheap. Avoid pride, avarice, and luxury. Read my " No Cross, no Crown." There is instruction. Make your conversation with the most eminent for wisdom and piety, and shun all wicked men as you hope for the blessing of God and the comfort of your father's living and dying prayers. Be sure you speak no evil of any, no, not of the meanest; much less of your superiors, as magistrates, guardians, tutors, teachers, and elders in Christ. Be no busybodies; meddle not with other folk's matters, but when in conscience and duty pressed; for it procures trouble, and is ill manners, and very unseemly to wise men. In your families remember Abraham, Moses, and Joshua, their integrity to the Lord, and do as you have them for your examples. Let the fear and service -of the living God be encouraged in your houses, and that plainness, sobriety, and moderation in all things, as becometh God's chosen people; and as I advise you, my beloved children, do you counsel yours, if God should give you any. Yea, I counsel and command- them as my posterity, that they love and serve the Lord God with an upright heart, that he may bless you and yours from generation to generation. And as for you, who are likely to be concerned in the government of Pennsylvania and my parts of East Jersey, especially the first, I do charge you before the Lord God and his holy angels, that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing God, loving the people, and hating covetousness. Let justice have its impartial course, and the law free passage. Though to your loss, protect no man against it; for you are not above the law, but the law above you. Live, therefore, the lives yourselves you would have the people live, and then you have right and boldness to punish the transgressor. Keep upon the square, for God sees you: therefore, do your duty, and be sure you see with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears. Entertain no lurchers, cherish no informers for gain or revenge, use no tricks, fly to no devices to support or cover injustice; but let your hearts be upright before the Lord, trusting in him above the contrivances of men, and none shall be able to hurt or supplant. JOSEPH ADDISON. 1672-1719. JOSEPH ADDIsoN, one of the brightest names in English literature, was born at Milston, in Wiltshire, of which place his father was rector, on the 1st of MVLay, 1672. After the usual course of study, he entered the University of )xlford, at the age of fifteen. Here he devoted himself with great assiduity to ciassica. studies, the fruits of which were soon seen in a small volume of Latin poems, which attracted considerable attention. In his twenty-second year he addressed some verses to Mr. Dryden, which procured him the notice 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 375 and approbation of that poet, for whom he afterwards wrote a prefatory "Essay on the Georgics," which Dryden prefixed to his translation in 1697. Before this, however, he had become acquainted with that distinguished patron of letters, Lord Keeper Somers, who, in 1699, procured for him a pension of ~300 a year, to enable him to travel in Italy. In this classic land he composed his Epistle to Lord Halifax, one of his best poetical productions, his "Dialogue on Medals," and the greater part of his c"Cato." Soon after his return he published his travels in Italy, dedicated to his patron, Lord Somers illustrative chiefly of the classical associations of that renowned land. The change of the administration in 1702 deprived Addison of his pen sion; and he had lived more than two years in retirement when he was requested by one of the ministry to write a poem in praise of the victory of Blenheim, gained by the Duke of Marlborough, in August, 1704. He did so, and before the year closed, appeared the "' Campaign,"'l which procured for him the office of under-secretary of state. In 1709 he went to Ireland as secretary to the lord-lieutenant, and while here, on the 12th of April (O. S.) of that year, appeared the first number of "The Tatler." When the sixth number of this appeared, Addison knew that the author was his friend Sir Richard Steele, frbm a critical remark which he had privately made to him alone,2 and he therefore immediately took a very active part in the conduct of this periodical.s The " Tatler" had scarcely terminated, when Addison formed the plan of that work on which his fame chiefly rests-the ", Spectator."4 The essays in it most valuable for humor, invention, and precept, are the product of his pen, and it soon became the most popular work England had produced. So great was its reputation, that sometimes twenty thousand copies of a number were sold in one day. It travelled through every part of the kingdom, and was 1 Warton has not too severely called this poem "a Gazette in Rhyme." How infinitely superior for its fine moral tone, as well as for its pathos and poetry, is that touching ballad of Southey's, on the same subject; the last verse of which reads thus:And everybody praised the Duke, Who this great fight did win: "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, " But'twas a famous victory." 2 The critical remark which Addison made to Steele was upon the hero of the 2Eneid, which Steele gives as follows:" Virgil's common epithet to iEneas is Pius or Pater. I have therefore considered what passage there is in any of his hero's actions where either of these appellations would have been most improper;-and this, I think, is his meeting with Dido in the cave, where Pius lEneas would have been absurd, and Pater MJneas a burlesque: the poet therefore wisely dropped them both for Dux Trqjanus; which he has repeated twice in Juno's speech and his own narration: for he very well knew a loose action might be consistent enough with the usual manners of a soldier, though it became neither the chastity of a pious man, nor the gravity of the father of a people." 3 The Tatler may be considered as the father of English periodical literature. It was published every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, from the 12th of April, 1709, to the 2d of January, 1711. Of the 271 papers, Steele wrote 188; Addison, 42; Steele and Addison jointly, 36; Swift and Addison, 1' Hughes, 2; Swift, 1; Fuller, 1. 4 The Spectator was commenced on the 1st of March, 1711; and continued every day, Sundays excepted, till the Gth of December, 1712. The plan is founded upon the fiction of a club that assembles every Tuesday and Thursday, to carry on the publication. Of the 635 numbers, Addison wrote 274; Steele, 240; Budgell, 37; Hughes, 11; Grove, 4; Pope, Parnell, Pearce, Martyn, Byrom, 2 each; Swift, Brown, Francham, Dunlop, Hardwicke, Fleetwood, 1 each; and 53 were anonymous. Addisol's papers are designated by the letters of the word CLIO. 376 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. alike the recreation of the learned, the busy, and the idle. The "Spectator" was followed by the " Guardian," l which was commenced by Steele, but to which Addison largely contributed. In the mean time he published Ills tra gedy of " Cato," which met with unbounded popularity, being represented on the stage thirty-five nights successively; not, however, so much from its merits as a tragedy, as from the noble sentiments of liberty which it breathes through. out, and which, in those times of great political excitement, each party, the Whig and the Tory, wished to appropriate to itself.2 In 1716, Addison married the Countess of Warwick, who was, in every respect, vastly his inferior, except in the adventitious circumstance of fanmily rank, which in England is of c" wondrous potency." " In point of intellect," says Dr. Drake, c"there could be no competition; and despicable must have been the ignorance of that woman who could for a moment suppose that the mere casualty of splendid birth entitled her to treat with contempt, and to arrogate a superiority over a man of exquisite genius and unsullied virtue." That she was the means of imbittering his life, and shortening his days, there is no doubt. He had long been subject to an asthmatic affection, and it soon became evident that the hour of his dissolution could not be far distant c" The death-bed of Addison was the triumph of religion and virtue. Reposing on the merits of his Redeemer, and conscious of a life well spent in the service of his fellow-creatures, he waited with tranquillity and resignation the moment of departure. The dying accents of the virtuous man have frequently, when other means have failed, produced the happiest effect; and Addison, anxious that a scene so awful might make its due impression, demanded the attendance of his son-in-law, Lord Warwick. This young noble. man was amiable, but dissipated; and Addison had often, though in vain, endeavored to correct his principles, and to curb the impetuosity of his passions. He came, says Dr. Young, who first related the affecting circumstance; but life was now glimmering in the socket, and the dying friend was silent. After a decent and proper pause, the youth said, Dear sir, you sent for me; I believe, I hope you have some commands; I shall hold them most sacred.' May distant ages not only hear but feel the reply. Forcibly grasping the youth's hand, he softly said,' SEE IN WHAT PEACE A CHRISTIAN CAN DIE;'3 and soon after expired, on the 17th of June, 1719."4 Of the merits of Addison as a writer, there never has been but one opinion among the critics. Mr. Melmoth says of him, "c In a word, one may justly 1 The first number of the Guardian was published on the 12th of March, and the last on the 1st of October, 1713. Of the 176 numbers, Steele wrote 82; Addison, 53; Berkeley, 14; Pope, 8; Tickell, 7; Budgell, Hughes, and Parnell, 2 each; Gay, Young, Philips, Wotton, Birch, Bartlett, 1 each. 2 ", The tragedy of Cato," says Dr. Warton, "is a glaring instance of the force of party. So sententious and declamatory a drama would never have met with such rapid success, if every line and sentiment had not been particularly tortured and applied to recent events. It is a fine dialogue on liberty and the love of one's country, but considered as a dramatic performance it wants action and pathos, the two hinges on which a just tragedy ought to turn, and without which it cannot subsist." Dr. Johnson has censured it as a " dialogue too declanmatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy,"-the very terms most applicable to his own tragedy "LJaRNE:." "O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us.' -Buras. d Tickeli told Dr young, that in the following couplet of his elegy on the death of Addison, he allUuded to this interview with the Earl of Warwick:"He taught us how to live, and oh, too high The price of knowledge, taught us how to die." 4 Read-an admirable sketch of Addison's life in Drake's Essays, vol. i. Also an article in the Edino-urgli Review, July 1843, ands in Macaulay's Miscellanies, vol. v. p. 82: also, Life by Lucy Alkin. 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 377 apply to him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of Aristophanes, that the Graces, having searched all the world for a temple wherein they might for ever dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison." Il Dr. Young is no less emphatic in his praise. "c Addison wrote little in verse, mruch in sweet, elegant, Virgilian prose; so let me call it, since Longinus calls Herodotus most Homeric; and Thucydides is said to have formed his style on Pindar. Addison's compositions are built with the finest materials, in the taste of the ancients. I never read him, but I am struck with such a disheartening idea of perfection, that I drop my pen. And, indeed, far superior writers should forget his compositions, if they would be greatly pleased with their own." 2 And Dr. Johnson remarks: c "Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison."3 As a writer, Addison may be considered as excelling in four departments, namely, in Criticism, in Humor, in Fable and Allegory, and in Instructive Morality. As a critic, he was the first to call the attention of the public to the rich mine of wealth to be found in Milton.4 His Essays on the Pleasures of the Imaginations are well known as being the foundation of Akenside's fine poem on the same subject. Numerous single papers, also, on different subjects of criticism, are scattered throughout the Spectator; such as, those on the English Language,6 on Ancient and Modern Literature, on Pope's Essay on Criticism,7 on old English Ballads,8 &c. The concluding part of a paper on Irregular Genius,9 we must here insert, as being an encomium on Shakspeare, "which, for its singularly happy imagery, may set competition at defiance." SHAKSPEARE. Our inimitable Shakspeare is a stumbling-block to the whole tribe of rigid critics. Who would not rather read one of his plays, where there is not a single rule of the stage observed, than any production of a modern critic, where there is not one of them violated! Shakspeare was indeed born with all the seeds of poetry, and may be compared to the stone in Pyrrhus's ring, which, as Pliny tells us, had the figure of Apollo and the nine Muses in the veins of it, produced by the spontaneous hand of nature, without any help from art. In refined and delicate humor, Addison has no superior, if he has any equal, in English prose literature.'0 The following may be taken as specimens: 1 Fitzosborne's Letters, Letter XXIX. 2 Observations on Original Composition. 3 This excellence was not attained without great labor. "I have been informed that Addison was so extremely nice in polishing his prose compositions, that, when almost the whole impression of a Spectator was worked off, he would stop the press to insert a new preposition or conjunction." Warton's "Pope," i. 152. Read-Johnson's Life of Addison, in his "Lives of the Poets;" also, Dr. Blair's criticisms, in the 19th Lecture; and Knox's Essays, Nos. 28 and 106. 4 Spectator, Nos. 262, 267, 273, and so on for sixteen more numbers, every Saturday. See page s40, for Sir Egerton Brydges's criticisms on these numbers. 5 Spectators, Nos. 411-421. 6 No. 135. 7 No. 253. 8 No. 85. 9 No. 592. 10 "His humor," says Dr. Johnson, "is so happily diffused'as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of nature, nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amuse by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of the mnagination."-Lives of the Poets. 32* 378 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. BICKERSTAFF LEARNING FENCING. I lhave upon my chamber-walls drawn at full length the figures of all sorts of men, from eight feet to three feet two inches. Within this height, I take it that all the fighting men of Great Britain are comprehended. But, as I push, I make allowances for my being of a lank and spare body, and have chalked out in every figure my own dimensions; for I scorn to rob any man of his life by taking advantage of his breadth: therefore, I press purely in a line down from his nose, and take no more of him to assault than he has of me: for, to speak impartially, if a lean fellow wounds a fat one in any part of the right or left, whether it be in carte or in tierce, beyond the dimensions of the said lean fellow's own breadth, I take it to be murder, and such a murder as is below a gentleman to commit. As I am spare, I am also very tall, and behave myself with relation to that advantage with the same punctilio; and I am ready to stoop or stand, according to the stature of my adversary. I must confess, I have had great success this morning, and have hit every figure round the room in a mortal part without receiving the least hurt, except a little scratch by falling on my face, in pushing at one, at the lower end of my chamber; but I recovered so quick, and jumped so nimbly into my guard, that, if he had been alive, he could not have hurt me.' It is confessed I have written against duels with some warmth; but in all my discourses I have not ever said that I knew how a gentleman could avoid a duel if he were provoked to it; and since that custom is now become a law, I know nothing but the legislative power, with new animadversions upon it, can put us in a capacity of denying challenges, though we were afterwards hanged for it. But no more of this at present. As things stand, I shall put up no more affronts; and I shall be so far from taking ill words, that I will not take ill looks. I, therefore, warn all hot young fellows not to look hereafter more terrible than their neighbors: for, if they stare at me with their hats cocked higher than other people, I will not bear it. Nay, I give warning to all people in general to look kindly at me; for I will bear no frowns, even from ladies; and if any woman pretends to look scornfully at me, I shall demand satisfaction of the next of kin of the masculine gender. Tatter, No. 93. ON THE USE OF THE FAN. I do not know whether to call the following letter a satire upon coquettes, or a representation of their several fantastical accomplishments, or what other title to give it; but, as it is, I shall communicate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, without either preface or postscript: 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 379 MR. SPECTATOR: Women are armed with fans as men with swords, and sometimes do more execution with them. To the end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of the weapon which they bear, I have erected an academy for the training up of young women in the exercise of the fan, according to the most fashionable airs and motions that are now practised at court. The ladies who carry fans under me are drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where they are instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised by the following words of command: —Handle your fans, Unfurl your fans, Discharge your fans, Ground your fans, Recover your fans, Flutter your fans. By the right observation of these few plain words of command, a woman of a tolerable genius, who will apply herself diligently to her exercise for the space of but one halfyear, shall be able to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into that little modish machine. But to the end that my readers may form to themselves a right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them in all its parts. When my female regiment is drawn up in array, with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving the word to Handle their fans, each of them shakes her fIin at me with a smile, then gives her right-hand woman a tap upon the shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of hei fan, then lets her arms fall in easy motion, and stands in readiness to receive the next word of command. All this is done with a close fan, and is generally learned in the first week. The next motion is that of unfurling the fan, in which are comprehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual and deliberate openings, with many voluntary failings asunder in the fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's practice. This part of the exercise pleases the spectators more than any other, as it discovers, on a sudden, an infinite number of cupids, garlands, altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like agreeable figures, that display themselves to view, whilst every one in the regiment holds a picture in her hand. Upon my giving the word to Discharge their fans, they give one general crack that may be heard at a considerable distance when the wind sits fair. This is one of the most difficult parts of the exercise, but I have several ladies with me, who at their first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to be heard at the farther end of the room, who can now discharge a fan in such a manner, that it shall make a report like a pocket-pistol. I have likewise taken care (in order to hinder young women from letting off their fans in wrong places, or on unsuitable occasions) to shlow upon what subject the crack of a fan may come in proper;y: 1 have likewise invented a fan, with wv hich a girl of sixteen, by the 880 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. help of a little wind, wh.ch is enclosed about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with an ordinary fan. When the fans are thus discharged, the word of command, in course, is to Ground their fans. This teaches a lady to quit her fan gracefully when she throws it aside in order to take up a pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a falling pin, or apply herself to any other matter of importance. This part of the exercise, as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long table, (which stands by for that purpose,) may be learned in two days' time as well as in a twelvemonth. When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let them walk about the room for some time; when, on a sudden, (like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit,) they all of them hasten to their arms, catch them -up in a hurry, and place themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out, Recover your fans. This part of the exercise is not difficult, provided a woman applies her thoughts to it. The fluttering of the fan is the last, and indeed the master-piece of the whole exercise; but if a lady does not mis-spend her time, she may make herself mistress of it in three months. I generally lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of the summer for the teaching this part of the exercise; for as soon as ever I pronounce, Flutter your fans, the place is filled with so many zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the year, though they might be dangerous to ladies of a tender constitution in any other. There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in the flutter of a fan. There is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry flutter, and the amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan; insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it; and at other times so very languishing, that I have been glad for the lady's sake the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need not add, that a fan is either a prude or coquette, according to the nature of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must acquaint you that I have from my own observations compiled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled, The Passions of the Fan; which I will communicate to you if you think it may be of use to the public. I shall have a general review on Thursday next; to which you shall be very welcome if you will honor it with your presence. I am, &c. 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 381 P. S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting a fan. N. B. I have several little plain fans made for this use, to avoid e xpense. Spectator, No. 102. THE LOVER S LEAP,. I shall in this paper discharge myself of the promise I have made to the public, by obliging them with a translation of the little Greek manuscript, which is said to have been a piece of those records that were preserved in the temple of Apollo, upon the promontory of Leucate. It is a short history of the Lover's Leap, and is inscribed, An account of persons, male and female, who offered up their vows in the temple of the Pythian Apollo in the forty-sixth Olympiad, and leaped from the promontory of Leucate into the Ionian Sea, in order to cure themselves of the passion of love. This account is very dry in many parts, as only mentioning the name of the lover who leaped, the person he leaped for, and relating, in short, that he was either cured, or killed, or maimed by the fall. It, indeed, gives the names of so many who died by it, that it would have looked like a bill of mortality, had I translated it at full length; I have, therefore, made an abridgment of it, and only extracted such particular passages as have something extraordinary, either in the case or in the cure, or in the fate of the person who is mentioned in it. After this short preface, take the account as follows: Battus, the son of Menalcas the Sicilian, leaped for Bombyca the musician: got rid of his passion with the loss of his right leg and arm, which were broken in the fall. Melissa, in love with Daphnis, very much bruised,.but escaped with life. Cynisca, the wife of,Eschines, being in love with Lycus; and iEschines her husband being in love with Eurilla, (which had made this married couple very uneasy to one another for several years;) both the husband and the wife took the leap by consent; they both of them escaped, and have lived very happily together ever since. Larissa, a virgin of Thessaly, deserted by Plexippus, after a courtship of three years; she stood upon the brow of the promontory for some time, and after having thrown down a ring, a bracelet, and a little picture, with other presents which she had received from Plexippus, she threw herself into the sea, and was taken up alive. N. B. Larissa, before she leaped, made an offering of a silver Cupid in the temple of Apollo. Aridaeus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love with PraxinoFi. the wife of Thespis; escaped without damage, saving only 882 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. that two of his fore-teeth were struck out and his nose a little flatted. Cleora, a widow of Ephesus, being inconsolable for the death of her husband, was resolved to take this leap in order to get rid of. her passion for his memory; but being arrived at the promontory, she there met with Dimmachus the Milesian, and after a short conversation with him, laid aside the thoughts of her leap, and married him in the temple of Apollo. N. B. Her widow's weeds are still seen hanging up in the western corner of the temple. Olphis, the fisherman, having received a box on the ear from Thestylis the day before, and being determined to have no more to do with her, leaped, and escaped with life. Atalanta, an old maid, whose cruelty had several years before driven two or three despairing lovers to this leap, being now in the fifty-fifth year of her age, and in love with an officer of Sparta, broke her neck in the fall. Tettyx, the dancing-master, in love with Olympia, an Athenian matron, threw himself from the rock with great agility, but was crippled in the fall. Diagoras, the usurer, in love with his cook-maid; he peeped several times over the precipice, but his heart misgiving him, he went back, and married her that evening. Eunica, a maid of Paphos, aged nineteen, in love with Eurybates. Hurt in the fall, but recovered. N. B. This was the second time of her leaping. Hesperus, a young man of Tarentum, in love with his master's daughter. Drowned, the boats not coming in soon enough to his relief. Sappho the Lesbian, in love with Phaon, arrived at the temple of Apollo habited like a bride, in garments as white as snow. She wore a garland of myrtle on her head, and carried in her hand the little musical instrument of her own invention. After having sung a hymn to Apollo, she hung up her garland on one side of his Lltar, and her harp on the other. She then tucked up her vestments like a Spartan virgin, and amidst thousands of spectators, who were anxious for her safety, and offered up vows for her deliverance, marched directly forwards to the utmost summit of the promontory, where, after having repeated a stanza of her own verses, which we could not hear, she threw herself off the rock with such an intrepidity as was never before observed in any who had attempted that dangerous leap. Many who were present related, that they saw her fall into the sea, from whence she never rose again; though there were others who affirmed that she never came to the bottom of her leap, but that she was changed into a swan as she fell, and that they saw her hovering in the air under 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 383 that shape. But whether or no the whiteness and fluttering of her garments might not deceive those who looked upon her, or whether she might not really be metamorphosed into that musical and nmelancholy bird, is still a doubt among the Lesbians. Alcaeus, the famous lyric poet, who had for some time been passionately in love with Sappho, arrived at the promontory of Leucate that very evening, in order to take the leap upon her account; but hearing that Sappho had been there before him, and that het body could be nowhere found, he very generously lamented her fall, and is said to have written his hundred and twenty-fifth ode upon that occasion. Leaped in this Olympiad, Males 124 Females 126 Total 250 Cured, " " " 51 " 69 " 120 Spectator, No. 233. DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD. A very wild, extravagant dream employed my fancy all the last night. I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a beau's head and a coquette's heart, which were both of them laid on a table before us. An imaginary operator opened the first with a great deal of nicety, which, upon a cursory and superficial view, appeared like the head of another man; but upon applying our glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what we looked upon as brains were not such in reality, but a heap of strange materials wound up in that shape and texture, and packed together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull. For, as Homer tells us, that the blood of the gods is not real blood, but only something like it; so we found that the brain of a beau is not a real brain, but only something like it. The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence and orange-flower water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mirrors, which were imperceptible to the naked eye, insomuch that the soul, if there had been any here, must have been always taken up in contemplating her own beauties. We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinciput,l that was filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery, wrought together in a most curious piece of net-work, the parts of which were likewise imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of these antrums or cavities was stuffed with invisible billet-doux, love-letters, pricked dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we found a kind of powder, which set the whole company a sneezing, and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The several other cells were stored with commodities of the same kind, of which it would be tedious to give the reader an exact inventory. 1 The fore part of the head. 384 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. There was a large cavity on each side of the head, which I must not omit. That on the right side was filled with fictions, flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, promises, and protestations: that on the left, with oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct from each of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue, where both joined together, and passed forward in one common duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads or canals running from the ear into the brain, and took particular care tah trace them out through their several passages. One of them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instruments. Others ended in several bladders which were filled either with wind or froth. But the large canal entered into a great cavity of the skull, from whence there went another canal into the tongue. This great cavity was filled with a kind of spongy substance, which the French anatomists call gallimatias, and the English nonsense. The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and thick, and, what very much surprised us, had not in them any single blood. vessel that we were able to discover, either with or without our glasses; from whence we concluded that the party, when alive, must have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing. The os cribriformel was exceedingly stuffed, and in some places damaged with snuff. We could not but take notice in particular of that small muscle which is not often discovered in dissection, and draws the nose upwards, when it expresses the contempt which the owner of it has, upon seeing any thing he does not like, or hearing any thing he does not understand. I need not tell my learned reader this is that muscle which performs the motion so often mentioned by the Latin poets, when they talk of a man's cocking his nose, or playing the rhinoceros. We did not find any thing very remarkable in the eye, saving only, that the musculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into English, the ogling muscles, were very much worn and decayed with use; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been used at all. We were informed, that the person to whom this head belonged, had passed for a man above five and thirty years; during which time he eat and drank like other people, dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, and on particular occasions had acquitted himself tolerably at a ball or an assembly; to which one of the company added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for a wit. He was cut off in the flower of his age by the blow of a paring shovel, having been surprised by an eminent citizen, as he was tendering some civilities to his wife. I That is, the "bone resembling a sieve," through which the fibres of the olfactory nerves pass to the nose 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 385 Our operator applied himself in the next place to the coquette's heart, which he likewise laid open with great dexterity. There occurred to us many particularities in this dissection; but being unwilling to burden my reader's memory too much, I shall reserve this subject for the speculation of another day. Spectator, No. 275. DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE'S HIEART. Having already given an account of the dissection of a beau'x head, with the several discoveries made on that occasion; I shall here, according to my promise, enter upon the dissection of a coquette's heart, and communicate to the public such particulars as we observed in that curious piece of anatomy. Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary dissection, told us, that there was nothing in his art more difficult than to lay open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the many labyrinths and recesses which are to be found in it, and which do not appear in the heart of any other animal. He desired us first of all to observe the pericardium, or outward case of the heart, which we did very attentively; and by the help of our glasses discerned in it millions of little scars, which seemed to have been occasioned by the points of innumerable darts and arrows, that from time to time had glanced upon the outward coat; though we could not discover the smallest orifice, by which any of them had entered and pierced the inward substance. Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the company assured us he himself had made with the thin, reddish liquor contained in the pericardium, which he found in great quantity about the heart of a coquette whom he had formerly dissected. He affirmed to us that he had actually enclosed it in a small tube made after the manner of a weather-glass; but that instead of acquainting him with the variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qualities of those persons who entered the room where it stood. He affirmed, also, that it rose at the approach of a plume of feathers, an embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves; and that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashionable coat came into his house. Nay, he proceeded so far as to assure us, that upon his laughing aloud when he stood by it, the liquor mounted very sensibly, and immediately sunk again upon his looking serious. In short, he told us, that he knew very well, by this invention, whenever he had a man of sense or a coxcomb in his room. Having cleared away the pericardiurn or the case, and liquor above mentioned, we came to the heart itself. The outward sur face of it was extremely slippery, and the mucro, or point, so very 2B 33 386 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. cold withal, that upon endeavoring to take hold of it, it glided through the fingers like a smooth piece of ice. The fibres were turned and twisted in a more intricate and perplexed manner than they are usually found in other hearts; insomuch that the whole heart was wound up together in a Gordian knot, and must have had very irregular and unequal motions, while it was employed in its vital function. Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to be extremely light, and consequently very hollow, which I did not wonder at, when, upon looking into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of cells and cavities running one within another, as our historians describe the apartments of Rosamond's bower. Several of these little hollows were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifles, which I shall forbear giving any particular account of, and shall therefore only take notice of what lay first and uppermost, which upon our unfolding it, and applying our microscopes to it, appeared to be a flame-colored hood. We are informed that the lady of this heart, when living, received the addresses of several who made love to her, and did not only give each of them encouragement, but made every one she conversed with believe that she regarded him with an eye of kindness; for which reason we expected to have seen the impressions of multitudes of faces among the several plaits and foldings of the heart: but to our great surprise not a single print of this nature discovered itself until we came into the very core and centre of it. We there observed a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic manner. The more I looked upon it, the more I thought I had seen the face before, but could not possibly recollect either the place or time; when at length, one of the company, who had examined this figure more nicely than the rest, showed us plainly, by the make of its face, and the several turns of its features, that the little idol which was thus lodged in the very middle of the heart was the deceased beau, whose head I gave some account of in my last Tuesday's paper. As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved to make an experiment of the heart, not being able to determine among ourselves the nature of its substance, which differed in so many particulars from that of the heart in other females. Accordingly we laid it in a pan of burning coals, when we observed in it a certain salamandrine quality, that made it capable of living in the midst of fire and flame, without being consumed, or so much a, singed. As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and standing round the heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious sigh, or rather 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 387 crack, and dispersed all at once in smoke and vapor. This imaginary noise, which methought was louder than the burst of a cannon, produced such a violent shake in my brain, that it dissipated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an instant broad awake. Spectator, No. 281. But of all the papers of Addison, none, for pure, graceful, delicate, genuine humor, are equal to the series which portray the character of Sir Roger de Coverley. Of that beautiful specimen of the old-fashioned English gentleman, of high honor, real benevolence, great goodness of heart, mixed up with eccentricities as amusing as they are harmless, Addison truly said 4" we are born for each other." It is true that Steele appears to have first conceived the character, in the second number of the Spectator, and gave some account of him in a few other numbers; but Addison very soon took it out of his friend's hands, who was hardly able to carry on the portraiture with that refinement which belonged to Addison's conception of the character. It is said that Addison killed Sir Roger, in the fear that some other hand would spoil him. Although no justice can be done to this rich series of papers by selections, yet we cannot refrain from giving two.' VISIT TO SIR ROGER IN THE COUNTRY. Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of mv ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober and staid persons; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him: by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet-de-chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest nlen that I hlave ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy-counsellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care 1 The following are the papers which relate to this charming character: No. 2, is his Character, by Steele:-No. 106, Visit to his Country Seat, by Addison: —No. 107, his Conduct to his Servants, by Steele:-No. 109, his Ancestors, by Steele:-No. 112, his Behavior at Church, by Addison:-No. 1153 his Disappointment in Love, by Steele:-No. 116, a Hunting Scene with Sir Roger, by Budgell; —No. 18, Sir Roger's Reflections on the Widow, by Steele: —and Nos. 122, 130, 269, 271, 329, 335, 383, and 517 containing an account of his death, all by Addison. 888 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years. I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with: on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend. My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation: he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependent. I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned? and without staying for my answer told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon. "My friend," says Sir' Roger, "' found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endow 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 389 ments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants his parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them; if,ny dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity." As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and upon the knight's asking him who preached to-morrow, (for it was Saturday night,) told us, the Bishop of St. Asaphl in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors who have published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would follow this example; and instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce wh;t has been penned by great masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people.2 Spectator, No. 10. 1 Dr. William Fleetwood. 2 What delicate and keen satire this, upon that class of clergymen, of whom Cowper, in a substquent age, more severely wrote: He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; tranmforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. —'Taek ii. 3162 a3d J 390 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. SIR ROGER AT CHURCH. I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon different subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the'Change, the whole parish-politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings. My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book: and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms; upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes, he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind 1.714-17271.] ADDISON. 391 what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all the circumstances of life, has a very good effect up)On the parish, who are not polite esnough to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that, the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side: and every now and then inquires how such a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father does,.whom he does not see at church; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent. The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, lie has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit. Spectator, No. 112. The moral tendency of Addison's writings can hardly be over-estimated. "c On education and the domestic virtues," says Dr. Drake, "on the duties incumbent on father, husband, wife, and child, his precepts are just and cogent, and delivered in that sweet, insinuating style and manner which have rendered him beyond comparison the most useful moralist this country ever produced." Who can set limits to the influence which such a mind has exerted? And what a lesson should it read to the conductors of our periodic press, flom) the stately quarterly to the daily newspaper! What untold gain would it be to the world if they would think less of party, and more of TRUTH: if they would ever be found the firm advocates of every thing that tends to elevate and bless man, and the steadfast, out-spolken opponents of all that tends to degrade, debase, and brutalize him. OMNIPRESENCE AND OMNISCIENCE OF THE DEITY.' I was yesterday about sunset walking in the open fields, u;Ptil the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colors which appeared in the western parts of heaven: in proportion as they faded away and wcnt 1 "I consider the paper on Omnipresence and Omniscience as one of the most perfect, impre,.vt. and instructive pieces of colnposition that ever flowed from the pen of an uninspir$.l mortliet."'Dr. Drake. 892 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. out, several stars and planets appeared one after another, until the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded and disposed among softer lights than that which the sun had before discovered to us. As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection, " When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained: what is man, that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man, that thou regardest him!" In the same manner when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns which were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds which were moving round their respective suns; when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us; in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. if we consider God in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into another, or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosopher, he is a Being whose centre is everywhere, and his circumference nowhere. In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his omnipresence; he cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades, and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus intimate~ly united. Seve 1714-1727.] ADDISON. 393 ral moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, which he has built with his own hands, and which is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty; but the noblest and most exalted way of considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know every thing in which he resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience. Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. Whilst we are in the body, he is not less present withl us because he is concealed from us. "0 that I knew where 1 might find him!" says Job. " Behold I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hand, where he does work, but I cannot behold him; he hideth himself on the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion; for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those who endeavor to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. Spectator, No. 5th6. REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits 894 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries,'and make our appearance together. Sspectator, No. 26. As a poet, Addison does not take the highest rank, and yet he has written much that would be more valued had it not been thrown into the shade by the comparative brilliancy of his prose. One of his best pieces is his poetical Letter to Lord Halifax, written from Italy in 1701. Of this Dr. Drake' thus speaks:," Had he written nothing else, this Epistle ought to have acquired for him the reputation of a good poet. Its versification is remarkably sweet and polished, its vein of description usually rich and clear, and its sentiments often pathetic, and sometimes even sublime. We see Addison, with the ardent enthusiasm of a mind fresh from the study of the classics, exploring with unwearied fondness and assiduity the neglected relics of antiquity, and tracing every stream and mountain recorded in the songs of the Bard. His praises of liberty break forth with uncommon warmth and beauty; with that energy of phrase and thought which only genuine emotion can supply." FROM THE LETTER FROM ITALY. For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise; Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung; Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle; Or when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents; E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride; Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! iuat what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores, Essays on the Tatler, Guardian, and Spectator, vol. i. p. 315. 1714-1727.1 ADDISOn. 895 With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orange, and the swelling grain: Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; Eased of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Gliv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine: With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies; Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: MIy noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. II. When in the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountain pant; To fertile vales and dewy meads My weary, wandering steps he leads: Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. III. Though in the paths of death I tread, With gloomy horrors overspread, My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, For thou, 0 Lord, art with me still; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. 396 FINCH. [GEORGE I. IV. Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my wants beguile; The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden green and herbage crown'd, And streams shall murmur all around. ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. Died 1720.'rHIs lady was the daughter of Sir-William Kingsmill, of Sidmonton, in the county of Southampton, and was married to Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea. A collection of her poems was printed in 1713. " It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, " that excepting a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, and some delightful -pictures in the poems of Lady Winchelsea, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons, does not contain a single new image of external nature." THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. Methinks the world is oddly made, And every thing's amiss, A dull, presuming Atheist said, As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade; And instanced it in this: Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, A Pumpkin large and round, Is held but by a little string, Which upwards cannot make it spring, Or bear it from the ground. Whilst on this Oak a fruit so small, So disproportion'd, grows; That who with sense surveys this all, This universal casual ball, Its ill contrivance knows. My better judgment would have hung That weight upon a tree, And left this mast, thus slightly strung,'Mongst things which on the surface sprung, And small and feeble be. No more the caviller could say, Nor farther faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the stay, Fell down upon his eye. Th' offended part with tears ran o'er, As punish'd for the sin; Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore, Thy whimsies must have work'd no more, Nor skull had kept them in. 1714-1727.] FINCH. 397 LIFE S PROGRESS. How gayly is at first begun Our life's uncertain race! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, With which we just set out to run, Enlightens all the place. How smiling the world's prospect lies, How tempting to go through! Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise, Did more inviting show. How soft the first ideas prove, Which wander through our minds! How full the joys, how free the love, Which does that early season move, As flowers the western winds! Our sighs are then but vernal air, But April drops our tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, Whilst beauty compensates our care, And youth each vapor clears. But, oh! too soon, alas! we climb, Scarce feeling, we ascend The gently-rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime And all its sweetness end. The die now cast, our station known, Fond expectation past: The thorns which former days had sown, To crops of late repentance grown, Through which we toil at last. Whilst every care's a driving harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded smiles no more can charms But every tear's a winter-storm, And every look's a frown. 34 398 PRIOR. [GEORGE I. MATTHEW PRIOR. 1665-1721. Of the parentage of Prior very little is known. He was nephew of the keeper of a tavern at Charing Cross, where he was found by the Earl of Dorset, and sent, at his expense, to be educated at Cambridge, where he obtained a fellowship. By the same nobleman's influence, he went as secretary to the English ambassador at the Hague. In 1697 he was secretary of legation at the treaty of Ryswick, and the next year held the same office at the court of France. At fifty-three years of age he found himself, after all his important employments, with no other means of subsistence than his fellowship at Cambridge; but the publication of his poems by subscription, and the kindness of Lord Hasley, restored him to easy circumstances for the rest of his life. He died, after a lingering illness, in 1721, in the fifty-eighth year of his age. " Prior," says Campbell, c was one of the last of the race of poets who relied for ornament on scholastic allusion and pagan machinery; but he used them like Swift, more in jest than earnest, and with good effect." His poetry hlas the qualities of ease, fluency, and correctness. We give one specimen:AN EPITAPH. Interr'd beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run, If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple still the same. They walk'd, and eat, good folks: what then: Why then they walk'd and eat again: They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day: Nor sister either had nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree: Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespass'd on the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded l They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid: So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder fill'd his stable, And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt; For which they claim'd their Sunday's due, Of slumbeIing. in an upper pew.. 1714-1727.] VANHOMRIGIH. 399 No man's defects sought they to know; So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend; So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherish'd they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung and bonfires made, If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid: Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crown'd. Nor good nor bad, nor fools nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise: Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led-a kind of-as it were: Nor wish'd nor cared, nor laugh'd nor cried: And so they lived, and so they died. ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. Died 1721. THis accomplished female Is thle well-known ("Vanessa" of Dean Swiftl. While the following beautiful ode will give an idea of her refined taste and highly cultivated mind, the cold, heartless manner in which he treated her, must ever remain as a blot upon his character.L ODE TO SPRING. Hail, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring! Who, in thy jocund train, dost bring Loves and graces, smiling hours, Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers; Come, with tints of roseate hue, Nature's faded charms renew. Yet why should I thy presence hail To me no more the breathing gale Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose With such transcendent beauty blows, As when Cadenus blest the scene, And shared with me those joys serene. When, unperceived, the lambent fire Of friendship kindled new desire; Still listening to his tuneful tongue, The truths which angels might have sung 1 Consult Scott's, or Drake's, or Sheridan's Life of Swift. 400 RUSSELL. [GEORGE I. Divine imprest their gentle sway, And sweetly stole my soul away. My guide, instructor, lover, friend, Dear names, in one idea blendi Oh! still conjoin'd, your incense rise, And waft sweet odors to the skies. LADY RACHEL RUSSELL. 1636-1723. THIS most admirable woman was the wife of Lord William Russell, who was judicially murdered, on an alleged charge of treason, July 21, 1683. At the trial of her husband she accompanied him into court; and when he was inhumanly refused counsel, and allowed only an amanuensis, she stood forth as that assistant, and excited the deepest sympathy as well as admiration in all who beheld her. After sentence was pronounced against him, she promised him to take care of her own life, for the sake of his children, —a pro mise she religiously kept, though she survived him above forty years. " Her letters," says Burnett, are written with an elegant simplicity, with truth and nature, which can flow only from the heart. The tenderness and constancy of her affection for her murdered lord, present an image to melt the soul."' A collection of her letters between herself and her correspondents was published in 1773. The following is TO DR. FITZWILLIAMI.2 I need not tell you, good doctor, how little capable I have been of such an exercise as this. You will soon find how unfit I am still for it, since my yet disordered thoughts can offer me no other than such words as express the deepest sorrows, and confused as my yet amazed mind is. But such men as you, and particularly one so much my friend, will, I know, bear with my weakness, and compassionate my distress, as you have already done by your good letter and excellent prayer. I endeavor to make the best use I can of both; but I am so evil and unworthy a creature, that though I have desires, yet I have no dispositions, or worthiness, towards receiving comfort. You, that knew us both, and how we lived, must allow I have just cause to bewail my loss. I know it is common with others to lose a friend; but to have lived with such a one, it may be questioned how few can glory in the like happiness, so consequently lament the like loss. Who can but shrink at such a blow, till by the mighty aids of his Holy Spirit, we will let the gift of God, which he hath put into our hearts, interpose? That reason which sets a measure to our souls in prosperity, will then suggest many things which we have seen 1 "I have now before me a volume of letters by the widow of the beheaded Lord Russell, which are full of the most moving and impressive eloquence."-Horace Walpole. ~2 A divine for whom Lady Russell had a great esteem and friendship; he bad been chaplain to ner father as he was afterwards to the Duke of York i714-1727.] SEWELL. 401 and heard, to moderate us in such sad circumstances as mine But alas! my understanding is clouded, my faith weak, sense strong, and the devil busy to fill my thoughts with false notions, difficulties, and doubts as of a future condition, - of prayer: but this I hope to make matter of humiliation, not sin. Lord, let me understand the reason of these dark and wounding providences, that I sink not under the discouragements of my own thoughts: I know I have deserved my punishment, and will be silent under it; but yet secretly my heart mourns, too sadly, I fear; and cannot be comforted, because I have not the dear companion and sharer of all my joys and sorrows. I want him to talk with, to walk with, to eat and sleep with; all these things are irksome to me now; the day unwelcome, and the night so too; all company and meals I would avoid, if it might be; yet all this is, that I enjoy not the world in my own way, and this sure hinders my comfort; when I see my children before me, I remember the pleasure he took in them: this makes my heart shrink. Can I regret his quitting a lesser good for a bigger? Oh! if I did steadfastly believe, I could not be dejected; for I will not injure myself to say, I offer my mind any inferior consolation to supply this loss. No; I most willingly forsake this world, this vexatious, troublesome world, in which I have no other business, but to rid my soul from sin, secure by faith and a good conscience my eternal interests, with patience and courage bear my eminent misfortunes, and ever hereafter be above the smiles and frowns of it. And when I have done the remnant of the work appointed me on earth, then joyfully wait for the heavenly perfection in God's good time, when by his infinite mercy I may be accounted worthy to enter into the same place of rest and repose where he is gone, for whom only I grieve I do2 fear. From that contemplation must come my best support. Good doctor, you will think, as you have reason, that I set no bounds, when I let myself loose to my complaints; but I will release you, first fervently asking the continuance of your prayers for Your infinitely afflicted, But very faithful servant, Woborne Abbey, R. RUSSELL. 30th September, 1684. GEORGE SEWELL. Died 1726. Or the life of this ingenious poet and miscellaneous writer we know but little. He was born at Windsor. After graduating at Cambridge as a bachelor in medicine, he went over to Holland, and completed his medical education under the celebrated Boerhaave. On his return to England, he commenced practice at Hampstead, near London; but not succeeding well in his professton 1 Two or three words torn off. 2 A. word torn off. 2 C 34S 402 STEELE. LGEORGE II he turned his attention to literary pursuits. His chief productions are, 1" Sir Walter Raleigh," a tragedy, 1719; "Epistles to Mr. Addison, on the death of Lord Halifax;", Cupid's Proclamation;" 9"A Vindication of the English Stage," &c. He died at Hampstead, in great poverty, February 8, 1726. Though Dr. Sewell did not write much, he deserves to be remembered i..l the following beautiful and touching verses, " said to be written upon himst,l' when he was in a consumption." VERSES IN ANTICIPATION OF HIS OWN DEATH. Why, Damon, with the forward day, Dost thou thy little spot survey, From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, Pursue the progress of the year, What winds arise, what rains descend, When thou before that year shalt end? What do thy noontide walks avail, To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, Then wantonly to death decree An insect usefuller than thee? Thou and the worm are brother-kind, As low, as earthy, and as blind. Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see The downy peach make court to thee! Or that thy sense shall ever meet The bean-flower's deep embosom'd sweet, Exhaling with an evening blast! Thy evenings then will all be past. Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, (For vanity's in little seen,) All must be left when Death appears, In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; Nor one of all thy plants that grow, Bat rosemary, will with thee go. SIR RICHARD STEELE. 1671-1729. RICHAItD STEELE was born in Dublin, 1671. His father sent him to i.. educated at the Charter-house in London, whence he was removed to Merto., College, Oxford, 1691. Soon'after leaving the university, lie unfortunately inm bibed a fondness for the army, and entered himself as a private in the horseguards, from which he was soon promoted to the office of ensign. Scarcely ~tny position in life is so dangerous to one's morals, as a situation in the army or navy; and so it proved to Steele, who soon plunged into the vortex of dissipation and intemperance; by which he laid the foundation of much mrjisery and remorse during his life. In 1702 he first attracted the notice of the public as an author, by the publication of "The Funeral, or Grief d-la M..ode," a comedy which was successfully acted in that year. Two more comedies, "-The Tender Husband," acted in 1703, and "The Lying Lover,' 1704, followed this first attempt. The latter proving a failure, Steele deter-'Tined, for a time at least, to desert the stage, and projected the publication of 1727-1760.] STEELE. 403 a periodical paper. The title of the paper. as the author observes in the first number, was decided upon in honor of the fair sex, and the TATLER was therefore placed under their jurisdiction. The name of its conductor, ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, was taken from a previous publication of Swift. It was commenced on the 12th of April, 1709. How, and how early, Addison came to know the author, is mentioned in the life of the former. " If we consider the invention of Steele, as discoverable in the scheme and conduct of the Tatler, if we reflect upon the finely drawn and highly finished character of Bickerstaff, in his varied offices of philosopher, humorist, astrologer, and censor, the vast number of his own elegant and useful papers, and the beauty and value of those which, through his means, saw the light, we cannot hesitate in honoring him with the appellation orF THIE FATHER OF PERIODICAL WRITING."1 In March, 1711, he began, in conjunction with Addison, "The Spectator," and in 1713 " The Guardian." After the accession of George I., Steele was made, in 1715, surveyor of the royal stables at Hampton Court, and was knighted. The same year he was chosen member of parliament for Boroughbridge in Yorkshire, and was high in favor with the reigning powers. But his good fortune did not last long, and the latter years of his life he suffered much from poverty, caused in part from his speculating in new projects, one of which was, to convey live salmon from the coast of Ireland to the London market. At a great expense he had a vessel constructed for the purpose; but, alas! the salmon so battered themselves in their passage, as to be totally unfit for the market, and poor Steele lost nearly his all. ", No friend of humnanity," says Dr. Drake, "can contemplate the situation of Steele, during the latter period of his life, without sympathy and sorrow. His frailties, the origin of all his misfortunes, were not the offspring of vice, but merely owing to habitual carelessness and the want of worldly prudence. Compassionate in his heart, unbounded in his benevolence, no object of distress ever left him with a murmur; and in the hour of prosperity he was ever ready, both with his influence and his property, to promote the views of literature and science, and to assist the efforts of unprotected genius." The last few years of his life he resided, by the indulgence of the mortgagee, at his seat at Llangunnor, near Caermarthen, Wales, where he died on the 21st of September, 1729. The style of Steele is remarkable for its flowing ease and naturalness, but he is often negligent and careless, and frequently ungrammatical. It is his misfortune that, being a co-laborer with Addison in the same walks of literature, he is constantly compared with him, and of course must generally suffer by the comparison; though at times, when he has written with more than usual care, he seems evidently to have imbibed a portion of Addisonian grace. But compared with some of the best of his predecessors, he appears in a very favorable light. " He will be found in purity and simplicity inferior to Tillotson; to Temple in elegance and harmony: to Dryden in richness, mellowness, and variety. To the two former, however, he is equal in correctness; to the latter in vivacity; and with all he is nearly oil a level as to ease ancu perspicuity." 1 The following extracts from his periodical papers will give an idea of his best manner and style1 Drake's Essays, vol. i. p. 79. 2 Ibid. p. 201. 404 STEELE. [GEORGE II THE DREAMI.1 I was once myself in agonies of grief that are unutterable, and in so great a distraction of mind, that I thought myself even out of the possibility of receiving comfort. The occasion was as follows. When I was a youth in a part of the army which was then quartered at Dover, I fell in love with an agreeable young woman, of a good family in those parts, and had the satisfaction of seeing my addresses kindly received, which occasioned the perplexity I am going to relate. We were in a calm evening diverting ourselves upon the top of a cliff with the prospect of the sea, and trifling away the time in such little fondnesses as are most ridiculous to people in business, and most agreeable to those in love. In the midst of these our innocent endearments, she snatched a paper of verses out of my hand, and ran away with them. I was following her, when on a sudden the ground, though at a considerable distance from the verge of the precipice, sunk under her, and threw her down from so prodigious a height upon such a range of rocks, as would have dashed her into ten thousand pieces, had her body been made of adamant. It is much easier for my reader to imagine my state of mind upon such an occasion, than for me to express it. I said to myself, It is not in the power of heaven to relieve re! when I awaked, equally transported and astonished, to see myself drawn out of an affliction which, the very moment before, appeared to me altogether inextricable. The impressions of grief and horror were so lively on this occasion, that while they lasted they made me more miserable than I was at the real death of this beloved person, which happened a few months after, at a time when the match between us was concluded; inasmuch as the imaginary death was untimely, and I myself in a sort an accessary; whereas her real decease had at least these alleviations, of being natural and inevitable. The memory of the dream I have related still dwells so strongly upon me, that I can never read the description of Dover-cliff in Shakspeare's tragedy of King Lear,l without a fresh sense of my I " One cf the finest moral tales," observes Dr. Beattie, "I ever read, is an account in the Tatler, which, though it has every appearance of a real dream, comprehends a moral so sublime and so interesting, that I question whether any man who attends to it can ever forget it; and if he remembers, whether he can cease to be the better for it." 2 "s Come on, sir; here's the place:-stand still I How fearful And dizzy'tis to cast one's eyes so low I The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire-dreadful trade I Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, 1727-1760.] STEELE. 405 escape. The prospect from that place is drawn with such proper incidents, that whoever can read it without growing giddy must have a good head, or a very bad one. Tter, No. 117. THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER. The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my battledore in my band, and fell a beating the coffin, and calling papa; for, I know not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and, transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces; and told me in a flood of tears, "6 Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for t.hey were going to put him under ground, whence he could nevez come to us again." She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of hei transport; which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinlks, like the body in embryo; and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark, with which a child is born, is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good nature in me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of my affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since insnared me into ten thousand calamities; from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a humor as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softness of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past afflictions. Tater, No. 181. THE STRENGTH OF TRUE LOVE. A young gentleman and lady of ancient and honorable houses in Cornwall had from their childhood entertained for each other a Diminish'd to her cock; * her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong." * Her cocekboat, the small boat of a ship. 406 STEELE. [GEORGE II. generous and noble passion, which had been long opposed by their friends, by reason of the inequality of their fortunes; but their constancy to each other, and obedience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much upon their relations, that these celebrated lovers were at length joined in marriage. Soon after their nuptials, the bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country, to take care of a considerable fortune, which was left him by a relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moderate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all the country on this occasion; and I remember it was a common sentence in every one's mouth, " You see how faithful love is rewarded." He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home every post fresh accounts of his success in his affairs abroad; but at last, though he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented in his letters, that "business would detain him some time longer from home," because he would give himself the pleasure of an unexpected arrival. The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every evening on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a familiar friend, her husband's kinswoman; and diverted herself with what objects they met there, or upon discourses of the future methods of life, in the happy change of their circumstances. They stood one evening on the shore together in a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the sun, the calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves, which gently rolled towards them, and broke at their feet; when at a distance her kinswoman saw something float on the waters, which she fancied was a chest; and with a smile told her, " She saw it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels, she had a right to it." They both fixed their eyes upon it, and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, the cousin still asserting her right; but promising, " if it was a prize, to give her a very rich coral for her youngest child." Their mirth soon abated, when they observed, upon the nearer approach, that it was a human body. The young lady, who had a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many melancholy reflections on the occasion. " Who knows," said she, " but this man may be the only hope and heir of a wealthy house; the darling of indulgent parents, who are now in impertinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with the thoughts of offering him a bride they had got ready for him? Or, may he not be the master of a family that wholly depended upon his life? There may, for aught we know, be half a dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, now exposed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have promised himself in the different welcome he was to have from her and them! But let us go away; it is a dreadful sight! The best office we can do, is to take care that the poor man, who 1727-1760.] STEELE. 407 ever he is, may be decently buried." She turned away, when a wave threw the carcass on the shore. The kinswoman immediately shrieked out, "' Oh, my cousin!" and fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her friend, when she saw her own husband at her feet, and dropped in a swoon upon the body. An old woman, who had been the gentleman's nurse, came out about this time to call the ladies to supper, and found her child, as she always called him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman both lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her trance; but the wife was gone for ever. Tatler, No. 82. THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT. While others are busied in relations which concern the interest of princes, the peace of nations, and revolutions of empire; I think, though these are very great subjects, my theme of discourse is sometimes to be of matters of a yet higher consideration. The slow steps of Providence and nature, and strange events which are brought about in an instant, are what, as they come within our view and observation, shall be given to the public. Such things are not accompanied with show and noise, and therefore seldom draw the eyes of the unattentive part of mankind; but are very proper at once to exercise our humanity, please our imaginations, and improve our judgments. It may not, therefore, be unuseful to relate many circumstances, which were observable upon a late cure done upon a young nobleman who was born blind, and on the twenty-ninth of June last received his sight, at the age of twenty years, by the operation of an oculist. This happened no farther off than Newington; and the work was prepared for in the following manner: The operator, Mr. Grant, having observed the eyes of his patient, and convinced his friends and relations, among others the reverend Mr. Caswell, minister of the place, that it was highly probable that he should remove the obstacle which prevented the use of his sight; all his acquaintance, who had any regard for the young man, or curiosity to be present when one of full age and understanding received a new sense, assembled themselves on this occasion. Mr. Caswell, being a gentleman particularly curious, desired the whole company, in case the blindness should be cured, to keep silence: and let the patient make his own observations, without the direction of any thing he had received by his other senses, or the advantage of discovering his friends by theii voices. Among several others, the mother, brethren, sisters, and a young gentlewoman for whom he had a passion, were present. The work was performed with great skill and dexterity. When the patient first received the dawn of light, there appeared suclh 408 STEELE. [GEORGE IT. an ecstasy in his action, that he seemed ready to swoon away in the surprise of joy and wonder. The surgeon stood before him with his instruments in his hands. The young man observed hiln from head to foot; after which he surveyed himself as carefully, and seemed to compare him to himself; and observing both their hands, seemed to think they were exactly alike, except the instruments, which he took for parts of his hands. When he had continued in his amazement for some time, his mother could not longer bear the agitations of so many passions as thronged upon her; but fell upon his neck, crying out, 6"My son! my son!" The youth knew her voice, and could speak no more than, " Oh me! are you my mother?" and fainted. The whole room, you will easily conceive, were very affectionately employed in recovering him; but, above all, the young gentlewoman who loved him, and whom he loved, shrieked in the loudest manner. That voice seemed to have a sudden effect upon him as he recovered, and he showed a double curiosity in observing her as she spoke and called to him; until at last he broke out, "What has been done to me? Whither am I carried? Is all this about me, the thing I have heard so often of? Is this the light? Is this seeing? Were you always thus happy when you said you were glad to see each other? Where is Tom, who used to lead me? But I could now, methinks, go anywhere without him!" He offered to move, but seemed afraid of every thing around him. When they saw his difficulty, they told him, " until he became better acquainted with his new being, he must let the servant still lead him." The boy was called for, and presented to him. Mr. Caswell asked him, " What sort of thing he took Tom to be before he had seen him?" He answered, "he believed there was not so much of him as himself; but he fancied him the same sort of creature." The noise of this sudden change made all the neighborhood throng to the place where he was. As he saw the crowd thickening, he desired Mr. Caswell to tell him how many there were in all to be seen. The gentleman, smiling, answered him, that 1" it would be very proper for him to return to his late condition, and suffer his eyes to be covered, until they had received strength; for he might remember well enough, that by degrees he had from little to little come to the strength he had at present in his ability in walking and moving: and that it was the same thing with his eyes, which," he said, 1" would lose the power of continuing to him that wonderful transport he was now in, except he would be contented to lay aside the use of them, until they were strong enough to bear the light without so much feeling as, ne knew, he underwent at present." With much reluctance he was prevailed upon to have his eyes bound; in which condition they kept him in a dark room, until it was proper to let the organ 1727-1760.] STEELE. 409 receive its objects without further precaution. During the time of this darkness, he bewailed himself in the most distressed manner; and accused all his friends, complaining that " some incantation had been wrought upon him, and some strange magic used to deceive him into an opinion that he had enjoyed what they called sight." He added, " that the impressions then let in upon his soul would certainly distract him, if he were not so at that present." At another time, he would strive to name the persons he had seen among the crowd after he was couched, and would pretend to speak, in perplexed terms of his own making, of what he, in that short time, observed. But on the sixth instant it was thought fit to unbind his head, and the young woman whom he loved was instructed to open his eyes accordingly, as well to endear herself to him by such a circumstance, as to moderate his ecstasies by the persuasion of a voice which had so much power over him as hers ever had. When this beloved young woman began to take off the binding of his eyes, she talked to him as follows: " Mr. William, I am now taking the binding off, though when I consider what I am doing, I tremble with the apprehension, thai, though I have from my very childhood loved you, dark as you were, and though you had conceived so strong a love for me, you will find there is such a thing as beauty, which may ensnare you into a thousand passions of which you are now innocent, and take you from me for ever. But, before I put myself to that hazard, tell me in what manner that love, you always professed to me, entered into your heart; for its usual admission is at the eyes." The young man answered, " Dear Lydia, if I am to lose by sight the soft pantings which I have always felt when I heard your voice; if I am no more to distinguish the step of her I love when she approaches me, but to change that sweet and frequent pleasure for such an amazement as I knew the little time I lately saw; or if I am to have any thing besides, which may take from me the sense I have of what appeared most pleasing to me at that time, which apparition it seems was you; pull out these eyes, before they lead me to be ungrateful to you, or undo myself. I wished for them but to see you: pull them out, if they are to make me forget you." Lydia was extremely satisfied with these assurances; and pleased herself with playing with his perplexities. In all his talk to her, he showed but very faint ideas of any thing which had not been received at the ears; and closed his protestation to her, by saying, that if he were to see Valentia and Barcelona, whom he supposed the most esteemed of all women, by the quar rel there was about them, he would never like any but Lydia. Tatter, No. $5 35 410 DE FOE. [GEORGE II. DANIEL DE FOE. 1661-1731. DANIEL Dr FOE, the author of that remarkable book of world-wide fame, "Robinson Crusoe," was born in London, 1661. Of his youthful years we know but little; but that his education was not neglected, and that he applied himself with assiduity to his studies, we may fairly infer from his subsequent success in the walks of literature. He first engaged in trade, but after a few years' trial of it, he found that that was not his sphere: his lively imagination, eager interest in politics, and fondness for literature, disqualified him for commercial matters. In 1700 he published his 4" True-Born Englishman," a pamphlet in answer to a libel on King William, with which his majesty was well pleased. From that time forth, he wrote with unwearied assiduity, and in 1704 first published his,Review," a periodical paper written exclusively by himself, and which he continued to publish twice or three times a week for nine years. This resembled, more than any other preceding work, the Tatler and Spectator; but borne down by a rude mass of temporary and uninteresting matter, connected with the news and politics of the day, it soon sunk into oblivion. After the death of Queen Anne, in 1714, the continued attacks of his political opponents so weighed upon his mind and depressed his spirits, that his health gave way, and he was for a time dangerously ill. When he recovered, he resolved to abandon his old field of political satire and invective, and to enter upon a new one; and accordingly he put forth the first part of his inimitable ", Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," which no story has ever exceeded in popularity. The great success that attended this, induced him to write a second and a third part, which, however, are very inferior to the first. The multitude of books and pamphlets which he subsequently published, we have not space to enumerate.' Some of the most popular of these were, c" The Adventures of Captain Singleton," c" The Fortunes of Moll Flan ders," " The Memoirs of a Cavalier," "- A Tour through Great Britalre, " A History of the Plague," and ", The true Relation of the Apparition of one Mrs. Veal, the next Day after her Death." The last was afterwards subjoined to the editions of " Drelincourt on Death," and made that otherwise unsaleable book much sought after. One of his works had the following curious title: "Mars stript of his armor: a lashing caricature of the habits and manners of all kinds of military men, written on purpose to delight quiet trades-people, and cure their daughters of their passion for red-coats." He died on the 24th of April, 1731, in the seventy-first year of his age. De Foe was a very remarkable man. His power, as a writer, of seizing and retaining a strong hold upon the popular mind, has seldom been equalled. Of great originality, and of strong and clear conceptions, which he was able to embody in language equally perspicuous and forcible, he has the power of "forging the handwriting of nature," and of giving to fiction all the appearance of reality. By a particularity and minuteness of description which his skill prevents from being tedious, he increases the probability of his story, and I Lowndes gives the titles of ninety-seben different works that De Foe wrote, and his list is probably Incomplete. "The fertility of De Foe," says Sir Walter Scott, "was astonishing. He wrote on all occasions and on all subjects, and seemingly had little time for preparation on the subject in hand, but treated it from the stores which his memory retained of early reading, and such hints as he had caught up in society, not one of which seems to have been lost tpon him.'. Read-an interesting life of De Foe in Sir Walter Scott's Prose Wor s. 1727-1760.] DE FOE. 411 gives to its reader a continually increasing interest il it; so that no author of imaginary tales has impressed so many persons with the belief that they have been reading a true, rather than a fictitious narrative. Of that most popular, delightful, and extraordinary of all his works, " Robinson Crusoe," which had lost none of its original attractions even at the distance of half a century, Dr. Johnson observed, " Nobody ever laid it down without wishing it were longer." ROBINSON CRUSOE DISCOVERS THE FOOT-PRINT. It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand: I stood like one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition: I listened. I looked round me, I could hear nothing, nor see any thing; I went up to a rising ground to look farther: I went up the shore. and down the shore, but it was all one, I could see no other impression but that one: I went to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy; but there was no room for that, for there was exactly the very print of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it came thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. But after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused, and out of myself, I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but terrified to the last degree, looking behind me at every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying every stump at a distance to be a man; nor is it possible to describe how many various shapes an affrighted imagination represented things to me in; how many wild ideas were formed every moment in my fancy, and what strange, unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way. When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it ever after this, I fled into it like one pursued; whether I went over by the ladder, at first contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, which I called a door, I cannot remember; for never frighted hare fled to cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind than I to this retreat. How strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of man! And by what secret differing springs are the affections hurried about, as differing circumstances present! To-day we love what to-morrowv we hate; to-day we seek what to-morrow we shun; to-day we desire what to-morrow we fear; nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of. This was exemplified in me at this time in the most lively manner imaginable; for I, whose only affliction was, that I seemed banished from human society, that I was alone, circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and condemned to what I call a silent life; that I was as one whom Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among the living, oi 412 DE FOE. [GEORGE II. to appear among the rest of his creatures; that to have seen one of my own species would have seemed to me a raising me from death to life, and the greatest blessing that Heaven itself, next to the supreme blessing of salvation, could bestow; I say, that I should now tremble at the very apprehensions of seeing a man, and was ready to sink into the ground, at but the shadow, or silent appearance of a man's having set his foot on the island! Such is the uneven state of human life; and it afforded me a great many curious speculations afterwards, when I had a little recovered my first surprise. I considered that this was the station of life the infinitely wise and good providence of God had determined for me; that as I could not foresee what the ends of divine wisdom might be in all this, so I was not to dispute his sovereignty, who, as I was his creature, had an undoubted right by creation to govern and dispose of me absolutely as he thought fit; and who, as I was a creature who had offended him, had likewise a judicial right to condemn me to what punishment he thought fit; and that it was my part to submit to bear his indignation, because I had sinned against him. I then reflected, that God, who was not only righteous, but omnipotent, as he had thought fit thus to punish and afflict me, so ne was able to deliver me; that if he did not think fit to do it, it was my unquestioned duty to resign myself absolutely and entirely to his will: and, on the other hand, it was my duty also to hope in him, pray to him, and quietly to attend the dictates and directions of his daily providence. These thoughts took me up many hours, days, nay, I may say, weeks and months; and one particular effect of my cogitations on this occasion I cannot omit; viz., one morning early, lying in my bed, and filled with thoughts about my danger from the appearance of savages, I found it discomposed me very much; upon which those words of the Scripture came into my thoughts, Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. Upon this, rising cheerfully out of my bed, my heart was not only comforted, but I was guided and encouraged to pray earnestly to God for deliverance. When I had done praying, I took up my Bible, and, opening it to read, the first words that presented to me, were, 4Wait on the Lord, and be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart: Wait, I say, on the Lord. It is impossible to express the comfort this gave me; and in return, I thankfully laid down the book, and was no more sad, at least, not on that occasion. In the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and reflections, it came into my thoughts one day, that all this might be a mere chimera of my own, and that this foot might be the print of 1727-1760.1 DE FOE. 413 my own foot, when I came on shore from my boat: this cheered me up a little too, and I began to persuade myself it was all a delusion; that it was nothing else but my own foot; and why might not I come that way fromn the boat, as well as I was going that way to the boat? Again, I considered also, that I could by no means tell for certain where I had trod, and where I had not; and that if at last this was only the print of my own foot, I had played the part of those fools, who strive to make stories of spectres and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them more than anybody else. Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again; for I had not stirred out of my castle for three days and nights, so that I began to starve for provision; for I had little or nothing within doors, but some barley-cakes and water. Then I knew that my goats wanted to be milked too, which usually was my evening diversion; and the poor creatures were in great pain and inconvenience for want of it; and indeed it almost spoiled some of them, and almost dried up their milk. Heartening myself, therefore, with the belief, that this was nothing but the print of one of my own feet, (and so I might be truly said to start at my own shadow,) I began to go abroad again, and went to my country-house to milk my flock; but to see with what fear I went forward, how often I looked behind me, how I was ready, every now and then, to lay down my basket, and run for my life; it would have made any one have thought I was haunted with an evil conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly frighted; and so indeed I had. However, as I went down thus two or three days, and having seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to think there was really nothing in it but my own imagination. But I could not persuade myself fully of this, till I should go down to the shore again, and see this print of a foot, and measure it by my own, and see if there was any similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was my own foot. But when I came to the place first, it appeared evidently to me, that when I laid up my boat, I could not possibly be on shore anywhere thereabouts. Secondly, when I came to mneasure the mark with my own foot, I found my foot not so large by a great deal. Both these things filled my head with new inlaginations, and gave me the vapors again to the highest degree; so that I shook with cold, like one in an ague; and I went home again, filled with the belief, that some man or men had been on shore there; or, in short, that the island was inhabited, and 1 might be surprised before I was aware; and what course to take for my security, I knew not. 0 what ridiculous resolutions men take, when possessed with fear! It deprives them of the use of those means which reason offers for their relief. w5*' 414 GAY. [GEORGE II. JOHN GAY. 1688-1732. JoHN GAY, descended from a respectable family in Devonshire, was born in 1688, the year of the c"glorious Revolution." Wl. en young he was put apprentice to a silk-mercer in London; but having imbibed a taste for poetry and classical literature, his indentures were cheerfully cancelled by his master, and a poem, entitled Rural Sports," which he soon published and dedicated to Pope, obtained the sincere and lasting friendship of that poet. By him Gay was introduced to that brilliant circle of wits, of which Pope was the centre, and of it he ever continued the favorite. In 1712 he was appointed secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, which situation left him at full liberty to indulge his taste for elegant literature. Soon after, he published his'i Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London," c"a fine specimen," says Dr. Drake, " of that species of burlesque, in which elevated language is employed in the detail of trifling, mean, or ludicrous circumstances." He then entered the walks of dramatic literature, but without any success, until, in 1727, he published his "Beggar's Opera," designed to ridicule the Italian opera, and to satirize the court. He offered it to Rich, the manager of DruryLane Theatre, and such was its great popularity, that it was humorously remarked that this opera had made Gay rich, and Rich gay. Bat the most finished productions of our poet, and those to which he will owe his reputation with posterity, are his 4" Fables," —the finest in the language. They are written with great spirit and vivacity; the versification is generally smooth and flowing; the descriptions happy and appropriate, and the moral designed to be conveyed is, for the most part, impressive and instructive. Besides these, he was the author of the c"Fan," a mythological fiction; of I"Dione," a pastoral drama; of c"Achilles," an opera, and many songs and ballads. The publication of these various works placed him in easy circumstances as to fortune; but no sooner was he released from pecuniary anxiety, than his health began to decline; and he was at length seized with an inflammatory disease, which carried him off in three days, and he expired on the 4th of December, 1732, in the forty-fourth year of his age. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his memory, for which Pope wrote an inscription. Few men were more beloved by those who intimately knew him than Gay. His moral character was excellent, his temper peculiarly sweet and engaging, but lie possessed a simplicity of manner and character which, though it endeared him to his friends, rendered him very unfit for the general business of life. The two first lines of the epitaph of Pope most truthfully character ize him — "Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child." THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF. Seek you to train your favorite boy? Each caution, every care employ; And, ere you venture to confide, Let his preceptor's heart be tried: Weigh well his manners, life, and scope; On these (leipends thy future hope. As on a time, in peaceful reign, A Bull enjoy'd the flowery plain, 1727 -1760.1 GAY. 415 A Mastiff pass'd; inflamed with ire, His eyeballs shot indiglant fire. He foam'd, he raged with thirst of blood. Spurning the ground, the monarch stood, And roar'd aloud: "Suspend the fight; In a whole skin go sleep to-night: Or tell me, ere the battle rage, What wrongs provoke thee to engage? Is it ambition fires thy breast, Or avarice, that ne'er can rest? From these alone unjustly springs The world-destroying wrath of kings." The surly Mastiff thus returns: "Within my bosom glory burns. Like heroes of eternal name, Whom poets sing, I fight for fame. The butcher's spirit-stirring mind To daily war my youth inclined; He train'd me to heroic deed, Taught me to conquer, or to bleed." " Cursed Dog," the Bull replied, " no more I wonder at thy thirst of gore; For thou (beneath a butcher train'd, Whose hands with cruelty are stain'd, His daily murders in thy view) Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue. Take, then, thy fate." With goring wound At once he lifts him from the ground: Aloft the sprawling hero flies, Mangled he falls, he howls, and dies. THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care.'Tis thus in friendships; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with every thing, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend; And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies, She starts, she stops, she pants for breath She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Ilalf-dead with fear, she gasping lay. 116 GRAY. [GEORGE IT. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appear'd in view! "Let me," says she, " your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burden's light." The horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus: Be comforted, relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord: " Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But, see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remark'd, "her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye: My back," says he, " may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The sheep was feeble, and complain'd ".His sides a load of wool sustain'd; Said he was slow, confess'd his fears; For hounds eat sheep as well as hares." She now the trotting calf address'd, To save from death a friend distress'd. " Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage Older and abler pass'd you by; How strong are those! how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. [Excuse me, then; you know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu; For see the hounds are just in view." Gay wrote but little prose, except letters. He was too lazy to be a voluminous correspondent, but his style is easy, natural, and amusing. He had accompanied Pope to the seat of Lord Harcourt in Oxfordshire; and during his visit a violent thunder-storm occurred, the fatal effects of which upon two persons he gives in the following beautiful and affecting letter:THE VILLAGE LOVERS. Stanton Harcourt, Aug. 19, 1718. T''he only news that you can expect to have from me here is news from heaven, for I am quite out of the world; and there is scarce any thing can reach me except the voice of thunder, which undoubtedly you have heard too. We have read in old authors of high towers levelled by it to the ground, while the humbler valleys have escaped: the only thing that is proof against it is the laurel 1727-1760.] GAY. 417 which, however, I take to be no great security to the brains of modern authors. But to let you see that the contrary to this often happens, I must acquaint you, that the highest and most extravagant heap of towers in the universe which is in this neighborhood, stands still undefaced, while a cock of barley in our next field has been consumed to ashes. Would to God that this heap of barley had been all that perished! for, unhappily, beneath this little shelter sat two much more constant lovers than ever were found in romance under the shade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a well-set man, of about five-and-twenty; Sarah Drew might be rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the same age. They had passed through the various labors of the year together, writh the greatest satisfaction: if she milked, it was his morning and evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but last fair that he bought her a present of green silk for her straw hat; and the posie on her silver ring was of his choosing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighborhood. It was that very morning that he had obtained the consent of her parents; and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps, in the intervals of their work, they were now talking of the wedding-clothes; and John was suiting several sorts of poppies and field-flowers to her complexion, to choose her a knot for the wedding-day. While they were thus busied, (it was on the last of July, between two and three in the afternoon,) the clouds grew. black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued, that all the laborers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley. John, who never separated from her, sat down by her side, having raked together two or three heaps, the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack, as if heaven had split asunder: every one was now solicitous for the safety of his neighbor, and called to one another throughout the field: no answer being returned to those who called to our lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay; they perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied this faithful pair: John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the other held over her, as to screen her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah's left eyebrow was singed, and there appeared a black spot on her breast: her lover was all over black, but not the least signs of life were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and the next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. Pope's and my request, has caused a stone to be placed over them, upon condition that we furnished the epitaph, which is as follows:2 D 418 BOOTH. [GEORGE II. When eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, On the same pile the faithful pair expire: Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found, And blasted both that it might neither wound. Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized. But my Lord is apprehensive the country people will not understand this; and Mr. Pope says he'll make one with something of Scripture in it, and with as little of poetry as Hopkins and Sternhold. Yours, &c. BARTON BOOTH. 1681-1733. BARTON BOOTH, though known in his day chiefly as an actor, deserves a notice in this work for his very beautiful song, entitled, SWEET ARE THE CHARMS OF HER I LOVE. Sweet are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose, Soft as the down of turtle-dove, Gentle as air when Zephyr blows, Refreshing as descending rains To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains. True as the needle to the pole, Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll, Whose swelling tides obey the moon; From every other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee. The lamb the flowery thyme devours, The dam the tender kid pursues; Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers Of verdant spring, her note renews; All follow what they most admire, As I pursue mlly soul's desire. Nature must change her beauteous face, And vary as the seasons rise; As winter to the spring gives place, Summer th' approach of autumn flies: No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring. Devouring Time, with stealing pace, Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble towers, and gates of brass, In his rude march he levels low: But Time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide. Death only, with his cruel dart, The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart To mingle with the bless'd above, 1727-1760.] ARBUTHNOT. 419 Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain. Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, Twuin-born, from heaven together came: Love will the universe control, When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his power When time and death shall be no more. JOHN ARBUTHNOT. Died 1735. JOHN ARBUTHNOT, the son of a clergyman of the Episcopal church of Scot. land, was born at Arbuthnot, near Montrose, not long after the Restoration. Having at a proper age entered the University of Aberdeen, he applied himself with diligence to his studies. After taking his doctor's degree in medi cine, he resolved to push his fortunes in London. He began by teaching mathematics as a means of subsistence; and in 1697 he published " An Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge." This was considered a very learned performance, in the then infancy of geology; and his practice increasing with his profession, he became known to the most celebrated men of his day, and was, in 1704, elected a fellow of the Royal Society. The intimate friend and associate of Pope, Swift, Gay, Addison, Parnell, and other leading minds of that bright period of English literature, he was inferior to neither in learning or in wit, while in the versatility of his powers he was decidedly pre-eminent. In 1714 the celebrated 1" Scriblerus Club" was formed, consisting of rt.st of the greatest wits and statesmen of the times. In this brilliant collection of learning and genius, no one was better qualified than Dr. Arbuthnot, both in point of wit and erudition, to promote the object of the society, which was " to ridicule all the false tastes in learning under the character of a mall of capacity enough, that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in each." One of the productions of this club was the c" Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," written conjointly by Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, though the latter doubtless wrote the greater part of it. It is a severe satire upon the follies of mankind; and for keen wit, cutting sarcasm, and genuine humor, has not, perhaps, its superior- in the language; but disfigured, as it occasionally is, by a coarseness and vulgarity which the manners of the age readily tolerated. it is now but little read. Dr. Arbuthnot died on the 27th February, 1735. As a wit and a scholar the character in which he is best known to us, he may be justly ranked among the most eminent men of an age distinguished by a high cultivation of intellect and an almost exuberant display of wit and genius. c" His good morals,' Pope used to say, " were equal to any man's, but his wit and humor superior to all mankind." "He has more wit than we all have," said Dean Swift to a lady, "c and his humanity is equal to his wit." In addition to these brilliant qualities, the higher praise of benevolence and goodness is most deservedly due to him. His warmth of heart and cheerfulness of temper rendered him much beloved by his family and friends, towards whom he displayed the most constant affection and attachment. 1 Read an arti:le in Retrospective Review, viii. 205. 420 ARBUTHNT OT. [GEORGE IT. Among the miscellaneous writings of Dr. Arbuthnot there is a short poem, which, notwithstanding its faults in metre, and occasional harshness, " may fairly be ranked as one of the noblest philosophical poems in the language. It is marked by a conciseness and strength in the argument, a grandeur of thought, a force and propriety of language, a fine discrimination, and a vigorous grasp of mind, together with sound principles and pious sentiments, that are not often combined within the same limits."' KNOW YOURSELF. What am I? how produced? and for what end Whence drew I being? to what period tend? Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance? Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance? Or fiom an endless chain of causes wrought? And of unthinking substance born with thought: By motion which began without a cause, Supremely wise, without design or laws? Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood; A branching channel, with a mazy flood? The purple stream that through my vessels glides, Dull and unconscious flows like common tides: The pipes through which the circling juices stray, Are not that thinking I, no more than they: This frame compacted with transcendent skill, Of moving joints obedient to my will, Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, Waxes and wastes; I call it mine, not me: New matter still the mouldering mass sustains, The mansion changed, the tenant still remains: And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food, Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood. What am I then? sure, of a nobler birth. By parents' right I own, as mother, earth; But claim superior lineage by my SIRE, Who warm'd th' unthinking clod with heavenly fire: Essence divine, with lifeless clay allay'd, By double nature, double instinct sway'd; With look erect, I dart my longing eye, Seem wing'd to part, and gain my native sky; I strive to mount, but strive, alas! in vain, Tied to this massy globe with magic chain. Now with swift thought I range from pole to pole, View worlds around their flaming centres roll: What steady powers their endless motions guide, Through the same trackless paths of boundless void! I trace the blazing comet's fiery trail, And weigh the whirling planets in a scale: These godlike thoughts, while eager I pursue Some glittering trifle offer'd to my view, A gnat, an insect of the meanest kind, Erase the new-born image from my mind; Some beastly want, craving, importunate, Vile as the grinning mastiff at my gate, 1 " The Friend," i.- 202. 1727-1760.] ARBUTHNOT. 421 Calls off from heavenly truth this reasoning me, And tells me, I'm a brute as much as he. If on sublimer wings of love and praise, My soul above the starry vault I raise, Lured by some vain conceit, or shameful lust, I flag, I drop, and flutter in the dust. The towering lark thus from her lofty strain Stoops to an emmet, or a barley grain. By adverse gusts of jarring instincts tost, I rove to one, now to the other coast; To bliss unknown my lofty soul aspires, My lot unequal to my vast desires. As'mongst the hinds a child of royal birth Finds his high pedigree by conscious worth; So man, amongst his fellow brutes exposed, Sees he's a king, but'tis a king deposed: Pity him, beasts! you, by no law confined, Are barr'd from devious paths by being blind; Whilst man, through opening views of various ways Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays; Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste, One moment gives the pleasure and distate; Bilk'd by past minutes, while the present cloy, The flattering future still must give the joy. Not happy, but amused upon the road, And (like you) thoughtless of his last abode, Whether next sun his being shall restrain To endless nothing, happiness, or pain. Around me, lo, the thinking, thoughtless crew, (Bewilder'd each) their different paths pursue; Of them I ask the way; the first replies, Thou art a god; and sends me to the skies. Down on the turf (the next) thou two-legg'd beast, There fix thy lot, thy bliss, and endless rest. Between these wide extremes the length is such, I find I know too little or too much. "Almighty Power, by whose most wise command, Helpless, forlorn, uncertain here I stand; Take this faint glimmering of thyself away, Or break into my soul with perfect day!" This said, expanded lay the sacred text, The balmhn, the light, the guide of souls perplex'd: Thus the benighted traveller that strays Through doubtful paths, enjoys the morning rays; The nightly mist, and thick descending dew, Parting, unfold the fields, and vaulted blue. " O Truth divine! enlighten'd by thy ray, I grope and guess no more, but see my way; Thou clear'dst the secret of my high descent, And told me what those mystic tokens meant; Marks of my birth, which I had worn in vain, Too hard for worldly sages to explain. Zeno's were vain, vain Epicurus' schemes, Their systems false, delusive were their dreams; 36 422 ROWE. CGEORGlB tL Unskill'd my two-fold nature to divide, One nursed my pleasure, and one nursed my pride: Those jarring truths which human art beguile, Thy sacred page thus bids me reconcile." Offspring of God, no less thy pedigree, What thou once wert, art now, and still may be, Thy God alone can tell, alone decree; Faultless thou dropt from his unerring skill, With the bare power to sin, since free of will: Yet charge not with thy guilt his bounteous love, For who has power to walk, has power to rove: Who acts by force impell'd, can naught deserve; And wisdom short of infinite may swerve. Borne on thy new-imp'd wings, thou took'st thy flight, Left thy Creator, and the realms of light; Disdain'd his gentle precept to fulfil; And thought to grow a god by doing ill: Though by foul guilt thy heavenly form defaced, In nature chang'd, from happy mansions chased, Thou still retain'st some sparks of heavenly fire, Too faint to mount, yet restless to aspire; Angel enough to seek thy bliss again, And brute enough to make thy search in vain. The creatures now withdraw their kindly use, Some fly thee, some torment, and some seduce; Repast ill suited to such different guests, For what thy sense desires, thy soul distastes; Thy lust, thy curiosity, thy pride, Curb'd, or deferr'd, or balk'd, or gratified, Rage on, and make thee equally unbless'd, In what thou want'st, and what thou hast possess'O In vain thou hopest for bliss on this poor clod, Return, and seek thy Father, and thy God: Yet think not to regain thy native sky, Borne on the wings of vain philosophy; Mysterious passage! hid from human eyes; Soaring you'll sink, and sinking you will rise: Let humble thoughts thy wary footsteps guide, Regain by meekness what you lost by pride. ELIZABETH ROWE. 1674-1737. ELIZABETH ROWE, distinguished for her piety, literature, and poetical talents, was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a clergyman of Ilchester. She early evinced a very decided taste for reading and poetry, and in het twenty-second year she published a volume of "Poems on Several Occasions, by Philomela." In 1710 she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a gentleman of considerable literary attainments, who was some years her junior, but who, to her great grief, died of consumption but a few years after their marriage, at the early age of twenty-eight. After his death she retired to Frome, in the neighborhood of which she possessed a paternal estate, and there composed her once celebrated worlq "' Letters from the Dead to the Living." She died'n 1737. 1727-1760.3 ROWE. 423 " The poems of Mrs. Rowe," says Southey, " show much spirit and cultivation, and are chiefly characterized by their devotion. They are at times a little more enthusiastic than is allowable even for poetry, and are sometimes distorted by metaphysics, but generally their beauties prevail over their faults." DESPAIR. Oh! lead me to some solitary gloom, Where no enlivening beams nor cheerful echoes come; But silent all, and dusky let it be, Remote, and unfrequented but by me; Mysterious, close, and sullen as that grief Which leads me to its covert for relief. Far from the busy world's detested noise, Its wretched -pleasures, and distracted joys Far from the jolly fools, who laugh and play, And dance, and sing, impertinently gay, Their short, inestimable hours away; Far from the studious follies of the great, The tiresome farce of ceremonious state. There, in a melting, solemn, dying strain, Let me all day upon my lyre complain. And wind up all its soft harmonious strings, To noble, serious, melancholy things. And let no human foot, but mine, e'er trace The close recesses of the sacred place: Nor let a bird, of cheerful note come near, To whisper out his airy raptures here. Only the pensive songstress of the grove, Let her, by mine, her mournful notes improve; While drooping winds among the branches sigh, And sluggish waters heavily roll by. Here, to my fatal sorrows let me give The short remaining hours I have to live. Then, with a sullen, deep-fetch'd groan expire, And to the grave's dark solitude retire. A HYMN, In imitation of Canticles, v. 6, 7. Ye pure inhabitants of light, Ye virgin minds above, That feel the sacred violence And mighty force of love: By all your boundless joys, by all Your love to human kind, I charge you to instruct me where My absent Lord to find. I've search'd the pleasant vales and plains. And climb'd the hills around; But no glad tidings of my love Among the swains have found. I've oft invoked him in the shades, By every stream and rock; The rocks, the streams, and echoing shades, My vain indus'ry mock. 424 GROVE. [GEORGaE I. I traced the city's noisy streets, And told my cares aloud; But no intelligence could meet Among the thoughtless crowd. I search'd the temple round, for there He oft has blest my sight, And half unveil'd, of his loved face Disclosed the heavenly light. But with these glorious views, no more I feast my ravish'd eyes, For veil'd with interposing clouds, My eager search he flies. Oh, could I in some desert land His sacred footsteps trace, I'd with a glad devotion kneel, And bless the happy place. I'd follow him o'er burning sands, Or where perpetual snow With horrid aspect clothes the ground, To find my Lord, I'd go. Nor stormy seas should stay my course, Nor unfrequented shore, Nor craggy Alps, nor desert wastes Where hungry lions roar. Through ranks of interposing deaths To his embrace I'd fly, And to enjoy his blissful smiles, Would be content to die. HENRY GROVE. 1683-1738. HENrRY GRovE, a " dissenting" clergyman of great literature and piety, was born at Taunton, Somersetshire, 1683. He was early impressed by his parents with an ardent love for religion and morality, and at school and at the academy I he acquired a taste for the elegant authors of Greece and Rome, which he cultivated through life with unwearied fondness and assiduity, and which gave uncommon grace and beauty to his style. At the age of twentytwo he entered the ministry, for which he was eminently qualified by his piety and learning; and he became a very popular preacher. On the decease of Mr. Warren, the preceptor of the academy at Taunton, Mr. Grove was elected to fill his place, and his first publication was an essay drawn up for the use of his pupils, entitled, " The Regulation of Diversions," designed to call off the attention of youth from the too eager pursuit of pleasure, and to infuse into them a thirst for the acquisition of knowledge and virtue.2 His 1 "Dissenters" had not the privilege of Oxford and Cambridge Universities 2 " If I were to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every variety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me through life, and a shield against its ills, however things might go amiss, and the world frown upon me, it would be A TASTE FOR READYNG. I speak of it only as a worldly advantage, and not in the slightest degree as- superseding or derogating from the higher office and surer and stronger panoply of religious principles-but as a taste, an instrument, and a mode of pleasurable gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means'f gratifying It, and you can hardly fail of making a happy man; unless, indeed, you put into his 1727-1760.] GROVE. 425 next writings for the public were contributions for the Spectator. Numbers 588, 601, 626, and 635 (the last number) are from his pen. He also published many treatises of a strictly religious character. Of these, " A Discourse on Secret Prayer," " The Evidence of our Saviour's Resurrection Considered,"," Some Thoughts concerning the Proof of a Future State from Reason," and "Discourses on the Lord's Supper," and on," Saving Faith," are best known. " In all his writings, Mr. Grove, taking the Scripture solely for his guide, adhered to the result of his own inquiries; his mind was biased by no systems or creeds, and his theology, therefore, was purely practical, and, as far as the fallibility of men will allow in judging of the text, perfectly conformable to the tenor of the Gospel." l After living a life of great benevolence and practical piety, he died on the 27th of February, 1738, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. The following extracts from one of his letters to a friend, draw a true picture of his own character, in his directions for THE TRUE ART OF ENJOYING LIFE. It will not be altogether out of character, if I write down a few reflections on the art of improving human life, so as to pass it in peace and tranquillity, and make it yield the noblest pleasures it is capable of affording us. The first rule, and in a manner comprehensive of all the rest, is always to consider human life in its connection, as a state of trial, with an everlasting existence. How does this single thought at once raise and sink the value of every thing under the sun? sink it as a part of our worldly portion; raise it as a means and opportunity of promoting the glory of the great Author of all good, and the happiness, present and future, of our fellow-creatures as well as our own? —In the next place, we are to lay down this for a certain maxim, and constantly attend to it, that our happiness must arise from our own temper and actions, not immedaitely fromany external circumstances. These, at best, are only considerable, as they supply a larger field to the exercise of our virtue, and more leisure for the improvements and entertainments of the mind: whereas, the chief delights of a reasonable being must result from its own operations, and reflections upon them as consonant to its nature, and the order it holds in the universe. How do I feel myself within? Am I in my natural state? Do I put my faculties to their right use?-To require less from others than is commonly done, in order to be pleased, and to be more studious to please them, not from a meanness'f spirit, not from artful views, but from an unaffected benevolence, is another rule of greater importance than is easily imagined; and more efhands a most perverse selection of books. You place him in contact with the best society in every period of history-with the wisest, the wittiest-with the tenderest, and the purest characters that have adorned humanity. You make him a denizen of all nations-a contemporary of all ages. Tho world has been created for him. It is hardly possible but the character should take a higher and better tone from the constant habit of associating in thought with a class of thinkers: to say the least of it, above the average of humanity." From Sir John Herschel's'" Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy." 1 Dralke's Essays, vol. iii. p. 210..36 426 GROVE. [GEORGE II. fectually reaches all that is aimed at by self-love, without designing it. To this add, that though we should be impartial, yet not severe in the judgment we pass, and the demands we make upon ourselves; watchful against the infirmities and errors too incident to human nature, but not supposing that we shall be entirely free from them, nor afflicting ourselves beyond measure to find that we are not. Such an overstrained severity breaks the force of the mind, and hinders its progress towards perfection. In the choice of conditions, or making any steps in life, it is a dictate of wisdom to prefer reality to appearance, and to follow Providence as our guide: to be more indifferent to life, and all things in it, which the less we value the more we shall enjoy. And, lastly, to consider that the happiness of the present state consists more in repose than pleasure; and in those pleasures that are pure and calm (which are likewise the most lasting) rather than in those which violently agitate the passions. Happy are we, when our pleasures flow from the regularity of our passions, and even course of piety and goodness, an humble confidence in the mercy of God, and from the hope of immortality! Not to be contented without a perpetual succession of other pleasures besides these, is the way never to know contentment. ON NOVELTY. One advantage of our inclination for novelty is, that it annihilates all the boasted distinctions among mankind. Look not up with envy to those above thee! Sounding titles, stately buildings, fine gardens, gilded chariots, rich equipages, what are they? They dazzle every one but the possessor; to him that is accustomed to them they are cheap and regardless things; they supply him not with brighter images or more sublime satisfactions, than the plain man may have, whose small estate will just enable him to support the charge of a simple, unencumbered life. He enters heedless into his rooms of state, as you or I do under our poor sheds. The noble paintings and costly furniture are lost on him; he sees them not; as how can it be otherwise, when by custom a fabric infinitely more grand and finished, that of the universe, stands unobserved by the inhabitants, and the everlasting lamps of heaven are lighted up in vain, for any notice that mortals take of them? Thanks to indulgent nature, which not only placed her children originally upon a level, but still, by the strength of this principle, in a great measure preserves it, in spite of all the care of man to introduce artificial distinctions. To add no more-is not this fondness for novelty, which makes us out of conceit with all we already have, a convincing proof of a future state? Either man was made in vain, or this is not the only world he was made for: for there cannot lbe a greater in 1727-1760.] TICKELL. 427 stance of vanity than that to which man is liable, to be deluded from the cradle to the grave with fleeting shadows of happiness. His pleasures, and those not considerable neither, die in the possession, and fresh enjoyments do not rise fast enough to fill up half his life with satisfaction. When I see persons sick of themselves any longer than they are called away by something that is of force to chain down the present thought: when I see them hurry from country to town, and then from the town back again into the country, continually shifting postures, and placing life in all the different lights they can think of: " Surely," say I to myself, " life is vain, and the man beyond expression stupid or prejudiced, who from the vanity of life cannot gather that he is designed for immortality." Spectator, No. 626. THOMAS TICKELL. 1686-1740. THOMas TICKELL, the bosom friend of Addison, was born in ZBridekirk, neai Carlisle, in Cumberland, in 1686. At the usual age he entered Oxford Uni. versity, where he devoted himself to his studies with great industry. He was early introduced to Addison, and gained his friendship, which was never for a moment violated. Addison, it is said, had the affection of a father for Tick. ell, who, in return, loved and venerated that great man with a warmth of zeal which no filial affection could exceed. In consequence of this connection he made several contributions to the Spectator and Guardian, though his papers cannot all now be identified. While negotiations were on foot that preceded the peace of Utrecht,l he published his poem entitled 4"The Prospect of Peace." Though it has not much merit as a poem, it presents some noble thoughts on the general subject of peace and the duty of nations to cultivate it among each other, which, if practised, would make the world much better and happier. In 1717, when Addison was made secretary of state, he advanced his friend Tickell to the post of under-secretary, a situation which he filled with equal advantage to himself and his patron. The decease of Addison, 1719, was severely felt and most sincerely la mented by Tickell. To the collected works of his great patron, who had on his death-bed left him the charge of publishing them, he prefixed an "1 Elegy," in memory of their author, ",to whose beauty and pathos," says Dr. Drake,,' no language can do justice." It is this, indeed, on which his fame as a writer chiefly rests; though his verses on the c" Cato"' of Addison, and his ballad of I" Colin and Lucy," have much merit. His promotion and prosperity ceased not with the death of Addison. In 1725 he was created secretary to the lords justices of Ireland, a situation of dignity and profit, and he hel(l't till his death, which took place on the 23d of April, 1740. ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON.A If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 1 The treaty of Utrecht was signed in 1713. 2 This was addressed to the Earl of Wa wick, Addison's step-son. 428 TICKELL. [GEORGE Il, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh! judge my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave! How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of lungs I What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear, departed friend. Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine; Miie with true sighs thy absence to bemoan And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful, if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue; My grief be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallow'd mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven; Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation, came a nobler guest; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. In what new region to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbodied mind; A. winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? Or curious trace the long, laborious maze Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well-suited to thy gentle mind? 1727-1760.] BENTLEY. 429 Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend; To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite, Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to sooth my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato' there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious song There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. RICHARD BENTLEY. 1662-1742 RICHARD BENTLEY, one of the most learned men, and perhaps cne greatest classical scholar England has produced, was the son of a farmer near Wakefield, in Yorkshire, and was born in 1662. He was educated at Cambridge, and became chaplain to Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester. In 1692 he was appointed to the lectureship instituted by Boyle, for the defence of the Christian religion, and he delivered a series of very able discourses against atheism, which were highly popular. His next public appearance was in the famous controversy with the Hon. Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, relative to the genuineness of the Greek Epistles of Phalarus.2 Most of the wits and scholars of that period joined with Boyle against Bentley; but he triumphantly established the position that the epistles are spurious. Though professedly a controversial work, it embodies a mass of accurate information relative to historical facts, antiquities, chronology, and philology, such as, we may safely say, has rarely, if ever, been collected in the same space; and shows how thoroughly digested and familiar was the vast stock of reading which Bentley possessed. At the end of the "Dissertation on Phalarus," Bentley denies the genuineness of the " Fables" which bear AEsop's name. It would be impossible, in this mere sketch of his life,3 to enumerate all his subsequent works. They were mostly of a classical character, and from the great learning and research which they displayed, established his reputation, not in England only, but on the continenti as the first scholar of his age. In 1 Addison's tragedy of " Cato." 2 See this controversy spoken of on page 342. 8 Read-Dr. Monk's Life of Bentley, a most interesting as well as learned piece of biography: also a life by Hartley Coleridge, in his "' Lives of Distinguished Northerns. .430 BENTLEY. [GEORGE II. one labor, however, he signally failed: it was in his edition of the ",Paradise Lost." Assuming that, from the blindness of Milton, and, consequently, from the necessity of his dictating his thoughts to others, many verbal errors must have been made in transcribing, he undertook to make " emendations" without number, in that immortal work. It proved a most signal failure, and showed that, however learned he was in classic lore, he was destitute of true poetic taste and feeling, and could not enter into the lofty conceptions and sublime flights of the great English bard. One of his " emendations" will suffice here. The sublime line, "No light, but rather darkness visible," Bentley renders, "No light, but rather a transpicuous gloom;" thus verifying his favorite maxim, that no man was ever written out of his reputation except by himself. After a life of great literary labor, and enjoying some of the highest honors in the church, this distinguished scholar died on the 14th of July, 1742. AUTHORITY OF REASON IN RELIGION. We profess ourselves as much concerned, and as truly as [the deists] themselves are, for the use and authority of reason in controversies of faith. We look upon right reason as the native lamp of the soul, placed and kindled there by our Creator, to conduct us in the whole course of our judgments and actions. True reason, like its divine Author, never is itself deceived, nor ever deceives any man. Even revelation itself is not shy nor unwilling to ascribe its own first credit and fundamental authority to the test and testimony of reason. Sound reason is the touchstone to distinguish that pure and genuine gold from baser metals; revelation truly divine, from imposture and enthusiasm: so that the Christian religion is so far from declining or fearing the strictest trials of reason, that it everywhere appeals to it; is defended and supported by it; and, indeed, cannot continue, in the apostle's description, "pure and undefiled" without it. It is the benefit of reason alone, under the Providence and Spirit of God, that we ourselves are at this day a reformed orthodox church: that we departed from the errors of popery, and that we knew, too, where to stop; neither running into the extravagances of fanaticism, nor sliding into the indifferency of libertinism. Whatsoever, therefore, is inconsistent with natural reason, can never be justly imposed as an article of faith. That the same body is in many places at once; that plain bread is not bread; such things, though they be said with never so much pomp and claim to infallibility, we have still greater authority to reject them, as being contrary to common sense and our natural faculties; as subverting the foundations of all faith, even the grounds of their own credit, and all the principles of civil life. So far are vwe from contending with our adversaries about the dignity and authority of reason; but then we differ with them 1721'-1760.] SO0ERVILLE. 431 about the exercise of it, and the extent of its province. For the deists there stop, and set bounds to their faith, where reason, their only guide, does not lead the way further, and walk along before them. We, on the contrary, as Moses was shown by divine power a true sight of the promised land, though himself could not pass over to it, so we think reason may receive from revelation some further discoveries and new prospects of things, and be fully convinced of the reality of them; though itself cannot pass on, nor travel those regions; cannot penetrate the fund of those truths, nor advance to the utmost bounds of them. For there is certainly a wide difference between what is contrary to reason, and what is superior to it and out of its reach. WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. 1692-1742. THIS ardent lover and eulogist of field-sports, was born in 1692, and was educated at Oxford. After leaving the university, he settled upon his patrimonial estate in Warwickshire, and occupied his time partly with the duties of a justice of the peace, partly with the active pleasures of the sportsman, and partly with the cultivation of his poetical talents. Hospitable, convivial, and careless of economy, he became involved in debt, and in the latter part of his life, according to the account of his friend Shenstone, the poet,'" drank himself into pains of the body, in order to get rid of the pains of the mind." Thus, most lamentably, was his misery completed, and his end accelerated; and he died in 1742, in the fiftieth year of his age. Somerville is best known by his poem, entitled the " Chase," which still has considerable popularity. It is written in blank verse, tolerably harmonious, and his descriptions, always accurate, from his own practical knowledge of his subject, are frequently vivid and beautiful. He has also written an. other rural poem, called 1" Field-Sports," which describes the amusement of hawking; " Hobinol, or Rural Games," a mock heroic; and many pieces of a miscellaneous character. Of the latter, the lines to Addison show much good feeling, and just appreciation of the character of that great and good man. BEGINNING OF A FOX-HUNT. Ere yet the morning peep, Or stars retire from the first blush of day, With thy far-echoing voice alarm thy pack, And rouse thy bold compeers. Then to the copse Thick with entangling grass, or prickly furze, With silence lead thy many-color'd hounds, In all their beauty's pride. See! how they range Dispersed, how busily this way, and that, They cross, examining with curious nose Each likely haunt. Hark! on the drag I hear Their doubtful notes, preluding to a cry More nobly full, and swell'd with every mouth. As straggling armies, at the trumpet's voice, 1&2 SOMERVILLE. [GEORGE IL Press to their standard, hither all repair, And hurry through the woods; with hasty step Rustling, and full of hope; now driven on heaps They push, they strive; while from his kennel sneaks The conscious villain. See! he skulks along, Sleek at the shepherd's cost, and plump with meals Purloin'd. So thrive the wicked here below. Though high his brush he bear, though tipt with white It gayly shine; yet ere the sun declined Recall the shades of night, the pamper'd rogue Shall rue his fate reversed; and at his heels Behold the just avenger, swift to seize His forfeit head, and thirsting for his blood. And now In vain each earth he tries, the doors are barr'd Impregnable, nor is the covert safe; He pants for purer air. Hark! what loud shouts Re-echo through the groves! he breaks away. Shrill horns proclaim his flight. Each straggling hound Strains o'er the lawn to reach the distant pack.'Tis triumph all and joy. Now, my brave youths, Now give a loose to the clean generous steed; Flourish the whip, nor spare the galling spur; But in the madness of delight, forget Your fears. Far o'er the rocky hills we range, And dangerous our course: but in the brave True courage never fails. In vain the stream In foaming eddies whirls; in vain the ditch Wide-gaping threatens death. The craggy steep, Where the poor dizzy shepherd crawls with care, And clings to every twig, gives us no pain: But down we sweep, as stoops the falcon bold To pounce his prey. Then up the opponent hill, By the swift motion slung, we mount aloft: So ships in winter-seas now sliding sink Adown the steepy wave, then toss'd on high Ride on the billows, and defy the storm. LINES ADDRESSED TO ADDISON. Great bard! how shall my worthless Muse aspire To reach your praise, without your sacred fire? When panting virtue her last efforts made, You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid; Presumptuous Folly blush'd, and Vice withdrew To vengeance yielding her abandon'd crew.'Tis true, confederate wits their forces join; Parnassus labors in the work divine: Yet these we read with too impatient eyes, And hunt for you through every dark disguise; In vain your modesty that name conceals, Which every thought, which every word, reveals; With like success bright Beauty's Goddess tries To veil immortal charms from mortal eyes; I Alluding to the initials, c r I o, with which Addison signed all his papers in the Spectator. 1727 L760.] SWIFT. 43 Her graceful port,-and her celestial mien, To her brave son betray the Cyprian queen; Odors divine perfume her rosy breast, She glides along the plain in majesty confess'd. Hard was the task, and worthy your great mind, To please at once, and to reform mankind: Yet, when you write, Truth charms with such address, Pleads Virtue's cause with such becoming grace, His own fond heart the guilty wretch betrays, He yields delighted, and convinced obeys: You touch our follies with so nice a skill, Nature and habit prompt in vain to ill. Nor can it lessen the Spectator's praise, That from your friendly hand he wears the bays; His great design all ages shall commend, But more his happy choice in such a friend. So the fair queen of night the world relieves, Nor at the sun's superior honor grieves, Proud to reflect the glories she receives. Contending nations ancient Homer claim, And Mantua glories in her Maro's name; Our happier soil the prize shall yield to none, Ardenna's groves shall boast an Addison. Ye sylvan powers, and all ye rural gods, That guard these peaceful shades and blest d6odes, For your new guest your choicest gifts prepare, Exceed his wishes, and prevent his prayer; Grant him, propitious, freedom, health, and peace, And as his virtues, let his stores increase. His lavish hand no deity shall mourn, The pious bard shall make a just return; In lasting verse eternal altars raise, And over-pay your bounty with his praise. JONATHAN SWIFT. 1667-1745. Or the varied life of this eccentric divine, so numerous and able have been,he details, that had we room to enter into the consideration of it at length, it would be quite an unnecessary work. We will therefore give but a mere sketch of it, referring the reader for more full biographies to the works mentioned below.l Ite was born in Dublin, in 1667, and was educated at Dublin University. At the age of twenty-one he obtained the patronage of Sir William Temple, tnder whose roof, at Moor Park, in Surrey, he resided as an amanuensis and a companion until the death of his patron in 1698. Here he wrote his celebrated treatise, entitled " The Battle of the Books," against Bentley; and while here he " took orders in the church." Upon the death of Temple, he was in1 Hawkesworth, Sheridan, and Nichols have all prefixed a life of Swift to their edition of his works. But the best edition is that of Sir Walter Scott, with life, 19 vols. 8vo, of which a second edition has been published. Read also, a life of the same, in the 3d vol. of "Drake's Easays;" another in "Johnson's Lives," and a very able article in the 27th vol. of the Edinburgh Review2E 37 434 SWIFT. [GEO(PGE II. vited by the Earl of Berkeley to Ireland, and after many disappointments he obtained the living of Laracor,1 where, in 1704, he published, anonymously, that remarkable work, " The Tale of a Tub." It was designed as a burlesque and satire upon the disputes among the Papists, Episcopalians, and Presbyterians, and for keenness and humor it has, perhaps, never been equalled. In 1713 he was rewarded with the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin; but the return of the Whig party into power, on the accession of the House of Hanover, destroyed all his hopes of further preferment. For some years after, he was employed almost entirely in political and occasional writings, full of virulence and bitterness against many of the men and things of his age, and which are now but little read. In 1724 he became almost an object of idolatry to the Irish by publishing a series of letters under the feigned name of M. 13. Drapier, against one William Wood. This Wood had obtained a patent for coining half-pence for the use of Ireland, to the enormous amount of x~180,000, and Swift, in his "Drapier's Letters," exposed the fraud, and the ruinous consequences to the nation, with such power of reason, and sarcasm, and invective, that the patent was annulled, and the half-pence withdrawn by the government. The following short extract will give an idea of the style and hurmor of these," Letters:"-. WOOD S HALF-PENCE. I am very sensible that such a work as I have undertaken might have worthily employed a much better pen: but when a house is attempted to be robbed, it often happens that the weakest in the family runs first to stop the door. All the assistance I had were some informations from an eminent person, whereof I am afraid I have spoiled a few, by endeavoring to make them of a piece with my own productions; and the rest I was not able to manage. I was in the case of David, who could not move in the armor of Saul, and therefore I rather chose to attack this uncircumcised Philistine (Wood I mean) with a sling and a stone. And I may say for Wood's honor, as well as my own, that he resembles Goliath in many circumstances very applicable to the present purpose: for Goliath had a helmet of BRASS Upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail, and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of BRASS; and he had greaves of BRASS bupon his legs, and a target of BRASS between his shoulders. In short he was, like Mr. Wood, all over BRASS, and he defied the armies of the living God.-Goliath's conditions of combat were likewise the same with these of Wood: if he prevail against us, then shall we be his servants. But if it happens that I prevail over him, I renounce the other part of the condition; he shall never be a servant of mine; for I do not think him fit to be trusted in any honest man's shop. 1 In the county of Meath, north-west of Dublin. While here, he appointed the reading of prayers every Wednesday and Friday. Upon the first Wednesday, after the bell had ceased ringing for some tIme, finding that the congregation consisted only of himself and his alerk, Roger, he began: it Dearly beloved. Roger, the Scripture moveth you and me in sundry places," &c, and then pro eded regularly through the whole service. 1727-1760.3 SWIFT. 435 In 1726 appeared the most pe.rfect of the larger compositions of Swit, and that by which be will probably be longest remembered —" Gulliver's Travels." It is a production entirely unique in English literature. Its main design is, under the form of fictitious travels, to satirize mankind and the institutions of civilized countries; but the scenes and nations which it describes are so wonderful and amusing, that the book is as great a favorite with children as with those misanthropic spirits who delight in contemplating the imperfections of human nature. In the latter part of his life, he published another burlesque on the social world, entitled "Polite Conversation," being an almost exact representation of the unpremeditated talk of ordinary persons. A still more ludicrous and satirical work appeared after his death, under the title of " Directions to Servants." His most important political tracts were,, "The Conduct of the Allies," "The Public Spirit of the Whigs," and "A History of the Four last Years of Queen Anne." In 1736 Swift was seized with a violent fit of giddiness, while writing a satirical poem called the,"Legion Club," which he never finished. From that time he grew worse and worse, till, in 1741, his friends found I's passions so violent and ungovernable, his memory so decayed, and his reason so depraved, that they were obliged to keep all strangers from him. In 1742, after a week of indescribable bodily suffering, he sank into a state of quiet idiocy, in which he continued till the 19th of October, 1745, when he gently breathed his last. As a writer, the prose works of Swift are among the best specimens we possess of a thorough English style. " He knew," says Dr. Blair, " beyond almost any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language; and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is one of the most useful models. But we must not look for much ornament and grace in his language. His haughty and morose genius made him despise any embellishment of this kind, as beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentime nts in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in the right, and is very indifferent whether you are pleased or not. His sentences are commonly negligently arranged; distinctly enough as to sense, but without any regard to smoothness of sound; often without much regard to compactness or elegance." The following selections are given as specimens of his best style: — COUNTRY HOSPITALITY. Those inferior duties of life, which the French (all les petites morales, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the name of good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the general notion of it, to be a sort of artificial good sense, adapted to the meanest capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their commerce with each other. Low and little understandings, without some rules of this kind, would be perpetually wandering into a thousand indecencies and irregularities in behavior; and in their ordinary conversation, fall into the same boisterous familiarities that one observes among them where intemperance has quite taken away the use of their reason. In other instances it is odd to consider, that for want of common discretion, the very end of good breeding is wholly perverted; and civility, intended to make us easy, is employed in laying chains and fetters upon us, in de 436 SWIFT. [GEORGE IL barring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonable de sires and inclinations. This abuse reigns chiefly in the country, as I found to my vexation when I was last there, in a visit I made to a neighbor about two miles from my cousin. As Soon as I entered the parlor, they put me into the great chair that stood close by a huge fire, and kept me there by force until I was almost stifled. Then a boy came in a great hurry to pull off my boots, which I in vain opposed, urging that I must return soon after dinner. In the mean time, the good lady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand; the girl returned instantly with a beer-glass half full of aqua mirabilis and sirup of gillyflowers. I took as much as I had a mind for, but madam vowed I should drink it off; for she was sure it would do me good after coming out of the cold air; and I was forced to obey, which absolutely took away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to sit at a distance from the fire; but they told me it was as much as my life was worth, and sat me with my back just against it. Although my appetite was quite gone, I was resolved to force down as much as I could, and desired the leg of a pullet. " Indeed, Mr. Bickerstaff," says the lady, 1" you must eat a wing, to oblige me;" and so put a couple upon my plate. I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal: as often as I called for small beer, the master tipped the wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer of October. Some time after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man, who came with me, to get ready the horses; but it was resolved I should not stir that night; and when I seemed pretty much bent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be locked, and the children hid my cloak and boots. The next question was, What would I have for supper? I said, I never eat any thing at night; but was at last, in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into my head. After three hours, spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment, insinuating to me, 4" That this was the worst time of the year for provisions; that they were at a great distance from any market; that they were afraid I should be starved; and that they knew they kept me to my loss;" the lady went, and left me to her husband; for they took special care I should never be alone. As soon as her back was turned, the little misses ran backward and forward every moment, and constantly as they came in, or went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which, in good manners, I was forced to return with a bow, and " your humble servant, pretty miss." Exactly at eight, the mother came up, and discovered, by the redness of her face, that supper was not far off, It was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in proportion I desired at my usual hour to go to my repose, and 1727-1760.] SWIFT. 437 was conducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the whole train of children. They importuned me to drink something before I went to bed; and, upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of stingo, as they call it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night. I was forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to be called. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away; and, after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neat's tongues, venison pasty, and stale beer, took leave of the family. But the gentleman would needs see me part of the way, and carry me a short cut through his own ground, which he told me would save half a mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck by leaping over his ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt, when my horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an hour to recover him again. TILE SPIDER AND THE BEE.1 Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a certain spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infinite numbers of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his palace, like human bones before the cave of some giant. The avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes, all after the modern way of fortification. After you had passed several courts you came to the centre, wherein you might behold the constable himself in his own lodgings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to sally out upon all occasions of prey or defence. In this mansion he had for some time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger to his person by swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from below: when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a wandering bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass had discovered itself, and in he went; where, expatiating a while, he at last happened to alight upon one of the outward walls of the spider's citadel; which, yielding to the unequal weight, sunk down to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavored to force his passage, and thrice the centre shook. The spider within, feeling the terrible convulsion, supposed at first that nature was approaching to her final dissolution; or else, that Beelzebub, with all his legions, was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his subjects2 whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, 1 This is taken from "The Battle of the Books," and had reference to the great contest then going on between the advocates of ancient and modern learning. The Bee represents the ancients; the Spider the moderns. 2 BeeIzebub, in the Hebrew, signifies lord of flies. _7e 438 SWIFT. [EEORGE i,. he at length valiantly resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. Meanwhile the bee had acquitted himself of his toils, and, posted securely at some distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from the rugged remnants of the cobweb. By this time the spider was adventured out, when, beholding the chasms, the ruins, and dilapidations of his fortress, he was very near at his wits' end; he stormed and swore like a madman, and swelled till he was ready to burst. At length, casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes from events, (for they knew each other by sight,) " A plague split you," said he, 1" for a giddy puppy; is it you, with a vengeance, that have made this litter here? could you not look before you? do you think I have nothing else to dol but to mend and repair after you?" —" Good words, friend," said the bee, (having now pruned himself, and being disposed to be droll:) " I'll give you my hand and word to come near your kennel no more; I was never in such a confounded pickle since I was born." —" Sirrah," replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old custom in our family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I should come and teach you better manners."-" I pray have patience," said the bee, L"or you'll spend your substance, and, for aught I see, you may stand in need of it all, toward the repair of your house." —" Rogue, rogue," replied the spider, "yet methinks you should have more respect to a person whom all the world allows to be so much your betters." — " By my troth," said the bee, c" the comparison will amount to a very good jest; and you will do me a favor to let me know the reasons that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful a dispute." At this, the spider, having swelled himself into the size and posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true spirit of controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and angry; to urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers or objections of his opposite; and fully predetermined in his mind against all conviction. 1" Not to disparage myself," said he, " by the comparison with such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or home, without stock or inheritance? born to no possession of your own, but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your livelihood is a universal plunder upon nature; a freebooter over fields and gardens; and, for the sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily as a violet. Whereas I am a domestic animal, furnished with a native stock within myself. This large castle (to show my improvements in the mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and the materials extracted altogether out of my own person." 1"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least that I am come honestly by my wings and my voice; for then, it seems, I am obliged to Heaven alone for my flights and my 1727-1760.] SWIFT. 439 music; and Providence would never have best-wee. on me two such gifts, without designing them for the noblest ends. I visit, indeed, all the flowers and blossoms of the field and garden; but whatever I collect thence, enriches myself, without the least injury to their beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your skill in architecture and other mathematics, I have little to say: in that building of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labor and method enough; but, by woful experience for us both, it is too plain the materials are naught; and I hope you will henceforth take warning, and consider duration and matter, as well as method and art. You boast, indeed, of being obliged to no other creature, but of drawing and spinning out all from yourself; that is to say, if we may judge of the liquor in the vessel by what issues out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and poison in your breast; and, though I would by no means lessen or disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are somewhat obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign assistance. Your inherent portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by sweepings exhaled from below; and one insect furnishes you with a share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the question comes all to this: whether is the nobler being of the two, that which, by a lazy contemplation of four inches round, by an overweening pride, feeding and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom, producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb; or that which, by a universal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, and distinction of things, brings home honey and wax?" One of the most amusing of the papers of Swift is entitled 4" Predictions for the year 1708; wherein the month, and day of the month are set down, the persons named, and the great actions and events of next year particularly related, as they will come to pass. Written to prevent the people of England from being further imposed on by vulgar almanac-makers. By IsAAc BrcKERSTAFF, Esq." The chief object of this was to hold up to deserved ridicule one John Partridge, a very celebrated almanac-maker of those timhes, who pretended to predict the events of each ensuing year; and it is astonishing what confidence the public placed in his prognostications. The prediction of "Isaac Bickerstaff," relative to the great astrologer, is as follows:PARTRIDGE S DEATH FORETOLD. My first prediction is but a trifle, yet I will mention it, to show how ignorant those sottish pretenders to astrology are in their own concerns: it relates to Partridge the almanac-maker; I have consulted the star of his nativity by my own rules, and find he will infallibly die upon the 29th of March next, about eleven -at night, of a raging fever; therefore I advise him to consider of it. and settle his affairs in time. This was followed up by "An Answer to Bickerstaf," and another pam 4,10 SWIFT. [GEORGE II. phlet called,, The Accomplish-nment of the First of Mr. Biclkerstaff's Predic tions, being an Account of the LDeath of Mr. Partridge, the Almanac-maker, upon the 29th instant, in a Letter to a Person of Honor," both written by Swift, with his usual exquisite humor. The following is the latter piecePARTRIDGE S DEATH REALIZED. My LORD,-In obedience to your lordship's commands, as well as to satisfy my own curiosity, I have for some days past inquired constantly after Partridge the almanac-maker, of whom it was foretold in Mr. Bickerstaff's predictions, published about a month ago, that he should die the 29th instant about eleven at night, of a raging fever. I had some sort of knowledge of him, when I was employed in the revenue, because he used every year to present me with his almanac, as he did other gentlemen, upon the score of some little gratuity we gave him. I saw him accidentally once or twice about ten days before he died, and observed he began very nmuch to droop and languish, though I hear his friends did not seem to apprehend him in any danger. About two or three days ago he grew ill, was confined first to his chamber, and in a few hours after to his bed, where Dr. Case and Mrs. Kirleus' were sent for to visit, and to prescribe to him. Upon this intelligence, I sent thrice every day one servant or other to inquire after his health; and yesterday, about four in the afternoon, word was brought me, that he was past hopes: upon which I prevailed with myself to go and see him, partly out of commiseration, and, I confess, partly out of curiosity. He knew me very well, seemed surprised at my condescension, and made me compliments upon it, as well as he could in the condition he was. The people about him said, he had been for some time delirious; but when I saw him, he had his understanding as well as ever I knew, and spoke strong and hearty, without any seeming uneasiness or constraint. After I had told hilm how sorry I was to see him in those melancholy circumstances, and said some other civilities, suitable to the occasion, [ desired him to tell me freely and ingenuously, whether the predictions Mr. Bickerstaff had published relating to his death, had not too much affected and worked on his imagination. He confessed, he had often had it in his head, but never with much apprehension, till about a fortnight before; since which time it had the perpetual possession of his mind and thoughts, and he did verily believe was the true natural cause of his present distemper: for, said he, I am thoroughly persuaded, and I think I have very good reasons that Mr. Bickerstaff spoke altogether by guess, and knew no more what will happen this year, than I did myself. I told him his discourse surprised me; and I would be glad he were in a stajl of health to be able to tell me, what reason he had to be I Two famous quacks of that day. 1727 -1760.] SWIFT. 441 convinced of Mr. Bickerstaff's ignorance. He replied, I am a poor ignorant fellow, bred to a mean trade, yet I have sense enough to know, that all pretences of foretelling by astrology are deceits, for this manifest reason, because the wise and the learned, who can only judge whether there be any truth in this science, do all unanimously agree to laugh at and despise it; and none but the poor ignorant vulgar give it any credit, and that only upon the word of such silly wretches as I and my fellows, who can hardly write or read. I then asked him why he had not calculated his own nativity, to see whether it agreed with Bickerstaff's prediction? At which he shook his head, and said, Oh! sir, this is no time for jesting, but for repenting those fooleries, as I do now from the very bottom of my heart. By what I can gather from you, said I, the observations and predictions you printed with your almanacs, were mere impositions on the people. He replied, If it were otherwise, I should have the less to answer for. We have a common form for all those things; as to foretelling the weather, we never meddle with that, but leave it to the printer, who takes it out of any old almanac, as he thinks fit; the rest was my own invention to make my almanac sell, having a wife to maintain, and no other way to get my bread; for mending old shoes is a poor livelihood; and (added he, sighing) I wish I may not have done more mischief by my physic than my astrology; though I had some good receipts from my grandmother, and my own compositions were such, as I thought, could at least do no hurt. I had some other discourse with him, which now I cannot call to mind; and I fear I have already tired your lordship. I shall only add one circumstance, that on his death-bed he declared himself a nonconformist, and had a fanatic preacher to be his spiritual guide. After half an hour's conversation I took my leave, being almost stifled by the closeness of the room. I imagined he could not hold out long, and therefore withdrew to a little coffee-house hard by, leaving a servant at the house with orders to come immediately, and tell me, as near as he could, the minute when Partridge should expire, which was not above two hours after; when, looking upon my watch, I found it to be above five minutes after seven: by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff wtas mistaken almost four hours in his calculation. In the other circumstances he was exact enough. But whether he hath not been the cause of this poor man's death, as well as the predictor, may be very reasonably disputed. However, it must be confessed, the matter is odd enough, whether we should endeavor to account for it by chance, or the effect of imagination: for my own part, though I believe no man hath less faith in these matters, yet I shall wait with some impatience, and not without some expectation, the fulfilling of Mr. Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Cardinal de 442 SWIFT. [GEORGE II. 1Noailles is to die upon the fourth of April, and if that should be verified as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should be wholly surprised, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the accomplishment of all the rest. It is amusing to think what a large number of persons at the time actually believed the accomplishment had taken plabe in all respects according to the relation. The wits of the time, too, among whom were Steele and Addison, supported Swift, and uniformly affirmed that Partridge had died on the day and hour predicted. The distress and vexation of Partridge himself were beyond all measure ridiculous, and he absolutely had the folly to insert the following advertisement at the close of his next year's almanac: — c" Whereas it has been industriously given out by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., and others, to prevent the sale of this year's almanac, that John Partridge is dead: this may inform all his loving countrymen, that he is still living, in health; and they are knaves that reported it otherwise." The most interesting account, however, of the singularly comic consequences of this prediction was drawn up by the Rev. Dr. Yalden, Mr. Partridge's neighbor, of whom, as connected with this humorous affair, I will give a short account, succeeding Swift, though it be not in exact chronological order. Though Swift wrote much that ranks under poetry, yet he had none of the characteristics of a true poet. —nothing of the sublime or the tender; nothing, in short, that reaches or affects the heart. "It could scarcely be expected," says a critic, c"that an irreligious divine, a heartless politician, and a selfish lover, could possess the elements of true poetry; and, therefore, Swift may be considered rather as a rhymer than a poet." This is true; as he himself says in the "- Verses on his own Death:" "The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme" This " knack" he had in a very eminent degree-the "knack" of writing easy, natural rhymes-of using just the very words in verse that any one would select as the best in prose. In proof of which, take the following selection: — BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality. To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain They begg'd from door to door in vain; Tried every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, 1 Drake's Essays, vol. i. p. 64. 1727-1760.] SWIFT. 443 Having through all the village pass'd, To a small cottage came at last! Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'cl aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful) they found'Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, —What ar't! Then softly turn'd aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints, the hermits said; No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes. They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher; Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force, Applied at bottom, stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden Jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The ulnber made the motion slower; 444 SWIFT. [GEORGE n1:. The flier, though't had leaden feet,'Furn'd round so quick, you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares; Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast-meat which it cannot turn. The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And, with small change, a pulpit grew. The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged. The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll, Fair iRosamond, and Robin Hood, The Little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter; And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe.' A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks disposed to sleep. The cottage by such feats as these Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style: Then said, My house is grown so fine, Methinks I still would call it mine; I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please. He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels; He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-sleeve; His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue; 1 The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob. 't27-4760.] SWIFT. 446 But, being old, continued just As thread-bare, and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues: He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine; Found his head fill'd with many a system: But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd'em. Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin flounced with lace. Plain Goody would no longer down:'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes, Amazed to see her look so prim; And she admired as much at him. Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife; When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard, to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, My dear, I see your forehead sprout! Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us 3 I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And really yours is budding tooNay, —now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if'twere taking root. Description would but tire my muse; In short, they both were turn'd to yews. Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight: On Sundays, after evening-prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew; Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted; So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. 38 446 YALDEN. [GEORGE II. THOMAS YALDEN. 1671-1736. TIIOMIAS YALDEN was born in the city of Exeter, in 1671, and in 1690'was admitted in Magdalen College, Oxford. His first public appearance as a poet was in an:"Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," published in 1693, which was followed by several other poems. Having entered the ministry, he succeeded Atterbury, in 1698, as lecturer at Bridewell Hospital, and in 1707 received the degree of Doctor of Divinity. Having received various preferments in the church, he died July 16, 1736; having to the end of his life, as Dr. Johnson remarks, "- retained the friendship and frequented the conversation of a very numerous and splendid set of acquaintances." Yalden's poetry may be found in the collections of Johnson and Chalmers, but it has very little merit. As a prose writer, however, he has great humor, being the author of the paper entitled "'Squire Bickerstaff detected; or the Astrological Impostor convicted, by John Partridge, Student in Physic and Astrology," which he drew up on Partridge's application, and which that person is said to have printed and published without perceiving the joke. JOHN PARTRIDGE S DEFENCE. It is hard, my dear countrymen of these united nations, it is very hard, that a Briton born, a protestant astrologer, a man of revolution principles, an assertor of the liberty and property of the people, should cry out in vain for justice against a Frenchman, a papist, and an illiterate pretender to science, that would blast my reputation, most inhumanly bury me alive, and defraud my native country of those services, which, in my double capacity, I daily offer the public. It was towards the conclusion of the year 1707, when an impudent pamphlet crept into the world, intituled, Predictions, etc., by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq. Amongst the many arrogant assertions laid down by that lying spirit of divination, he was pleased to pitch on the Cardinal de Noailles and myself, among many other eminent and illustrious persons that were to die within the compass of the ensuing year; and peremptorily fixes the month, day, and hour of our deaths. This, I think, is sporting with great men, and public spirits, to the scandal of religion and reproach of power; and if sovereign princes and astrologers must make diversion for the vulgar -why then farewell, say I, to all governments, ecclesiastical and civil. But, I thank my better stars, 1 am alive to confront this false and audacious predictor, and to make him rue the hour he ever affronted a man of science and resentment: and I shall here present the public with a faithful narrative of the ungenerous treatment and hard usage I have received from the virulent papers and malicious practices of this pretended astrologer. The 28th of March, A. D. 1708, being the night this shamprophet had so impudently fixed for my last, which made little impression on myself; but I cannot answer for my whole family, 1727-1760.3 YALDEN. 447 for my wife, with a concern more than usual, prevailed on me to take somewhat to sweat for a cold, and between the hours of eight and nine, to go to bed. The maid, as she was warming my bed, with a curiosity natural to young wenches, runs to the window, and asks of one passing the street, whom the bell tolled for? Dr. Partridge, says he, the famous almanac-maker, who died suddenly this evening: the poor girl, provoked, told him, he lied like a rascal; the other very sedately replied, the sexton had so informed him, and if false, he was to blame for imposing upon a stranger. She asked a second, and a thirds as they passed, and every one was in the same tone. Now, I do not say these are accomplices to a certain astrological'squire, and that one Bickerstaff might be sauntering thereabouts; because I will assert nothing here but what I dare attest, for plain matter of fact. My wife, at this, fell into a violent disorder; and I must own I was a little discomposed at the oddness of the accident. In the mean time one knocks at my door; Betty runs down, and opening, finds a sober grave person, who modestly inquires, if this was Dr. Partridge's? She taking him for some cautious city patient that came at that time for privacy, shows him into the dining-room. As soon as I could compose myself, I went to him, and was surprised to find my gentleman mounted on a table with a two-foot rule in his hand, measuring my walls, and taking the dimensions of the room. "Pray, sir," says I, 1" not to interrupt you, have you any business with me?" "Only, sir," replies he, "order the girl to bring me a better light, for this is but a very dim one." " Sir," says I, " my name is Partridge." " Oh! the doctor's brother, belike," cries he; " the stair-case, I believe, and these two apartments hung in close mourning, will be sufficient, and only a strip of bays round the other rooms. The doctor must needs die rich, he had great dealings in his way for many years: if he had no family-coat, you had as good use the escutcheons of the company: they are as showish, and will look as magnificent, as if he was descended from the blood-royal." With that I assumed a greater air of authority, and demanded who employed him, or how he came there? c" Why, I was sent, sir, by the company of undertakers," says he, "and they were employed by the honest gentleman, who is executor to the good doctor departed: and our rascally porter, I believe, is fallen fast asleep with the black cloth and sconces, or he had been here, and we might have been tacking up by this time." " Sir," says I, "pray be advised by a friend, and make the best of your speed out of my doors, for I hear my wife's voice, (which, by the by, is pretty distinguishable,) and in that corner of the room stands a good cudgel, which some body has felt before now; if that light in her hands, and she know 448 YALDEN. [GEORGE II. the business you come about, without consulting the stars, I can assure you it will be employed very much to the detriment of your person." "Sir," cries he, bowing with great civility, "I perceive extreme grief for the loss of the doctor disorders you a little at present, but early in the morning I will wait on you with all necessary materials." Now I mention no Mr. Bickerstaff; nor do I say that a certain star-gazing'squire has been playing my executor before his time; but I leave the world to judge, and he that puts things and things fairly together, will not be much wide of the mark. Well, once more I got my doors closed, and prepared for bed, in hopes of a little repose after so many ruffling adventures; just as I was putting out my light in order to it, another bounces as hard as he can knock; I open the window, and ask who is there, and what he wants? " I atm Ned the sexton," replies he, " and come to know whether the doctor left any orders for a funeral sermon, and where he is to be laid, and whether his grave is to be plain or bricked?" "Why, sirrah," says I, "you know me well enough; you know I am not dead, and how dare you affront me after this manner?" "Alack-a-day, sir," replies the fellow, 4" why it is in print, and the whole town knows you are dead; why, there is Mr. White the joiner, is but fitting screws to your coffin, he will be here with it in an instant; he was afraid you would have wanted it before this time." "; Sirrah, sirrab," says I, " you shall know to-morrow to your cost, that I am alive, and alive like to be." "Why, it is strange, sir," says he, " you should make such a secret of your death to us that are your neighbors; it looks as if you had a design to defraud the church of-its dues; and let me tell you, for one that has lived so long by the heavens, that is unhandsomely done." "Hist, hist," says another rogue that stood by him; " away, doctor, into your flannel gear as fast as you can, for here is a whole pack of dismals coming to you with their black equipage, and how indecent will it look for you to stand frightening folks at your window, when you should have been in your coffin these three hours?" In short, what with undertakers, embalmers, joiners, sextons, and your vile elegy-hawkers upon a late practitioner in physic and astrology, I got not one wink of sleep that night, nor scarce a moment's rest ever since. Now I doubt not, but this villanous'squmre has the impudence to assert that these are entirely strangers to him; he, good man, knows nothing of the matter, and..onest Isaac Bickerstaff, I warrant you, is more a man of honor than to be an accomplice with a pack of rascals, that walk the streets on nights, and disturb good people in their beds; but he is gut, if he thinks the whole world is blind; for there is one John 1727/ 1760.] YALDEN. 449 Partridge can smell a knave as far as Grub street,-although he lies in the most exalted garret, and writes himself'squire:-but I will keep my temper, and proceed in the narration. I could not stir out of doors for the space of three months after this, but presently one comes up to me in the street; " Mr. Partridge, that coffin you was last buried in I have not been yet pa.d for." "Doctor," cries another dog, "how do you think people can live by making of graves for nothing? next time you die, you may even toll out the bell yourself, for Ned." A third rogue tips me by the elbow, and wonders how I have the conscience to sneak abroad without paying my funeral expenses. " Bless me 1" says one, " I durst have sworn that was honest Dr. Partridge, my old friend; but poor man, he is gone." " I beg your pardon," says another, " you look so like my old acquaintance that I used to consult on some private occasions; but, alack, he is gone the way of all flesh." " Look, look, look," cries a third, after a competent space of staring at me, "would not one think our neighbor the almanac-maker was crept out of his grave to take the other peep at the stars in this world, and show how much he is improved in fortune-telling by having taken a journey to the other?" Nay, the very reader of our parish, a good, sober, discreet person, has sent two or three times for me to come and be buried decently, or send him sufficient reasons to the contrary, or, if I have been interred in any other parish, to produce my certificate, as the act requires. My poor wife is almost run distracted with being called widow Partridge, when she knows it is false; and once a term she is cited into the court to take out letters of administration. But the greatest grievance is, a paltry quack, that takes up my calling just under my nose, and in his printed directions with N. B. if says, he lives in the house of the late ingenious Mr. John Partridge, an eminent practitioner in leather, physic, and astrology. But to show how far the wicked spirit of envy, malice, and resentment can hurry some men, my nameless old persecutor had provided me a monument at the stone-cutters, and would have erected it in the parish church; and this piece of notorious and expensive villany had actually succeeded, if I had not used my utmost inwerest with the vestry, where it was carried at last but by two voices, that I am alive. That stratagem failing, out comes a long sable elegy, bedecked with hour-glasses, mattocks, sculls, spades, and skeletons, with an epitaph as confidently written to abuse me, and my profession, as if I had been under ground these twenty years. And, after such barbarous treatment as this, can the world blame me, when I ask what is become of the freedom of an Eng lishman? and where is the liberty and property that my old glo rious friend came over to assert? We have driven popery out of 2 F 38* '150 POPE. [GEORGE II. the nation, and sent slavery to foreign climes. The arts only remain in bondage, when a man of science and character shall be openly insulted in the midst of the many useful services he is daily paying the public. Was it ever heard, even in Tturkey or Algiers, that a state-astrologer was bantered out of his life by an ignorant impostor, or bawled out of the world by a pack of villanous, deep-mouthed hawkers? Though I print almanacs, and publish advertisements; though I produce certificates under the ministers and churchwardens' hands that I am alive, and attest the same on oath at quarter-sessions, out comes a full and true relation of the death and interment of John Partridge; truth is borne down, attestations neglected, the testimony of sober persons despised, and a man is looked upon by his neighbors as if he had been seven years dead, and is buried alive in the midst of his friends and acquaintance. ALEXANDER POPE. 1688-1744. TaIS great poet, " to whom," says Warton, " English poesy and the English language are everlastingly indebted," was born in London, on the 22d of May, 1688. His father was a linen-draper, who had acquired a considerable fortune by trade. Being of a feeble frame and delicate constitution, his early education was chiefly domestic. At tlie age of twelve, having made considerable progress in the Greek and Latin languages, he resolved to pursue his own plan of study; and his reading, of which he was excessively fond, became uncommonly extensive and various. At a very early period he manifestedl the greatest folnlness for poetry: as he says of himself, I lisp'd in numbers, and the numbers came. This taste was in a measure formed from the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, when only ten years of age. Before he was twelve, he wrote his " Ode on Solitude, " remarkable for the precocity of sentiment it exhibits, and for that delicacy of language and harmony of versification, for which he afterwards became so eminent. At the age of sixteen, he wrote his " Pastorals," the principal merit of which consists in their correct and musical versification, with a preliminary "Discourse on Pastoral Poetry," "which," says Warton, "is a more extraordinary production than the Pastorals that follow it." At the age of eighteen he produced the " Messiah," a sacred eclogue in imitation of Virgil's "Pollio." In 1709, before he had reached the age of twenty-one, he finished his v" Essay on Criticism." In 1712 he published that remarkable heroi-comic poem, "The Rape of the Lock," in which he has exhibited, more than in any other of his productions, the highest faculty of the poet,-the creative.1 To this succeeded 4The Tem1 " The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name." lMidsummer Nighl's Dream, Act Y. Scene I. 1727-1760.] POPE. 451 ple of Fame," in imitation of Chaucer's " House of Fame,"'"Windsor Forest,"' a loco-descriptive poem, and " Eloisa to Abelard," the most popular, perhaps, of any of his productions. But all these poems, together with his Satires and Epistles, added but very little to his fortune. Accordingly, at the age of twenty-five, he issued proposals for the Translation of the Iliad, by subscription. The work was accomplished in five years, and while the profits were such as to gratify his utmost expectations,l the great and signal merits of the translation received the warmest eulogiums from thle literary world. In a few years after, in conjunction with Fenton and Broome, he translated the Odyssey. The fame which Pope acquired by these writings drew upon him the attacks of the envious;2 and a host of critics, individually insignificant, but troublesome from their numbers, continued to annoy him. To retaliate, he published, in 1728, " The Dunciad," a work c" which fell among his opponents like an exterminating thunderbolt." But while it has displayed the tempera ment of the author in no very enviable light, it has perpetuated the memory of many worthless scribblers, who otherwise would have sunk into oblivion. In 1733 he published his celebrated didactic poem, the "' Essay on Man." No sooner did it appear than it was assailed by his enemies, and others, on the ground that it was full of skeptical or infidel tendencies. From this charge it was ably defended by the learned Dr. Warburton, and has since been most triumphantly vindicated in the preliminary discourse of Mr. Roscoe.3 After the publication of the " Essay on Man" he continued to compose occasional pieces, and planned many admirable works: among the latter was c" A History of the Rise and Progress of English Poetry." But he never lived to enter upon the work, for an asthmatic affection, to which he had long been subject, terminated, in 1744, in a dropsy of the chest, and he expired on the 30th of May of that year.4 "What rank,:' says Dr. Drake, c" should be assigned to Pope in a classification of our English poets, has been a subject of frequent inquiry. It is evident, that by far the greater part of his original productions consists of ethic and satiric poetry; and by those who estimate mere moral sentiment, or the exposure, in splendid versification, of fashionable vice or folly, as the highest province of the art, he must be considered as the first of bards. If, however, sublimity, imagination, and pathos be, as they assuredly are, the noblest efforts of the creative powers, and the most difficult of attainment, Pope will be found to have had some superiors, and several rivals. With Spenser, Shaks peare, and Milton, he cannot, in those essential qualities, enter into comnpeti tion; and when compared with Dryden, Young, and Thomson, the mind hesi tates in the allotment of superiority."5 1 He cleared the sum of five thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. 2 "Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before ENVY?"-Prove, s xxvii. 4. 8 See Roscoe's edition of Pope, 10 vols. London, one of the choicest contributions to English litera-. ture of the present century. Read, also, that elegant and interesting piece of criticism, Wartol's " Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope," a work of which it has been justly said that, " however often perused, it affords fresh delight, and may be considered as one of the books best adapteJ to excite a love of literature." 4 In person, Pope was short and deformed, of great weakness and delicacy of body, and hail, through life, suffered from ill health. Warton remarks, that "his bodily make was of use to him as a writer," quoting the following passage from Lord Bacon's Essays: "It is good to consider deformity not as a sign, which is more deceivable; but as a cause, which seldom faileth of the effect. Whosoever hath any thing fixed in his person that doth induce contempt, hath also a perpetuel spur In himself to rescue and deliver himself from scorn." 5 Read an admirable " Estimate of the Poetical Character and Writings of Pope," prefixoes k4 the ep-cond volume of Roscoe's edition. 452 POPE. [GEORGE II. Warton, in the dedication of his elegant "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope," after making four classes of the various English poets, remarks: u In which of these classes Pope deserves to be placed, the following work is intended to determine;" and he closes his second volume, thus: c "Where, then, according to the question proposed at the beginning of this Essay, shall we.ustly be authorized to place our admired Pope? Not, assuredly, in the same rank with Spenser, Shalespeare, and Milton; however justly we may applaud the'Eloisa,' and the'Rape of the Lock;' but, considering the correctness, elegance, and utility of his works, the weight of sentiment, and the knowledge of man they contain, we may venture to assign him a place next to Milton, and just above Dryden.1 The preference here given to Pope, above other modern English poets, it must be remembered, is founded on the excellencies of his works in general, and taken altogether; for there are parts and passages in other modern authors, in Young and in Thomson, for instance, equal to any of Pope; and he has written nothing in a strain so truly sublime as the'Bard' of Gray."2 3MESSIAH. A2 Sacred Ecloguse, in imitation of Virgil's Pollio.3 Ye nymphs of Solymna!4 begin the song: To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus5 and the Aonian maids,6 Delight no more-0 Thou my voice inspire Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire! Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son! From Jesse's root7 behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: The Ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descend the mystic Dove. Ye heavens! from high the lewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick9 and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; Returning Justice'l lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 1 He means next to that first class, which includes Spenser, Slhakspeare, and Milton, naming these In a chronological order, and not in the order of their merits. 2 And what has he written equal to the "' Elegy," or the "Progress of Poesy," of Gray? 3 Pollio was a Roman senator in the time of Augustus, and celebrated not only as a general, but as a patron of letters and the fine arts. Virgil addressed to him his fourth Eclogue at a time (B. C. 40) when Augustus and Antony had ratified a league of peace, and thus, as it was thought, established the tranquillity of the empire, as in the times of the "golden age." In this Eclogue Virgil is most eloquent in the praise of peace, and in some of his figures and expressions is thought to have isnitated the prophecies of Isaiah, which, probably, he had read in the Greek Septuagint. But however this may be as regards Virgil, Roscoe well remarks of this production of Pope, that "the idea of uniting the sacred prophecies and grand imagery of ISAIAH, with the mysterious visions and pomp of numbers displayed in the POLLIO, thereby combining both sacred and heathen mythology in predicting the coming of the MEoSSIAI, is one of the happiest subjects for producing emotions of sublimnity that ever occurred to the mind of a poet." 4 Jerusalem. 5 A mountain in Thessaly, sacred to the Muses. 6 Aonian maids-the Muses. 7 lsa. x'. 1. 8 1a. xlv. 8. 9 Isa. xxv. 4. 10 Isa. ix. 7. 172t-1760.] POPE. 458 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn! 0 spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring: See lofty Lebanon' his head advance, See nodding forests on the mountains dance; See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; Prepare the way! 2 A God, a God appears! A God, a God! the vocal hills reply; The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies 1 Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys, rise! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay; Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way. The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold! Hear him, ye deaf; 3 and all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless, eyeball pour the day:'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear; From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd4 tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air; Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosomn warms: Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promised5 father of the future age. No more shall nations6 against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a plbughshare end. Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son7 Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. The swain in barren deserts 8 with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. I Isa. xxxv. 2. 2 Isa. xl.. 3, 4. 8 Isa. xlii. 18; xxxv. 5, 6. 4 Isa. xs. 11. 6 lsa. ix. 6. 6 Isa. ii. 4. 7 Isa. lxv. 21, 22. 8 Isa. xxxv 1, 7 454 POPE. rGEORGE II. Waste sandy valleys,' once perplex'd with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn: To leafless shrubs the flowering palm succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs2 with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead. The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents3 lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake, Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongues shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem,4 rise, Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes! See a long race5 thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations6 at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabean7 springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day! No more the rising Suns shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas 9 shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving power remains; Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! Of the "Essay on Criticism," Dr. Johnson remarks, "if he had written nothing else, it would have placed him among the first critics and the first poets; as it exhibits every mode of excellence that can embellish or dignify composition-selection of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept, splendor of illustration, and propriety of digression."]o PRIDE. Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever Nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful Pride! 1 Isa. xli. 19; lv. 13. 2 Isa. xi. 6-8. 3 Isa. lxv. 25. 4 Isa. lx. 1. 5 Isa. lx. 4. 6 Isa. N. x. 7 Isa. Ix. 6. 8 Isa. Ix. 19, 20. 9 Isa. li. 6; liv. 10. 10'For a person only twenty years old to h.) ire produced such an Essay, so replete with a knowledge of life and manners, such accurate observations on men and books, such variety of literature, such strong good sense, and refined taste and judgment, has been the subject of frequent and of just admiration." — Warton. 1727-1760.] POPE. 455 For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swejll'd with wind. Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. If once right reason drives that cloud away Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of every friend-and every foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing! Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthen'd way; Th' increasing prospect tires-our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! Essay on Criticism, 201, SOUND AN ECHO TO THE SENSE.'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an Echo to the sense: Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labors, and the words move slow: Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.' Essay on Criticism, 364. EVANESCENCE OF POETIC FAME. Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And'tis but just to let them live betimes. -------- ---- i These lines are usually cited as fine examples of adapting the sound to the sense, but Dr. Johnson, in the ninety-second number of the Rambler, has demonstrated that Pope has here signally failed. "The verse intended to represent the whisper of the vernal breeze must surely be collfessed not much to excel in softness or volubility; and the'smooth stream' runs with a perpetual clash of jarring consonants. The noise and turbulence of the'torrent,' is indeed distinctly imaged; for it requires very little skill to make our language rough. But in the lines which mention the effort of' Ajax,' there is no particular heaviness or delay. The'swiftness of Camilla' is rather,ontrastsd than exemplified. Why the verse should be lengthened to express speed will not easily be discovered. But the Alexandrine, by its pause in the midst, is a tardy and stately measure; and the word'unbending,' one of the most sluggish anmd slow which our language affords, cannot much accelerate its motion." 456 POPE. [GEORGE II. No longer now that golden age appears, When Patriarch-wits survived a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colors soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live; The treacherous colors the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away! 1 Essay on Criticism, 474. The "Essay on Man" is a philosophical, didactic poem, in vindication of the ways of Providence, in which the poet proposes to prove, that, of all possible systems, Infinite Wisdom has formed the best: that in such a system, coherence, union, subordination, are necessary: that it is not strange that we should not be able to discover perfection and order in every instance; because, in an infinity of things mutually relative, a mind which sees not infinitely, can see nothing fully. THE SCA..E OF BEING.2 Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends: Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass; What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green; Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood; The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense, so subtly true, From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? How Instinct varies in the grovelling swine, Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine!'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier! For ever separate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and Reflection, how allied; What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide! And Middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected., these to those, or all to thee? 1 "Nothing was ever so happily expressed on the art of painting."- Warton. 2 "These lines are admircole patterns of forcible diction.'To live along the line,' is equally bold and beauitful. If Pope must yield to other poets in point of fertility of fancy, yet in point of propriety, closeness, and elegance of diction, he can yield to none."- Warton. 1721 1760.] POPE. 457 The powers of all, suLdued by thee alone, Is not thy Reason all these powers in one? Essay on Alatn, 1. 207. OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY.1 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns; To Him, no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all. Essay on Man, 1, 2067 ADDRESS TO BOLINGBROKE.2 Come then, my Friend, my Genius, come along; O master of the poet and the song! And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, To M/an's low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise; Forml'd by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. 0! while, along the stream of time, thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend i That, urged by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; For wit's false mirror held up nature's light; Show'd erring pride, whatever is, is right? That reason, passion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same; That VIRTUrE only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW? Essay on Man, iV. 32o. 1 "In reading this exalted description of the omnipresence of the Deity, feel myself almlost tempted to retract an assertion in the beginning of this work, that there is nothing transcendently sublime in Pope. These lines have all the energy and harmony that can be given to rhyme." —War, ton's Essay, ii. 77. 2 " In this concluding address of our a-athor to Lord Bolingbroke, one is at a loss which to admtre most, the warmth of his friendship, ar the warmth of his genius."- Warton. 39 458 POPE. [GEORGE II, But it is in the " Rape of the Lock" 1 that Pope principally appears as a POET, in which he has displayed more imagination than in all his other works taken together. ("Its wit and humor," says Dr. Drake, ", are of the most delicate and highly finished kind; its fictions sportive and elegant, and conceived with a propriety and force of imagination which astonish and tfacinate every reader."2 THE TOILET.3 And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd, Each silver Vase in mystic order laid; First, robed in white, the Nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eye she rears; Th' inferior Priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. UJnnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the Goddess with the glittering spoil. This casket India's glowing gemrs unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box: The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy Sylphs surround their darling care, These set the head, and those divide the hair; Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown, And Betty's praised for labors not her own. Rapce of the Lock, I. 12l. DESCRIPTION OF BELINDA. Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. 1 The subject of this poem was a quarrel, occasioned by a little piece of gallantry of Lord Petre, who, in a party of pleasure, found means to cut off a favorite lock of Mrs. Arabella Fermor's hair. " On so slight a foundation has he raised this beautiful superstructure; like a fairy palace in a desert."- Warton. 2 "I hope it will not be thought an exaggerated panegyric to say that the Rape of the Lock is the EsrT SATIRE extant; that it contains the truest and liveliest picture of modern life; and that the subJect is of a more elegant nature, as well as more artfully conducted, than that of any other heroicomic poem. If some of the most candid among the French critics begin to acknowledge that they have produced nothing in point of SUBLIMITY and MAJESTY equal to the Paradise Lost, we may also venture to affirm, that in point of DELICACY, ELEGANCE, and fine-turned RAILLERY, on which they Ilave so much valued themselves, they have produced nothing equal to the Rape of the Lock."Warion. 8 " The description of the Toilet is judiciously given in such magnificent turns, as dignify the offices performed in it. Belinda dressing is painted in as pompous a manner as Achilles arming."- Wartfof, 1727-1760.] POPe. 459 Fair Nymphs and well-drest Youths around her shone, But every eye was fix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those. Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide; If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck, ~With shining ringlets, the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. WVith hairy springes we the birds betray; Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Rape of the Lock, ii. 1. THE BARON OFFERS SACRIFICE FOR SUCCESS. The adventurous Baron the bright locks admired; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask if fraud or force attain his ends. For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implored Propitious Heaven, and every power adored; But chiefly Love-to Love an altar built, Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, And all the trophies of his former loves; With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize; The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer, The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. Rape of the Lock, ii. 29, THE SYLPHS-THEIR FUNCTIONS AND EMPLOYMENTS. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light, Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, 460 POPE. rGEoR o Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes; While every beam new transient colors flings, Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings Amid the circle on the gilded mast, Superior by the head was Ariel placed; His purple pinions opening to the sun, He raised his azure wand, and thus begun:Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Demons, hear! Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd By laws eternal to the aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest ether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day; Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, Or roll the planets through the boundless sky: Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British Throne. Our humbler province is to tend the Fair, Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale; To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers; To steal from raitnbows, ere they drop in showers, A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.' This day, black omens threat the brightest Fair That e'er deserved a watchfill spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force or slight; But what, or where, the fates have wrapp'd in night. Whether the Nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail China-jar receive a flaw, Or stain her honor, or her new brocade, Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball; Or whether Heaven has doom'd that Shock2 must fall. Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; 1 "The seeming importance given to every part of female dress, each of which is committed to the care and protection of a difterent sylph, with all the solemnity of a general appointing the several posts in his army, renders this whole passage admirable, on account of its politeness, poignancy, and poetry." —Wartm. 2 IHer lapdog. 172 7 -1760.] OPE 461 Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite Lock; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, We trust the important charge, the Petticoat: Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pills; Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedged, whole ages, in a bodkin's eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain; Or alum styptics with contracting power Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flower: Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill; In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below 11 He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend: Some, orb in orb, around the Nymph extend; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair, Some hang upon the pendants of her ear: With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate. ape of tke Lock, it. 1, THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! Hark! they whisper; -Angels say, Sister spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite i Steals my senses, shuts my sight? Drowns my spirits, draws my breath. Tell me, my soul, can this be death The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! Oh Grave! where is thy Victory? Oh Death! where is thy Sting? 1 our poet still'rises in the delicacy of his satire, where he employs, with the utmost judgment,nd elegance, all the implements and furniture of the toilet as instruments of punishment to thosts bpirits who shall be careless of their charge:-of punishment F nch aa sylphs alone could undergo."Warton. 39i 462 POPE. EGEORGE II. It is to be regretted that the prose works of Pope are so few, for what be has left us are remarkable for great purity and correctness of style, clearness of conception, and soundness of judgment. The chief of them are his Letters, which are among the best specimens of epistolary writing; a Preface to the Iliad; a Postscript to the Odyssey; a Preface to Shakspeare; and Prefaces to his Pastorals and collected works. LETTER TO STEELE, UPON EARLY DEATH. You formerly observed to me, that nothing made a more ridiculous figure in a man's life than the disparity we often find in him, sick and well. Thus, one of an unfortunate constitution is perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness of his mind and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunities of late to consider myself in these different views, and, I hope, have received some advantage by it, if what Waller says be true, that The soul's dark cottage, batter d and decay'd, Lets in new light through ch'nks that time has made. Then surely sickness, contributing, no less than old age, to the shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the in ward structure more plainly. S'ckness is a sort of early old age' it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and inspires us witk thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philose phers and divines. It gives so warning a concussion to thos.e props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of for. tifying ourselves within, when there is so little dependence upon our outworks. Youth, at the very best, is but a betrayer of humani life in a gentler and smoother manner than age:'tis like a stream that nourishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish an0 blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at thb root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me; it has afforded several prospects of my danger, and given ma an advantage, not very common to young men, that the attractions of the world have not dazzled me very much; and I begin, where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures, when a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tenement of my body will fall in a little time; I am even as unconcerned as was that honest Hibernian, who, being in bed in the great storm some years ago, and told the house would tumble over his head, made answer, " What care I for the house? I am only a lodger." When I reflect what an inconsiderable little atom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks'tis a shame to be concerned at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. The mornlng after my exit, the sun will rise as bright. as ever, the 1727-1760.] POPE 463 flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its old course, people will laugh as heartily and marry as fast as they were used to do. The memory of man (as it is elegantly expressed in the Book of Wisdom) passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are reasons enough, in the fourth chapter of the same book, to make any young man contented with the prospect of death. "c For honorable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or is measured by number of years. But wisdom is gray hair to men, and an unspotted life is old age. He was taken away speedily, lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul." July 15, 1712. SHAKSPEARE. If ever any author deserved the name of an original, it was Shakspeare. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately from the fountains of Nature; it proceeded through Egyptian strainers and channels, and came to him not without some tincture of the learning, or some cast of the models, of those before himr. The poetry of Shakspeare was inspiration indeed: he is not so much an imitator, as an instrument, of Nature; and it is not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. His characters are so much Nature1 herself, that it is a sort of injury to call them by so distant a name as copies of her. Those of other poets have a constant resemblance, which shows that they received them from one another, and were but multipliers of the same image; each picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but the reflection of a reflection. But every single character in Shakspeare is as much an individual as those in life itself: it is as impossible to find any two alike; and such as from their relation or affinity in any respect appear most to be twins, will, upon comparison, be found remarkably distinct. To this life and variety of character we must add the wonderful preservation of it; which is such throughout his plays, that had all the speeches been printed withlout the very names of the persons, I believe one might have applied them with certainty to every speaker. The power over our passions was never possessed in a more eminent degree, or displayed in so different instances. Yet all along there is seen no labor, no pains to raise them; no preparation to guide or guess to the effect, or be perceived to lead toward it: but the heart swells, and the tears burst out, just at Lhe proper places: we are surprised at the moment we weep; and yet, upon 1 See Mrs. Montagu's ingenious Essay on Shakspeare. and her confutations of Voltaire's criticismb. 464 POPE. [GEORGE II. reflection, find the passion so just, that we should be surprised if we had not wept, and wept at that very moment. How astonishing is it, again, that the passions directly opposite to these, laughter and spleen, are no less at his command! that he is not more a master of the great than the ridiculous in human nature; of our noblest tendernesses, than of our vainest foibles; of our strongest emotions, than of our idlest sensations! Nor does he only excel in the passions: in the coolness of reflection and reasoning, he is full as admirable. His sentiments are not only in general the most pertinent and judicious upon every subject; but by a talent very peculiar, something between penetration and felicity, he hits upon that particular point on which the bent of each argument turns, or the force of each motive depends. This is perfectly amazing, from a man of no education or experience in those great and public scenes of life which are usually the subject of his thoughts: so that he seems to have known the world by intuition, to have looked through human nature at one glance, and to be the only author that gives ground for a very new opinion, that the philosopher, and even the man of the world, may be born, as well as the poet. Preface to Shakspeare. HOMER AND VIRGIL COMPARED. On whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us is his invention. It is that which forms the character of each part of his work; and accordingly we find it to have made his fable more extensive and copious than any other, his manners more lively and strongly marked, his speeches more affecting and transporting, his sentiments more warm and sublime, his images and descriptions more full and animated, his expression more raised and daring, and his numbers more rapid and various. I hope, in what has been said of Virgil, with regard to any of these heads, I have no way derogated from his character. Nothing is more absurd or endless, than the common method of comparing eminent writers by an opposition of particular passages in them, and forming a judgment from thence of their merit upon the whole. We ought to have a certain knowledge of the principal character and distinguished excellence of each: it is in that we are to consider him, and in proportion to his degree in that we are to admire him. No author or man ever excelled all the world in more than one faculty: and as Homer has done this in invention, Virgil has in judgment. Not that we are to think Homer wanted judgment, because Virgil had it in a more eminent degree; or that Virgil wanted invention, because Homer possessed a larger share of it,: each of these great authors had more of both 1727-1760.] BLAIR. 465 than perhaps any man besides, and are only sad to have less in comparison with one another. Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist. In one we most admire the man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries and transports us with a commanding impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty: Homer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence: Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a boundless overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a gentle and constant stream. When we behold their battles, methinks the two poets resemble the heroes they celebrate: Homer, boundless and irresistible as Achilles, bears all before him, and shines more and more as the tumult increases; Virgil, calmly daring like IEneas, appears undisturbed in the midst of the action; disposes all about him, and conquers with tranquillity. And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and regularly ordering his whole creation. Preface to the Iliad. ROBERT BLAIR. 1699-1746. ROBERT BLAIR, the author of "The Grave," was born in 1699. But few particulars are known respecting his life. After receiving a liberal education, he travelled on the continent for further improvement, and in 1731 was ordained as a minister of the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian, where he spent the remainder of his life, which was terminated by a fever, in 1746, in the forty-seventh year of his age. 6" The eighteenth century has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of the' Grave.' It is a popular poem, not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are fiee, natural, and picturesque. In the eye of fastidious criticism, Blair may be a homely and even a gloomy poet; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness, that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dryness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty." 1 THE GRAVE. Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage; Their aims as various as the roads they take In journeying through life; —the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet.-Thy succors I implore, 1 Campbell's Specimens, vol. v. p 204, 2 G 466 BLAIR. [GEORGE 1. EteinaL King! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death. —The Grave-dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named. Nature, appall'd, Shakes off her wonted firmness.-Ah! how dark Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes! Where naught but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun WVas roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound. — DEATH-DIVIDED FRIENDSHIPS. Invidious Grave! how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweetener of life! and solder of society! I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend,.nd I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring, methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note; The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress! Oh! then the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still, the full heart Had not imparted half:'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed Not to return, how painful the remembrance! DEATH, THE GOOD MAN S PATH TO ETERNAL JOY. Thrice welcome Death! That, after many a painful bleeding step, Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death, disarm'd, Loses his fellness quite; all thanks to Him Who scourged the venom out. Sure the last end Of the good man is peace, How calm his exit! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him! in the evening tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green: By tmperceived degrees he wears away; Yet like the sun, seems larger at his setting I 1727 -1760.) BLAIR. 467 High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away! Whilst the glad gates of sight are wvide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, oh, then, Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of naught! Oh, how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!'Tis done —and now he's happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown'd. E'en the lag flesh Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate; and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled or mislaid of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane Ask not how this can be? Sure the same Power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, And put them as they were. Almighty God Hath done much more: nor is his arm impair'd Through length of days; and what he can, he will; His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; And every joint possess its proper place, With a new elegance of form unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd, Si-iling its other half, into its arms Shall rush, with all th' impatience of a man That's new come home, and, having long been absent With haste runs over every different room, In pain to see the whole. Thrice-happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone! Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away 468 THOMSON. [GEORGE 1f. JAMES THOMSON. 1700-1748. JAMEs THomsoN, the author of "The Seasons," was the son of a Scotch clergyman, and was born in the year 1700. After completing his academic education at the University of Edinburgh, he entered upon the study of divi nity; but a paraphrase of one. of the Psalms having been given, by the professor of divinity, to the class, Thomson's exercise was in so poetical and figurative a style as to astonish all who heard it. This incident made him resolve to quit divinity for poetry, and, after some time, he went to London, poor and friendless, to try his fortune, with the manuscript of "c Winter" in his pocket. It was with difficulty he found a purchaser for it, and the price given was trifling. It was published in 1726, and after a period of neglect,' was admired and applauded, and a number of editions speedily followed. His ", Summer" appeared in 1727, " Spring" in 1728, and ": Autumn" in 1730. After the publication of the Seasons, he travelled on the continent with the son of the Lord Chancellor Talbot, and on his return employed himself in the composition of his various tragedies, and his poem on " Liberty." These are by no means equal to his other performances, and are now but little read. In May, 1748, he finished his "' Castle of Indolence," upon which he had been laboring for years. This is the noblest effort of his genius. "To it," says Campbell, "he brought not only the full nature, but the perfect art of a poet. The materials of that exquisite poem are derived originally from Tassoi but he was more immediately indebted for them. to the Faerie Queene." In. deed, of all the imitations of Spenser, it is the most spirited and beautiful, both for its moral, poetical, and descriptive power. He did not long survive its publication. A violent cold, through inattention, terminated in a fever, and carried him off on the 27th of August, 1748. In nature and originality, Thomson is superior to all the descriptive poets except Cowper, and few poems in the English language have been more popular than the " Seasons." " It is almost stale to remark," observes Campbell, " the beauties of a poem so universally felt; the truth and genial interest with which he carries us through the life of the year; the harmony of succession which he gives to the casual phenomena of nature; his pleasing transition from native to foreign scenery; and the soul of exalted and unfeigned benevolence which accompanies his prospects of the creation. It is but equal justice to say that, amidst the feeling and fancy of the'Seasons,' we meet with interruptions of declamation, heavy narrative, and unhappy digression."2 But though Thomson's merits as a descriptive poet are of the first order; though,,he looks with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet, and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to the minute," yet his greatest charm, and that which makes him so popular with all classes, is, that he looks also with a heart that feels for all mankind. As has been well said, " his sympathies are universal." His touching allusions to the con1 " When Thomson published his "Winter," it lay a long time neglected, till Mr. Spense made honorable mention of it in his " Odyssey," which, becoming a popular book, made the poem universally known."-Wl arton. 2 "'Thomson was blessed with a strong and copious fancy: he hath enriched poetry with a variety of new and original images, which he painted from nature itself, and from his own actual observa tions: his descriptions have therefore a distinctness and truth which are utterly wanting to those of poets who have only copied from each other, and have never looked abroad on the objects them selves."- Warton's Pope, i. 42. 1727-1760.] THOMSON. 469 ditions of the pocr and suffering; to the hapless state of bird and beast in winter; the description of the peasant perishing in the snow; the Siberian exile, or the Arab pilgrims, all are marked with that humanity and true feeling which show that the poet's virtues "formed the magic of his song." The genuine impulses under which he wrote, he has expressed in one noble stanza in the " Castle of Indolence:"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. THE LOVES OF THE BIRDS. When first the soul of love is sent abroad, Warm through the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin In gallant thought to plume the painted wing, And try again the long-forgotten strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfined. Up-springs the lark, Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng Superior heard, run through the sweetest length Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, atlnd purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day. The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove: Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these Innurnerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole.'Tis love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love; That e'en to birds, and beasts, the tender arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 40 470 THOMSON. [GEORGE It. Try every winning way inventive love Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates Pour forth their little souls. Spring, 579. A SUMMER SCENE. Around th' adjoining brook, that purls along The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock, Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, Now starting to a sudden stream, and now Gently diffused into a limpid plain; A various group the herds and flocks compose; Rural confusion! on the grassy bank Some ruminating lie; while others stand Half in the flood, and, often bending, sip The circling surface. In the middle droops The strong laborious ox, of honest front, Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides The troublous insects lashes with his tail, Returning still. Amid his subjects safe, Slumbers the monarch-swain; his careless arm Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd; There, listening every noise, his watchful dog. Summer, 480. A THUNDER-SHOWER.'Tis listening fear and dunlb amazement all; When to the startled eye the sudden glance Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud; And following slower, in explosion vast, The Thunder raises his tremendous voice. At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes, And rolls its awful burden on the wind, The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more The noise astounds: till over head a sheet Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts, And opens wider; shuts and opens still Expansive, wrapping aether in a blaze. Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, Enlarging, deepening, mingling; peal on peal Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. Summer, 1128 SUMMER EVENING. Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds, All ether softening, sober evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air; A thousand shadows at her beck. First this She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still, In circle following circle, gathers round, To close the face of things. A fresher gale 1727-1760.] THOMSON. 471 Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn; While the quail clamors for his running mate. Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells tile breeze, A whitening shower of vegetable down Amusive floats. The kind impartial care Of nature naught disdains: thoughtful to feed Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, From field to field the feather'd seeds she wings. His folded flock secure, the shepherd home Hies merry-hearted; and by turns relieves The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail; The beauty whom perhaps his witless heartUnknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish meansSincerely loves, by that best language shown Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. Onward they pass o'er many a panting height, And valley sunk and unfrequented; where At fall of eve the fairy people throng, In various game and revelry, to pass The summer-night, as village stories tell. But far about they wander from the grave Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged Against his own sad breast to lift the hand Of impious violence. The lonely tower Is also shunn'd; whose mlournful chambers holdSo night-struck Fancy dreams —the yelling ghost. Summer, 1641 THE SPRINGS OF RIVERS. Say then, where lurk the vast eternal springs, That, like creating Nature, lie conceal'd From mortal eye, yet with their lavish stores Refresh the globe, and all its joyous tribes? 0, thou pervading Genius, given to man, To trace the secrets of the dark abyss, O, lay the mountains bare! and wide display Their hidden structures to th' astonish'd view! Strip from the branching Alps their piny load; The huge encumbrance of horrific woods From Asian Taurus, from Imaus stretch'd Athwart the roving Tartar's sullen bounds! Give opening Haemus to my searching eye, And high Olympus pouring many a stream! 0, from the sounding summits of the north, The Dofrine Hills, through Scandinavia roll'd, The farthest Lapland and the frozen main; From lofty Caucasus, far-seen by those Who in the Caspian and black Euxine toil; From cold Riphoean Rocks, which the wiln Russ Believes the stony girdle of the world; And all the dreadful mountains, wrapt 5n storm, Whence wide Siberia draws her lonely floods.; 0, sweep th' eternal snows! Hung o'er the deep, 472 THOMSON. [GEORGE II. That ever works beneath his sounding base, Bid Atlas, propping heaven, as poets feign, His subterranean wonders spread! unveil The miny caverns, blazing on the day, Of Abyssinia's cloud-compelling cliffs, And of the bending Mountains of the Moon! O'ertopping all these giant sons of earth, Let the dire Andes, from the radiant line Stretch'd to the stormy seas that thunder round The southern pole, their hideous deeps unfold! Amazing scene! Behold! the glooms disclose: I see the rivers in their infant beds! Deep, deep I hear them, laboring to get free! Autumn, 773. A MAN PERISHING IN THE SNOWS OF WINTER. As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All Winter drives along the darken'd air; In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! What black despair, what horror fills his heart! When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track, and blest abode of man: While round him night resistless closes fast, And every tempest, howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying manHis wife, his children, and his friends unseen. In vain for him th' officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warmi Tn vain his little children, peeping out 1727-1760.] THOMSON. 473 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire With tears of artless innocence. Alas! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense; And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,. Lays him along the snow, a stiffen'd corseStretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. Winter, 276~ THE VARIOUS SUFFERINGS IN WINTER. Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man. How many pine in want and dungeon glooms; Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty. How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the tragic muse. Ev'n in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd, I-ow many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retired distress. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide wish benevolence dilate; And social tear would rise, the social sigh' And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refinina still, the social passions work. Winter, 322. MORAL OF THE SEASONS.'Tis done!-Dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. Hlow dead the vegetable kingdom lies! 40* 474 THOMSON. [GEORGE Io How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man! See here thy pictured life; pass some few years, Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength Thy sober Autumn fading into age, And pale concluding Winter comes at last, And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? All now are vanish'd! Virtue sole survives, Immortal, never-failing friend of man, His guide to happiness onl high. And see!'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth Of heaven and earth! Awakening Nature hears The new-creating word, and starts to life, In every heighten'd form, from pain and death For ever free. The great eternal scheme, Involving all, and in a perfect whole Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, To reason's eye refined, clears up apace. Ye vainly wise! ye blind presumptuous! now, Confounded in the dust, adore that Power And Wisdom oft arraign'd: see now the cause, Why unassuming worth in secret lived, And died, neglected: why the good man's share In life was gall and bitterness of soul: Why the lone widow and her orphans pined In starving solitude! while luxury, In palaces, lay straining her low thoughtTo form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth, And moderation fair, wore the red marks Of superstition's scourge: why licensed pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Imbitter'd all our bliss. Ye good clistress'd! Ye noble few! who here unbending stand Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up a while, And what your bounded view, which only saw A little part, deem'd evil is no more: The storms of wintry time will quickly pass, And one unbounded Spring encircle all. Winter, 1024. HYMN ON THE SEASONS. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles: And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,'With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 1727-1760.] THOMSON. 475 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaksAnd oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole, That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth Ihis grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend,! join, every living soul Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms! Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise,-whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him,-whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints, Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 476 THOMSON. [GEORGE Il. Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands, all awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll, For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, Or Winter rises in the blackening eastBe my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song-where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles,'tis naught to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital spreads, there'miiusi be joy. When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression.-But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise 1727-1760.] THOMSON. 477 FROI THE " CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." O mortal man, who livest here by toil, Do not complain of this thy hard estate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Writhouten that would come a heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In lowly dale, fast by a river's.side, With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; And there, a season atween June and May, Half prank'd with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared e'en for play. Was naught around but images of rest; Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, And hurled everywhere their waters sheen; That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, Or stock-doves'plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, From all the roads of earth that pass thereby; For, as they chanced to breathe on neighboring hill, The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh; Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, Ymolten with his siren melody; While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung "Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal her array 478 THIOMSON. [oGORGE It. Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. " Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless grove, Ten thousand throats! that from the flowering thorn, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: They neither plough, nor sow, ne, fit for flail, E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. "' Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life Push hard up hill; but as the farthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labors to the valley deep, For ever vain; come, and, withouten fee, I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea Of full delight; oh come, ye weary wights, to me! "With me you need not rise at early dawn, To pass the joyous day in various stounds; Or, louting low, on upstart fortmne fawn, And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds; Or through the city take your dirty rounds, To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds: Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. " No cocks, with me, to rustic labor call, From village on to village sounding clear: To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall; No dogs; no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith fear; No noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, With sounds that are a misery to hear: But all is calm, as would delight the heart Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art. "What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Above the passions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still more gay. "The best of men have ever loved repose; They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; 1727-1760.] WATTS. 479 Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. E'en those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumran shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. "Oh, grievous folly! to heap up estate, Losing the days you see beneath the sun; When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, And gives th' untasted portion you have won, With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: But sure it is of vanities most vain, To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." ISAAC WATTS. 1674-1748. ISAAC WATTS, whose reputation as a prose writer and as a poet is as wld(. as the world of letters, was born at Southampton on the 17th of July, 1674. At the age of but four years he began to study the Latin language; but as ha was a " dissenter" from the " established" church, he could not look forward to an education in either of the great universities, and therefore, at the age of sixteen, he was placed under the care of the Rev. Thomas Rowe, who had charge of an academy in London. At the age of twenty he returned to his father's house, and spent two years in studying for the ministry. At the close of this period he accepted the invitation of Sir John Hartopp to reside with him as tutor to his son, and remained with him five years, devoting most of his time to a critical knowledge of the Greek and Hebrew Scriptures, and entering, during the last year, upon the duties of his profession. In 1698 he was chosen as an assistant to Dr. Chauncey, pastor of an Independent church in Southampton, and on his death, 1702, was elected to succeed him. Soon after entering upon his office he was attacked by a dangerous illness, from which he but very slowly recovered. In 1712 he was again seized with a fever so violent and of so long continuance, that it left him in a feeble state for the rest of his life. In this state he found in Sir Thomas Abney a friend such as is not often to be met with. This gentleman received him into his own house, where he remained an inmate of the family for thirtysix years, that is, to the end of his life, where he was treated the whole time with all the kindness that friendship could prompt, and all the attention that respect could dictate.' Here he devoted all the time that his health would allow to the composition of his various works, and to his official functions, and when increasing weakness compelled him to relinquish both, his congre1 " A coalition like this-a state in which the notions of patronage and dependence were overpowered by the perception of reciprocal benefits, deserves a particular memorial."-Dr. Johsson, Accordingly the great biographer has given in his life of Watts a long extract from Dr. GibbonsM's touching account of Watts's residence in this family, and then adds: "If this quotation has appeared long, let it be cnmsidered that it comprises an account of six-and-thirty years and those the years of Dr. Watts." 480 WATTS. [GEORGE II. gation would not accept his resignation, but, while they elected another pastor, continued to him the salary he had been accustomed to receive. On the 25th of November, 1748, without a pain or a struggle, this great and good man breathed his last.1 In his literary character, Dr. Watts may be considered as a poet, a philosopher, and a theologian. As a poet, if he takes not the very first rank in the imaginative, the creative, or the sublime, he has attained what the greatest might well envy,-a universality of fame. He is emphatically the classic poet of the religious world, wherever the English language is known. His version of the Psalms, his three books of Hymns, and his," Divine Songs for Children," have been more read and committed to memory, have exerted more holy influences, and made more lasting impressions for good upon the human heart, and have called forth more fervent aspirations for the joys and the happiness of heaven, than the productions of any other poet-perhaps it would not be too strong to say than ALL OTHEIR poets, (the sacred bards of course excepted,) living or dead. As a philosopher, he has the rare merit of always being practically useful, especially in the education of youth. His " Logic, or Right use of Reason," was for a long time a text-book in the English Universities; and of his " Improvement of the Mind," no happier eulogium can be given than that by Dr. Johnson:2 "Few books," says the sage, "'have been perused by me with greater pleasure than this; and whoever has the care of instructing others may be charged with deficiency if this book is not recommended." As a theologian, the compositions of Watts are very numerous, and " every page," says Dr. Drake, " displays his unaffected piety, the purity of his principles, the mildness of his disposition, and the great goodness of his heart. The style of all his works is perspicuous, correct, and frequently elegant; and happily for mankind, his labors have been translated and dispersed with a zeal thax, does honor to human nature; for there are probably few persons who have studied the writings of Dr. Watts without a wish for improvement; without an effort to become wiser or better members of society." A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there follow'd some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again. 1 When he was almost worn out by his infirmities, he observed, in a conversation with a friend, that "he remembered an aged minister used to say that the most learned and knowing Christians, when they come to die, have only the same plain promises of the Gospel for their support as the common and unlearned." " So," said Watts, "I find it. It is the plain promises of the Gospel that are my support; and I bless God they are plain promises, and do not require much labor and pains to nnderstand them, for I can do nothing now but look into my Bible for some promise to support me, and live upon that." 2 "He's one of the few poets," says Dr. Johnson, "with whom youth and ignorance may bo safely pleased; and happy will be that reader whose mind is disposed, by his verses or his prose, to copy his benevolence to man and his reverence to God." Read-his Life in Drake's EssaysJohnEon's Life-Memoir, by Southey-Memoirs, by Thomas Gibson. 1727-1760.j WATTS. 481. Just such is the Christian; his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way: But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, And gives a sure hope at the end of his days Of rising in brighter array. THE ROSE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond cares to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song To whom thy sweetest joys belong; And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares. Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains, As custom leads the way: If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, And be as blest as they. Not sordid souls of earthy mould, Who drawn by kindred charms of gold To dull embraces move: So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love. Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires T'he purer bliss destroy: 2 H 41 482 WATTS. [GEOB.GB 11. On,Etna's top let Furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed T' improve the burning joy. Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms, Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls, With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless: As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass. Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between. Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind; For Love abhors the sight: Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight. Two kindest souls alone must meet;'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves. LOOKING UPWARD. The heavens invite mine eye, The stars salute me round; Father, I blush, I mourn to lie Thus grovelling on the ground. My warmer spirits move, And make attempts to fly; I wish aloud for wings of love To raise me swift and high Beyond those crystal vaults, And all their sparkling balls; They're but the porches to thy courts, And paintings on thy walls. 1727-1760.] WATTS. 483 Vain world, farewell to you; Heaven is my native air: I bid my friends a short adieu, Impatient to be there. I feel my powers released From their old fleshy clod; Fair guardian, bear me up in haste, And set me near my God. SEEKING A DIVINE CALM IN A RESTLESS WVORLD. Eternal mind, who rul'st the fates Of dying realms and rising states, With one unchanged decree; While we admire thy vast affairs, Say, can our little trifling cares Afford a smile to thee? Thou scatterest honors, crowns, and gold: We fly to seize, and fight to hold The bubbles and the ore:So emmets struggle for a grain; So boys their petty wars maintain For shells upon the shore. Here a vain man his sceptre breaks, The next a broken sceptre takes, And warriors win and lose; This rolling world will never stand, Plunder'd and snatch'd from hand to hand, As power decays or grows. Earth's but an atom: greedy swords Carve it among a thousand lords; And yet they can't agree: Let greedy swords still fight and slay; I can be poor; but, Lord, I pray To sit and smile with thee. LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY. It was a brave attempt! adventurous he Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea: And, leaving his dear native shores behind, Trusted his life to the licentious wind. I see the surging brine: the tempest raves: He on a pine-plank rides across the waves, Exulting on the edge of thousand gaping graves He steers the winged boat, and shifts the sails, Conquers the flood, and manages the gales. Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land, Fearless when the great Master gives command. Death is the storm: she smiles to hear it roar, And bids the tempest waft her from the shore. Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas, And manages the raging storm with ease; 484 WATTS. [GEORGE IL Her faith can govern death; she spreads her wings Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings, And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things. As the shores lessen, so her joys arise, The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies; Now vast eternity fills all her sight, She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight, The seas for ever calm, the skies for ever bright. GENERAL DIRECTIONS RELATING TO OUR IDEAS. DIRECTION I. —Furnish yourselves with a rich variety of ideas; acquaint yourselves with things ancient and modern; things natural, civil, and religious; things domestic and national; things of your native land and of foreign countries; things present, past, and future; and, above all, be well acquainted with God and yourselves; learn animal nature, and the workings of your own spirits. The way of attaining such an extensive treasure of ideas is, with diligence to apply yourself to read the best books; converse with the most knowing and the wisest of men, and endeavor to improve by every person in whose company you are; suffer no hour to pass away in a lazy idleness, in impertinent chattering, or useless trifles: visit other cities and countries when you have seen your own, under the care of one who can teach you to profit by travelling, and to make wise observations; indulge a just curiosity in seeing the wonders of art and nature; search into things yourselves, as well as learn them from others; be acquainted with men as well as books; learn all things as much as you can at first hand; and let as many of your ideas as possible be the representations of things, and not merely the representations of other men's ideas: thus your soul, like some noble building, shall be richly furnished with original paintings, and not with mere copies. DIRECTION II.-Use the most proper methods to retain that treasure of ideas which you have acquired; for the mind is ready to let many of them slip, unless some pains and labor be taken to fix them upon the memory. And more especially let those ideas be laid up and preserved with the greatest care, which are most directly suited, either to your eternal welfare as a Christian, or to your particular station and profession in this life; for though the former rule recommends a universal acquaintance with things, yet it is but a more general and superficial knowledge that is required or expected of any man, in things which are utterly foreign to his own business; but it is necessary you should have a more particular and accurate acquaintance with those things that refer to your peculiar province and duty in this life, or your happiness in another. There are some persons who never arrive at any deop, solid, or 1727-1760.] WATTS. 485 valuable knowledge in any science or uny business of life, because they are perpetually fluttering over te surface of things in a curious and wandering search of infinite variety; ever hearing, reading, or asking after something new, but impatient of any labor to lay up and preserve the ideas they have gained. Their souls may be compared to a looking-glass, that, wheresoever you turn it, it receives the images of all objects, but retains none. In order to preserve your treasure of ideas and the knowledge you have gained, pursue these advices, especially in your younger years. 1. Recollect every day the things you have seen, or heard, or read, which may have made any addition to your understanding: read the writings of God and men with diligence and perpetual reviews: be not fond of hastening to a new book, or a new chap.ter, till you have well fixed and established in your mind what was useful in the last: make use of your memory in this manner, and you will sensibly experience a gradual improvement of it, while you take care not to load it to excess. 2. Talk over the things which you have seen, heard, or learnt, with some proper acquaintance; this will make a fresh impression upon your memory; and if you have no fellow student at hand, none of equal rank with yourselves, tell it over to any of your acquaintance, where you can do it with propriety and de.cency; and whether they learn any thing by it or no, your own repetition of it will be an improvement to yourself: and this practice also will furnish you with a variety of words and copious language, to express you.r thoughts upon all occasions. 3. Commit to writing some of the most considerable improvements which you daily make, at least such hints as may recall them again to your mind, when perhaps they are vanished and lost. At the end of every week, or month, or year, you may review your remarks for these two reasons: First, to judge of your own improvement, when you shall find that many of your younger collections are either weak and trifling; or if they are just and proper, yet they are grown now so familiar to you, that you will thereby see your own advancement in knowledge. And in the next place what remarks you find there worthy of your riper observation, you may note them with a marginal star, instead of transcribing them, as being worthy of your second year's review, when the others are neglected. To shorten something of this labor, if the books which you read are your own, mark with a pen, or pencil, the most considerable things in them which you desire to remember. Thus you may read that book the second time over with half the trouble, by your eye running over the paragraphs which your pencil has noted. It is but a very weak objection against this practice to say, I shal.t 41* 486 WATTS. [GEORGE oI. spoil my book; for I persuade myself that you did not buy it as a bookseller, to sell it again for gain, but as a scholar to improve your mind by it; and if the mind be improved, your advantage is abundant, though your book yield less money to your executors. Logie, or The Right Use of Reason, v. RULES OF IMPROVEMENT BY CONVERSATION. 1. If we would improve our minds by conversation, it is a great happiness to be acquainted with persons wiser than ourselves. It is a piece of useful advice, therefore, to get the favor of their conversation frequently, as far as circumstances will allow: and if they happen to be a little reserved, use all obliging methods to draw out of them what may increase your own knowledge. 2. If you happen to be in company with a merchant or a sailor, a farmer or a mechanic, a milkmaid or a spinster, lead them into a discourse of the matters of their own peculiar province or profession; for every one knows, or should know, his own business best. In this sense a common mechanic is wiser than a philosopher. By this means you may gain some improvement in knowledge from every one you meet. 3. Confine not yourself always to one sort of company, or to persons of the same party or opinion, either in matters of learning, religion, or the civil life, lest if you should happen to be nursed up or educated in early mistake, you should be confirmed and established in the same mistake, by conversing only with persons of the same sentiments. A free and general conversation with men of very various countries and of different parties, opinions, and practices, (so far as it may be done safely,) is of excellent use to undeceive us in many wrong judgments which we may have framed, and to lead us into juster thoughts. 4. In mixed company, among acquaintance and strangers, endeavor to learn something from all. Be swift to hear, but be cautious of your tongue, lest you betray your ignorance, and perhaps offend some of those who are present too. 5. Believe that it is possible to learn something firom persons mnuch below yourself. We are all short-sighted creatures; oui views are also narrow and limited; we often see but one side of a matter, and do not extend our sight far and wide enough to reach every thing that has a connection with the thing we talk of: we see but in part, and know but in part, therefore it. is no wonder we form not right conclusions, because we do not survey the whole of any subject or argument. 6. To make conversation more valuable and useful, whether it ble in a designed or accidental visit, among persons of the same or of (dfferent sexes. after the necessary salutations are finished, and 1727-1760.] WATTS. 487 the stream of common talk begins to hesitate, or runs flat and low, let some one person take a book which may be agreeable to the whole company, and by common consent let him read in it ten lines, or a paragraph or two, or a few pages, till some word or sentence gives an occasion for any of the company to offer a thought or two relating to that subject. Interruption of the reader should be no blame, for conversation is the business; whether it be to confirm what the author says, or to improve it; to enlarge upon or to correct it; to object against it, or to ask any question that is akin to it; and let every one that pleases add his opinion and promote the conversation. When the discourse sinks again, or diverts to trifles, let him that reads pursue the page, and read on further paragraphs or pages, till some occasion is given by a word or sentence for a new discourse to be started, and that with the utmost ease and freedom. Such a method as this would prevent the hours of a visit from running all to waste; and by this means, even among scholars, they will seldom find occasion for that too just and bitter reflection, I have lost my time in the comnpany of the learned. By such practice as this, young ladies may very honorably and agreeably improve their hours: while one applies herself to reading, the others employ their attention, even among the various artifices of the needle; but let all of them make their occasional remarks or inquiries. This will guard a great deal of that preo cious time from modish trifling impertinence or scandal, which might otherwise afford matter for painful repentance. Observe this rule in general; whensoever it lies in your power to lead the conversation, let it be directed to some profitable point of knowledge or practice, so far as may be done with decency; and let not the discourse and the hours be suffered to run loose without aim or design: and when a subject is started, pass not hastily to another, beforr. you have brought the present theme or discourse to some tolerable issue, or a joint consent to drop it. 7..Attend witlh sincere diligence while any one of the comnpany, is declaring his sense of the question proposed; hear the argument with patience, though it differ ever so much from your sentiments, for you yourself are very desirous to be heard witb patience by others who differ from you. Let not your thoughts be active and busy all the while to find out something to contra dict, and by what means to oppose the speaker, especially in matters which are not brought to an issue. This is a frequent anci unhappy temper and practice. You should rather be intent and solicitous to take up the mind and meaning of the speaker, zealclus to seize and approve all that is true in his discourse; nor yet should you want courage to oppose where it is necessary; but let 488 WATTS. [GEORGE I. your modesty and patience, and a friendly temper, be as conspicuous as your zeal. S. As you should carry about with you a constant and sincere sense of your own ignorance, so you should not be afraid noe ashamed to confess this ignorance, by taking all proper opportunities to ask and inquire for farther information; whether it be the meaning of a word, the nature of a thing, the reason of a proposition, or the custom of a nation. Never remain in ignorance for want of asking. 9. Be not too forward, especially in the younger part of life, to determine any question in company with an infallible andperemptory sentence, nor speak with assuming airs, and with a decisive tone of voice. A young man in the presence of his elders should rather hear and attend, and weigh the arguments which are brought for the proof or refutation of any doubtful proposition; and when it is your turn to speak, propose your thoughts rather in way of inquiry. 10. As you may sometimes raise inquiries for your own instruction and improvement, and draw out the learning, wisdom, and fine sentiments of your friends, who perhaps may be too reserved or modest; so at other times, if you perceive a person unskilful in the matter of debate, you may, by questions aptly proposed in the Socratic method, lead him into a clearer knowledge of the subject: then you become his instructor, in such a manner as may not appear to make yourself his superior. 11. Take heed of affecting always to shine in company above the rest, and to display the riches of your own understanding or your oratory, as though you would render yourself admirable to all that are present. This is seldom well taken in polite company; much less should you use such forms of speech as would insinuate the ignorance or dulness of those with whom you converse. 12. Banish utterly out of all conversation, and especially out of all learned and intellectual conference, every thing that tends to provoke passion, or raise a fire in the blood. Let no sharp language, no noisy exclamation, no sarcasms or biting jests be heard among you; no perverse or invidious consequences be drawn from each other's opinions, and imputed to the person. All these things are enemies to fiiendship, and the ruin of free conversation. The impartial search of truth requires all calmness and serenity, all temper and candor; mutual instruction can never be attained in the midst of passion, pride, and clamor, unless we suppose, in the midst of such a scene, there is a loud and penetrating lecture read by both sides on the folly and shameful infirmltles of human nature. 1727-1760.] MIDDLETON. 489 13. To conclude: when you retire from company, then converse with yourself in solitude, and inquire what you have learnt for the improvement of your understanding, or for the rectify ing your inclinations, for the increase of your virtues, or the meliorating your conduct and behaviour in any future parts ol life. If you have seen some of your company candid, modest, humble in their manner, wise and sagacious, just and pious in their sentiments, polite and graceful, as well as clear and strong in their expression, and universally acceptable and lovely in their behavior, endeavor to impress the idea of all these upon your memory, and treasure them up for your imitation. Improvement of the Mind. CONYERS MIDDLETON. 1683-1750. CONYERS MIDDLETON, a celebrated divine and critic, was the son of a clergyman, and born at Richmond, in Yorkshire, 1683. He was educated at Cambridge, and in 1717 received from the university the degree of Doctor of Divinity. His first published work was, A Full and Impartial Account of all the late Proceedings in the University of Cambridge against Dr. Bentley," which, says Dr. Monk, "c was the first published specimen of a style, which, for elegance, purity, and ease, yields to none in the whole compass of the English language." In 1724 he visited Italy, and having taken a careful and near view of the ecclesiastical pomp and ceremonies of the papal church, he published, in 1729, his celebrated Letter from Rome, in which he attempted to show that " the religion of the present Romans was derived from that of their heathen ancestors," and that, in particular, the rites, ceremonies, dresses of the priests, and other matters in the Romish church, were taken from the pagan religion. It was received with great favor by the learned, and went through four editions in the autlhor's lifetime. In 1741 appeared his greatest worklr, and that on which his fame chiefly tests, "The History of the Life of Marcus Tullius Cicero." It might nmore properly be called, The Life and Times of Cicero, since it is full, not only in every thing that relates personally to the illustrious Roman orator, but gives an admirable picture of the Republic at the time he flourished. The style is remarkable for uniting clearness, strength, elegance, and richness in an unusual degree, and the work may justly be considered as a model of composition in the department of biography. The characters of the most prominent men of the time, he draws uip with consummate skill, judgment, and taste; anld few historical works are more interesting, and none more instructive. In 1745 he pliblished an account of the various specimens of ancient art which he had collected during his residence at Rome; and in 1749, "'A Free Inquiry into Miraculous Powers." This was immediately attacked by many of the clergy, who maintained that the tendency of the book was to destroy the authority of miracles in general: but Middleton disclaimed all such intention. After various controversies upon religious subjects with some of the clergy of the day, he expired on the 28th of July, 1750. 490 MIDDLETON. [GEORGE II. CICERO OFFERS HIMSELF TO THE BAR. Cicero had now run through all that course of discipline, which he lays down as necessary to form the complete orator: for, in his treatise on that subject, he gives us his own sentiments in the person of Crassus, on the institution requisite to that character; declaring that no man ought to pretend to it, without being previously acquainted with every thing worth knowing in art or nature; that this is implied in the very name of an orator, whose profession it is to speak upon every subject which can be proposed to him; and whose eloquence, without the knowledge of what he speaks, would be the prattle only and impertinence of children. He had learnt the rudiments of grammar, and languages, from the ablest teachers; gone through the studies of humanity and the politer letters with the poet Archias; been instructed in philosophy by the principal professors of each sect; Phmedrus the Epicurean, Philo the Academic, Diodotus the Stoic; acquired a perfect knowledge of the law, from the greatest lawyers, as well as the greatest statesmen of Rome, the two Scaevolas; all which accomplishments were but ministerial and subservient to that on which his hopes and ambition were singly placed, the reputation of an orator: To qualify himself therefore particularly for this, he attended the pleadings of all the speakers of his time; heard the daily lectures of the most eminent orators of Greece, and was perpetually composing somewhat at home, and declaiming under their correction: and that he might neglect nothing which could help in any degree to improve and polish his style, he spent the intervals of his leisure in the company of the ladies; especially of those who were remarkable for a politeness of language, and ~whose fathers had been distinguished by a fame and reputation of their eloquence. Thus adorned and accomplished, he offered himself to the bar about the age of twenty-six; not as others generally did, raw and ignorant of their business, and wanting to be formed to it by use and experience, but finished and qualified at once to sustain any cause which should be committed to him. After he had given a specimen of himself to the city, in several private causes, he undertook the celebrated defence of S. Roscius of Ameria, in his twenty-seventh year; the same age, as the learned have observed, in which Demosthenes first began to distinguish himself in Athens; as if, in these geniuses of the first magnitude, that was the proper season of blooming towards maturity. As oy this defence he acquired a great reputation in his youth, so he reflects upon it with pleasure in old age, and recommends it to his son, as the surest way to true glory and authority in his 1727-1760.J MIDDLETON. 491 country; to defend the innocent in distress, especially when they happen to be oppressed by the power of the great; as I have often done, says he, in other causes, but particularly in that of Roscius against Sylla himself in the height of his power. A noble lesson to all advancers, to apply their talents to the protection of innocence and injured virtue; and to make justice, not profit, the rule and end of their labors. CLOSE OF CICERO S CONSULSHIP. But before we close the account of the memorable events of this year, we must not omit the mention of one which distinguished it afterwards as a particular era in the annals of Rome, the birth of OCTAVIUS, surnamed AUGUSTUS, which happened on the twenty-third of September. Velleius calls it an accession of glory to Cicero's consulship: but it excites speculations rather of a different sort, on the inscrutable methods of Providence, and the short-sighted policy of man, that in the moment when Rome was preserved from destruction, and its liberty thought to be established more firmly than ever, an infant should be thrown into the world, who, within the course of twenty years, effected what Catiline had attempted, and destroyed both Cicero and the republic. If Rome could have been saved by human counsel, it would have been saved by the skill of Cicero: but its destiny was now approaching: for governments, like natural bodies, have, with the principles of their preservation, the seeds of ruin also essentially mixed in their constitution, which, after a certain period, begin to operate, and exert themselves to the dissolution of the vital frame. These seeds had long been fermenting in the bowels of the republic, when Octavius came, peculiarly formed by nature, and instructed by art, to quicken their operation, and exalt them to maturity. Cicero's administration was now at an end, and nothing remained but to resign the consulship, according to custom, in an assembly of the people, and to take the usual oath, of his having discharged it with fidelity. This was generally accompanied with a speech from the expiring consul; and after such a year, and from such a speaker, the city was in no small expectation of what Cicero would say to them: but Metellus, one of the new tribunes, who affected commonly to open their magistracy by some remarkable act, as a specimen of the measures which they intended to pursue, resolved to disappoint both the orator and the audience: for when Cicero had mounted the rostra, and was ready to perform this last act of his office, the tribune would not suffer him to speak, or to do any thing more than barely to take the oath, declaring, that he who had put citizens tc death unheard, ought nriot 192 MIDDLETON. [GEORGE H. to be permitted to speak for himself: upon which Cicero, who was never at a loss, instead of pronouncing the ordinary form of the oath, exalting the tone of his voice, swore out aloud, so as all the people might hear him, that he had saved the republic and the city from ruin; which the multitude below confirmed with a universal shout, and with one voice cried out, that what he had stworn was true. Thus the intended affront was turned, by his presence of mind, to his greater honor, and he was conducted from the forum to his house, with all possible demonstrations of respect by the whole city. CHARACTER OF POMPEY. Pompey had early acquired the surname of the Great, by that sort of merit which, from the constitution of the republic, necessarily made him great; a fame and success in war, superior to what Rome had ever known in the most celebrated of her generals. He had triumphed at three several times over the three different parts of the known world, Europe, Asia, Africa; and by his victories had almost doubled the extent, as well as the jrevenues, of the Roman dominion; for, as he declared to the people on his return from the Mithridatic war, " he had found the lesser Asia the boundary, but left it the middle of their empire." He was about six years older than Caesar; and while Caesar, immersed in pleasures, oppressed with debts, and suspected by all honest men, was hardly able to show his head; Pompey was flourishing in the height of power and glory, and by the consent of all parties placed at the head of the republic. This was the post that his ambition seemed to aim at, to be the first man in Rome; the Leader, not the Tyrant of his country: for he more than once had it in his power to have made himself the master of it without any risk; if his virtue, or his phlegm at least, had not restrained him: but he lived in a perpetual expectation of receiving, from the gift of the people, what he did not care to seize by force; and, by fomenting the disorders of the city, hoped to drive them to the necessity of creating him Dictator. It is an observation of all the historians, that while Cmesar made no difference of power, whether it was conferred or usurped: whether over those who loved, or those who feared him: Pompey seemed to value none but what was offered; nor to have any desire to govern, but'with the good will of the governed. What leisure he found from his wars, he employed in the study of polite letters, and especially of eloquence, in which he would have acquired great fame, if his genius had not drawn him to the more dazzling glory of arms: vet he pleaded several causes with applause, in the defence of his friends and clients; and some of them in conjunction witht Cicero. 1727-1760(.] MIDDLETON. 493 His language was copious and elevated; his sentiments just; his voice sweet; his action noble, and full of dignity. But his talents were better formed for arms, than the gown: for though, in both, he observed the same discipline, a perpetual modesty, temperance, and gravity of outward behaviour; yet, in the license of camps, the example was more rare and striking. His person was extremely graceful, and imprinting respect: yet with an air of reserve and haughtiness, which became the general better than the citizen. His parts were plausible, rather than great; specious, rather than penetrating; and his view of politics but narrow; for his chief instrument of governing was dissimulation; yet he had not always the art to conceal his real sentiments. As he was a better soldier than a statesman, so what he gained in the camp he usually lost in the city; and though adored when abroad, was often affronted and mortified at home; till the imprudent opposition of the senate drove him to that allia ce with Crassus and Caesar, which proved fatal both to himself an. the republic. He took in these two, not as the partners, but the ministers rather of his power; that, by giving them some share with him, he might make his own authority uncontrollable: he had no reason to ap prebend that they could ever prove his rivals; since neither of them had any credit or character of that kind which alone could raise them above the laws; a superior fame and experience in war, with the militia of the empire at their devotion: all this was purely his own; till, by cherishing Caesar, and throwing into his hands the only thing which he wanted, arms and military command, he made him at last too strong for himself, and never began to fear him till it was too late: Cicero warmly dissuaded both his union and his breach with Caesar; and after the rupture, as warmly still, the thought of giving him battle: if any of these counsels had been followed, Pompey had preserved his life and honor, and the republic its liberty. But he was urged to his fate by a natural superstition, and attention to those vain auguries with which he was flattered by all the haruspices: he had seen the same temper in Marius and Sylla, and observed the happy effects of it: but they assumed it only out of policy, he out of principle. They used it to animate their soldiers, when they had found a probable opportunity of fighlitifig; but he, against all prudence and probability, was encouraged by it to fight to his own ruin. He saw all his mistakes at last, when it was out of his power to correct them; and, in his wretched flight from Pharsalia was forced to confess, that he had trusted too much to his hopes; and that Cicero had judged better, and seen farther into things than he. The resolution of seeking refuge in Egypt, finished the sad catas.. trophe of this great man: the father of the reigning prince had been highly obliged to him for his protection at Rome, and resto42 494 BOLINGBROKE. [CEORGE [I. ration to his kingdom: and the son had sent a considerable fleet to his assistance in the present war: but, in this ruin of his fortunes, what gratitude was there to be expected from a court, governed by eunuchs and mercenary Greeks? all whose politics turned, not on the honor of the king, but the establishment of their own power; which was likely to be eclipsed by the admission of Pompey. How happy had it been for him to have died in that sickness, when all Italy was putting up vows and prayers for his safety! or, if he had fallen by chance of war on the plains of Pharsalia, in the defence of his country's liberty, he had died still glorious, though unfortunate; but, as if he had been reserved for an example of the instability of human greatness, he, who a few days before commanded kings and consuls, and all the noblest of Rome, was sentenced to die by a council of slaves; murdered by a base deserter; cast out naked and headless on the Egyptian strand; and when the whole earth, as Velleius says, had scarce been sufficient for his victories, could not find a spot upon it at last for a grave. HENRY ST. JOHN, VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE. 1678-1751. HENRY ST. JOHN, son of Sir Henry St. John, of Battersea, Surrey county, was born October 1, 1678. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, and after spend ing many years of dissipation on the continent, he was, on his return, elected to parliament in 1701, when the Tories were in power. He was elevated tc the peerage in 1712, by the title of Viscount Bolingbroke; but soon after the death of Queen Anne, fearing the course which might be taken against him by the new administration, he fled to France. On the 9th of August of the same year, (1718,) he was impeached by Walpole at the bar of the House of Lords of high-treason, and other high crimes, and misdemeanors; and as he failed to surrender himself to take his trial, a bill of attainder was passed against him by parliament, on the 10th of September. In the mean time he showed what were his principles, and where his heart was, by entering the service of the Pretender, as secretary. In 1723 he obtained a full pardon, and returned to England: his property was restored to him, but he was excluded from the House of Lords. He then engaged in active opposition to the Whig ministry of Sir Robert Walpole, and published a great number of Dolitical tracts. In 1735 he suddenly withdrew to France, for reasons which have never been explained, and resided there seven years, during which time he published his " Letters on the Study of History," and a " Letter on the true Use of Retirement," both of which contain many valuable reflections. On the death of his father, 1742, he returned to take possession of the family estate at Battersea, and in 1749 published his " Letters on the Spirit of Patriotism," and the "Idea of a Patriot King." Most of his early friends, both literary and political, of whom were Pope, Swift, Gay, and Atterbury, were now gone, and he himself expired on the 15th of December, 1751. He bequeathed all his manuscripts, "as a legacy for traducing the memory of his own old 1727-1760.] BOLINGBROKE. 495 friend Alexander Pope," to David Mallet,' a Scotchman, who, in 1754, published a complete edition of his lordship's works, in five volumes. Among them were found a series of Essays against revealed religion, which led to the caustic but just remark of Dr. Johnson, that "having loaded a blunderbuss, and pointed it against Christianity, he had not the courage to discharge it himself, but left half-a-crown to a hungry Scotchman to pull the trigger after his death." In Lord Bolingbroke's character as a man there is but little to respect, much to condemn. His philosophical writings are now but little read, and for their matter contain little that is worth reading.2 As a rhetorician, however, he deserves some consideration in this work of ours, designed to mark the progress of English style, and to bring under our notice the best writers. His style was a happy medium between that of the scholar and that of tne man of society-or rather it was a happy combination of the best qualities of both,:" heightening the ease, freedom, fluency, and liveliness of elegant conversation, with many of the deeper and richer tones of the eloquence of formal orations and books. The example he thus set has probably produced a very considerable effect in moulding the style of popular writing since his time."3 ABSURDITIES OF USELESS LEARNING. Some histories are to be read, some are to be studied, and some may be neglected entirely, not only without detriment, but with advantage. Some are the proper objects of one man's curiosity, some of another's, and some of all men's; but all history is not an object of curiosity for any man. He who improperly, wantonly, and absurdly makes it so, indulges a sort of canine appetite; the curiosity of one, like the hunger of the other, devours ravenously, and without distinction, whatever falls in its way, but neither of them digests. They heap crudity upon crudity, and nourish and improve nothing but their distemper. Some such characters I have known, though it is not the most common extreme into which men are apt to fall. One of them I knew in this country. He joined to a more than athletic strength of body, a prodigious memory, and to both a prodigious industry. He had 1 There is not room here to go into the details of the controversy that arose from the base act of Mallet in maligning Pope, and the still baser feelings of Bolingbroke in first assenting to it, and afterwards rewarding it. Bolingbroke's pretended ground of offence was, that Pope, into whose hands he had placed his political tract, "The Patriot King," for publication, and distribution among his own (Bolingbroke's) friends, had published more than he ought. But he knew that Pope did it purely from his admiration of the tract, and a desire to have it more generally known. The real cause, therefore, of Bolingbroke's most ungrateful treatment of his old friend was, doubtless, that Pope had bequeathed his property in his printed works to Warburton, rather than to himself. For a more particular account of this, see Roscoe's Pope, vol. i. p. 557. 2 ", When Tully attempted poetry, he became as ridiculous as Bolingbroke when he attempted philosophy and divinity; we look in vain for that genius which produced the Dissertation on Parties, in the tedious philosophical works, of which it is no exaggerated satire to say, that the reasoning c(f them is sophistical and inconclusive, the style diffuse and verbose, and the learning seemingly conl tained in them not drawn from the originals, but picked up and purloined from French critics and translations." — Warton's Pope, i. 119. 3 See also some remarks on his style in tle 19-L Lecture of Dr. Blair, and in Drake's Essays, vol Iv. p. 234. 496 BOLINGBROKE. [GEORGE II. read almost constantly twelve or fourteen hours a day for five-andtwenty or thirty years, and had heaped together as much learning as could be crowded into a head. In the course of my acquaintance with him, I consulted him once or twice, not oftener; for I found this mass of learning of as little use to me as to the owner. The man was communicative enough; but nothing was distinct in his mind. How could it be otherwise? he had never spared time to think; all was employed in reading. His reason had not the merit of common mechanism. When you press a watch, or pull a clock, they answer your question with precision; for they repeat exactly the hour of the day, and tell you neither more nor less than you desire to know. But when you asked this man a question, he overwhelmed you by pouring forth all that the several terms or words of your question recalled to his memory; and if he omitted any thing, it was that very thing to which the sense of the whole question should have led him or confined him. To ask him a question was to wind up a spring in his memory, that rattled on with vast rapidity and confused noise, till the force of it was spent; and you went away with all the noise in your ears, stunned and uninformed. He who reads with discernment and choice, will acquire less learning, but more knowledge; and as this knowledge is collected with design, and cultivated with art and method, it will be at all times of immediate and ready use to himself and others. Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All ranged in order, and disposed with grace; Nor thus alone the curious eye to please, But to be found, when need requires, with ease. You remember the verses, my lord, in our friend's Essay on Criticism, which was the work of his childhood almost; but is such a monument of good sense and poetry, as no other, that I know, has raised in his riper years. He who reads without this discernment and choice, and resolves to read all, will not have time, no, nor capacity either, to do any thing else. He will not be able to think, without which it is impertinent to read; nor to act, without which it is impertinent to think. He will assemble materials with much pains, and purchase them at much expense, and have neither leisure nor skill to frame them into proper scantlings, or to prepare them for use. To what purpose should he husband his time, or learn architecture? he has no design to build. But then to what purpose all these quarries of stone, all these mountains of sand and lime, all these forests of oak and deal? 1727-1760.] BOLINGBROKE. 497 THE USE OF HISTORY. To teach and to inculcate the general principles of virtue, and the general rules of wisdom and good policy which result from such details of actions and characters, comes, for the most part, and always should come, expressly and directly into the design of those who are capable of giving such details: and, therefore, whilst they narrate as historians, they hint often as philosophers; they put into our hands, as it were, on every proper occasion, the end of a clue, that serves to remind us of searching, and to guide us in the search of that truth which the example before us either establishes or illustrates. If a writer neglects this part, we are able, however, to supply his neglect by our own attention and industry: and when he gives us a good history of Peruvians or Mexicans, of Chinese or Tartars, of Muscovites or Negroes, we may blame him, but we must blame ourselves much more, if we do not make it a good lesson of philosophy. This being the general use of history, it is not to be neglected. Every one may make it who is able to read, and to reflect on what he reads; and every one who makes it will find, in his degree, the benefit that arises from an early acquaintance contracted in this manner with mankind. We are not only passengers or sojourners in this world, but we are absolute strangers at the first steps we make in it. Our guides are often ignorant, often unfaithful. By this map of the country, which history spreads before us, we may learn, if we please, to guide ourselves. In our journey through it, we are beset on every side. We are besieged sometimes, even in our strongest holds. Terrors and temptations, conducted by the passions of other men, assault us; and our own passions, that correspond with these, betray us. History is a collection of the journals of those who have travelled through the same country, and been exposed to the same accidents: and their good and their ill success are equally instructive. In this pursuit of knowledge an immense field is opened to us: general histories, sacred and profane; the histories of particular countries, particular events, particular orders, particular men; memorials, anecdotes, travels. But we must not ramble in this field without discernment or choice, nor even with these must we ramble too long THE WORLD OUR COUNTRY.1 Whatever is best is safest; lies out of the reach of human power; can neither be given nor taken away. Such is this great 1 What a beautiful idea, "the world our country-all mankind our countrymen." When this sentiment shall be practically realized, (and the day seems to be fast drawing near when it will be,) all restrictions upon trade will be everywhere removed; intercourse between nations will be as free 2 I 41T 498 BOLINGBROKE. [GEORGE II. and beautiful work of nature, the world. Such is the mind of man, which contemplates and admires the world, whereof it makes the noblest part. These are inseparably ours, and as long as we remain in one, we shall enjoy the other. Let us march, therefore, intrepidly wherever we are led by the course of human accidents. Wherever they lead us, on what coast soever we are thrown by them, we shall not find ourselves absolutely strangers. We shall meet with men and women, creatures of the same figure, endowed with the same faculties, and born under the same laws of nature. We shall see the same virtues and vices, flowing from the same principles, but varied in a thousand different and contrary modes, according to that infinite variety of laws and customs which is established for the same universal end, the preservation of society. We shall feel the same revolution of seasons, and the same sun and moon will guide the course of our year. The same azure vault, bespangled with stars, will be everywhere spread over our heads. There is no part of the world from whence we may not admire those planets which roll, like ours, in different orbits, round the same central sun; from whence we may not discover an object still more stupendous, that army of fixed stars hung up in the immense space of the universe; innumerable suns, whose beams enlighten and cherish the unknown worlds which roll around them: and whilst I am ravished by such contemplations as these, whilst my soul is thus raised up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I tread upon. FORTUNE NOT TO BE TRUSTED. The sudden invasion of an enemy overthrows such as are not on their guard; but they who foresee the war, and prepare themselves for it before it breaks out, stand without difficulty the first and the fiercest onset. I learned this important lesson long ago, and never trusted to fortune, even while she seemed to be at peace with me. The riches, the honors, the reputation, and all the advantages which her treacherous indulgence poured upon me, I placed so, that she might snatch them away without giving me any disturbance. I kept a great interval between me and them. She took them, but she could not tear them from me. No man suffers by bad fortune but he who has been deceived by good. If wve grow fond of her gifts, fancy that they belong to us, and are ai between individuals of the same nation; and national governments will be supported as local go vernments new are-by direct taxes according to property-the only equitable mode. I cannot but here quote a fine remark from that valuable book entitled " Guesses at Truth," by the brothers Iare: "A statesman may do much for commerce.-most by leaving it alone. A river never flows so smoothly as when it follows its own course, without either aid or check. Let it make its own bed: it will do se better ti)an you can." 1727-1.760.] DODDRIDGE. 499 perpetually to remain with us; if we lean upon them, and expect to be considered for them, we shall sink into all the bitterness of grief, as soon as these false and transitory benefits pass away; as soon as our vain and childish minds, unfraught with solid plea. sures, become destitute even of those which are imaginary. But, if we do not suffer ourselves to be transported with prosperity, neither shall we be reduced by adversity. Our souls will be proof against the dangers of both these states: and having explored our strength, we shall be sure of it; for in the midst of felicity we shall have tried how we can bear msnsfortune. PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 1702-1751. FEW men have exerted a more happy, holy, and wide-spread influence upon the world, than the " dissenting" minister, Philip Doddridge. He was born in London, in 1702, and at an early age he became the pupil of Mr. John Jennings, who kept an academy at Kibworth, in Leicestershire, and in 1722 he entered upon the ministry at the same place. On the death of Mr. Jennings he succeeded to his place, but in 1729, being invited by the c" dissenting" congregation of that place to become their pastor, he removed there. Here for nearly twenty-two years he labored with great zeal and most exemplary piety, as pastor of the church, and as the principal of the academy, with the'highest credit to himself; and benefit to those under his care. But his health declining in consequence of his great labors, he took a voyage to Lisbon, in the hope of deriving benefit from the relaxation and change of air and climate. But all in vain; and he died at Lisbon thirteen days after his arrival, October 26, 1751. Of the writings of Dr. Doddridge, too much, we think, can hardly be said in praise. His "Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul," forms a body of practical divinity and Christian experience that has never been surpassed by any work of the same nature. Like the works of Baxter, Bunyan, and Watts, it is a classic of the religious world.' His " Sermons on the Education of Children,"'" Sermons to Young People," "Ten Sermons on the Power and Grace of Christ," "A Course of Lectures on the Principal Subjects in Pneumatology, Ethics, and Divinity,"'2 are held in the highest estimation by all ranks of Christians. Another work, still popular, is "' Some Remarkable Passages in the Life of Colonel James Gardiner, who was slain by the Rebels at the Battle of Preston Pans, September 21, 1745." 3 But his most elaborate 1," Doddridge's heart was made up of all the kindlier affections of our nature; and was wholly devoted to the salvation of men's souls. Whatever he did, he appears to have done'to the glory of God.' He read, he wrote, he preached-with a zeal which knew of no abatement, and with an earnestness which left no doubt of the sincerity of his motives. lHe was snatched from his flocK an d the world-both of which had been enlightened by his labors-in the prime of his life, and in the full possession of his faculties: but HE who has left such fruits behind him, cannot be said to have immaturely perished." —Dibdin. 2 "And first, as a universal storehouse, necessary to him in the conduct of his theological pur suits, Doddridge's Lectures."-Bishop of Dlurham's Charge. 8 This Colonel Gardiner was a brave Scottish officer, who had served with distinction under Marl. borough. From the life of a gay libertine he was suddenly converted to one of the strictest piety, 500 DODDRIDGE. [GEORGE II. work, the result of many years' study, was ", The Family Expositor, contairnmng a Version and Paraphrase of the New Testament, with Critical Notes, and a Practical Improvement of Each Section." This admirable compendium of Scriptural knowledge has, from its solid learning, critical acuteness, and the persuasive earnestness of its practical reflections, ever been held in the highest estimation by the Christian world,1 and has beer translated into several languages. To Doddridge, also, are we indebted for some of our best sacred lyrics, and for that epigram which Dr. Johnson calls "one of the finest in the English language." 2 His letters, also, are admirable specimens of epistolary writing, and for their easy and natural style are not unlike those of Cowper. COUNTRY LIFE —-LETTER TO A FEMALE FRIEND. You know I love a country life, and here we have it in perfection. I am roused in the morning with the chirping of sparrows, the cooing of pigeons, the lowing of kine, the bleating of sheep, and, to complete the concert, the grunting of swine and neighing of horses. We have a mighty pleasant garden and orchard, and a fine arbor under some tall shady limes, that form a kind of lofty dome, of which, as a native of the great city, you may perhaps catch a glimmering idea, if I name the cupola of St. Paul's. And then, on the other side of the house, there is a large space which we call a wilderness, and which, I fancy, would please you extremely. The ground is a dainty green sward; a brook runs sparkling through the middle, and there are two large fish-ponds at one end; both the ponds and the brook are surrounded with willows; and there are several shady walks under the trees, besides little knots of young willows interspersed at convenient distances. This is the nursery of our lambs and calves, with whom I have the honor to be intimately acquainted. Here I generally spend the evening, and pay my respects to the setting sun, when the variety and the beauty of the prospect inspire a pleasure that I knowr not how to express. I am sometimes so transported with by what he considered a supernatural interference, namely, a visible representation of Christ upon the cross, suspended in the air, amidst an unusual blaze of light, and accompanied by a declaration of the words, " Oh, sinner I did I suffer this for thee, and are these the returns?" From the period of this vision till his death, twenty-six years afterward, Colonel Gardiner maintained the life of a s:ncere Christian, so far as the military profession is compatible therewith. But the time is to come when the Christian will say what was said by those in the first and second centuries when called to inlist in the Roman armies, "I am a Christian, and therefore cannot fight."' The time is to come when the military profession will be deemed not only disreputable but criminal: for what can be more diametrically opposite than the spirit of the gospel and the spirit of war I A "In reading tie New Testament," says the Bishop of Durham, "I recommend Doddridge's Family Expositor, as an impartial interpreter and faithful monitor. I know of no expositor who suites so many adtvantages as Doddridge.". Live while you live, the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. Live while you live, the sacred preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies. Lord, in my views let both united be, I live In pleasure when I live to Thee. 1727-1760.] DODDRIDGE. 501 these inanimate beauties, that I fancy I am like Adam in Paradise; and it is my only misfortune that I want an Eve, and have none but the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, for my companions. LIVING NEAR TO GOD-LETTER TO HIS WIFE. I hope, my dear, you will not be offended when I tell you that I am, what I hardly thought it possible, without a miracle, that 1 should have been, very easy and happy without you. My days begin, pass, and end in pleasure, and seem short because they are so delightful. It may seem strange to say it, but really so it is, I hardly feel that I want any thing. I often think of you, and pray for you, and bless God on your account, and please myself with the hope of many comfortable days, and weeks, and years with you; yet I am not at all anxious about your return, or, indeed, about any thing else. And the reason, the great and sufficient reason is, that I have more of the presence of God with me than I remember ever to have enjoyed in any one month of my life. He enables me to live for him, and to live with him. When I awake in the morning, which is always before it is light, I address myself to him, and converse with him, speak to him while I am lighting my candle and putting on my clothes; and have often more delight before I come out of my chamber, though it be hardly a quarter of an hour after my awaking, than I have enjoyed for whole days, or, perhaps, weeks of my life. He meets me in my study, in secret, in family devotions. It is pleasant to read, pleasant to compose, pleasant to converse with my friends at home; pleasant to visit those abroad-the poor, the sick; pleasant to write letters of necessary business by which any good can be done; pleasant to go out and preach the gospel-to poor souls, of which some are thirsting for it, and others dying without it; pleasant in the week-day to think how near another Sabbath is, but, oh! much, much more pleasant, to think how near eternity is, and how short the journey through this wilderness, and that it is but a step from earth to heaven. I cannot forbear, in these circumstances, pausing a little, and considering whence this happy scene just at this time arises, and whither it tends. Whether God is about to bring upon me any peculiar trial, for which this is to prepare me; whether he is shortly about to remove me from the earth, and so is giving me more sensible prelibations of heaven, to prepare me for it; or whether he intends to do some peculiar services by me just at this time, which many other circumstances lead me sometimes to hope; or whether it be that, in answer to your prayers, and in compassion to that distress which I must otherwise have felt in the absence and illness of her who has been so exceedingly dear 502 DODDRIDGE. [GEORGE II. to me, and was never more sensibly dear to me than now, he is pleased to favor me with this teaching experience; in consequence of which, I freely own I am less afraid than ever of any event that can possibly arise, consistent with his nearness to my heart, and the tokens of his paternal and covenant love. I will muse no further on the cause. It is enough, the effect is so blessed. THE TRUE USE TO BE MADE OF GENIUS AND LEARNING. Hath God given you genius and learning? It was not that you might amuse or deck yourself with it, and kindle a blaze which should only serve to attract and dazzle the eyes of men. It was intended to be the means of leading both yourself and them to the Father of lights. And it will be your duty, according to the peculiar turn of that genius and capacity, either to endeavor to improve and adorn human life, or, by a more direct application of it to Divine subjects, to plead the cause of religion, to defend its truths, to enforce and recommend its practice, to deter men from courses which would be dishonorable to God and fatal to themselves, and to try the utmost efforts of all the solemnity and tenderness with which you can clothe your addresses, to lead them into the paths of virtue and happiness. WORLDLY CARES. Young people are generally of an enterprising disposition: having experienced comparatively little of the fatigues of business, and of the disappointments and encumbrances of life, they easily swallow them up, and annihilate them in their imagination, and fancy that their spirit, their application, and address, will be able to encounter and surmount every obstacle or hinderance. But the event proves it otherwise. Let me entreat you, therefore, to be cautious how you plunge yourself into a greater variety of business than you are capable of managing as you ought, that is, in consistency with the care of your souls, and the service of God, which certainly ought not on any pretence to be neglected. It is true, indeed, that a prudent regard to your worldly interest will require such a caution; as it is obvious to every care. ful observer, that multitudes are undone by grasping at more than they can conveniently manage. Hence it has frequently been seen, that while they have seemed resolved to be rich, they have pierced themselves through with many sorrows, have ruined their own families, and drawn down many others into desolation with them Whereas. could they have been contented with moderate employments, and moderate gains, they might have prospered in their business, and might, by sure degrees, under a Divine bless 1727-1760.] DODDRIDGE. 503 ing, have advanced to great and honorable increase. But if there was no danger at all to be apprehended on this head; if you were as certain of becoming rich, and great, as you are of perplexing and fatiguing yourself in the attempt,-consider, I beseech you, how precarious these enjoyments are. Consider how often a plentiful table becomes a snare, and that which would have been for a man's welfare becomes a trap. Forget not that short lesson, which is so comprehensive of the highest wisdom-ONE THING IS NEEDFUL. THE SABBATH.1 Lord of the Sabbath, hear our vows, On this thy day, in this thy house; And own, as grateful sacrifice, The songs which from the desert rise. Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love; But there's a nobler rest above; To that our laboring souls aspire With ardent pangs of strong desire. No more fatigue, no more distress; Nor sin nor hell shall reach the place; No groans to mingle with the songs Which warble from immortal tongues. No rude alarms of raging foes; No cares to break the long repose; No midnight shade, no clouded sun, But sacred, high, eternal noon. O long-expected day, begin; Dawn on these realms of wo and sin; Fain would we leave this weary road, And sleep in death, to rest with God. SELF-EXAMINATION. Return, my roving heart, return, And chase these shadowy forms no more; Seek out some solitude to mourn, And thy forsaken God implore. Wisdom and pleasure dwell at home; Retired and silent seek then there: True conquest is ourselves t' o'ercome, True strength to break the tempter's snare. And thou, my God, whose piercing eye Distinct surveys each deep recess, In these abstracted hours draw nigh, And with thy presence fill the place..1 In printing these hymns the best London edition of Doddridge's works has been carefully followed. In a word, the hymns are Doddridge's, and not the " improvements" (i) ot modern compilers of hymn-books. 504 JOSEPH BUTLER. [GEORGE IL Through all the mazes of my heart, My search let heavenly wisdom guidle And still its radiant beams impart, Till all be search'd and purified. Then, with the visits of thy love, Vouchsafe my inmost soul to cheer; Till every grace shall join to prove That God hath fix'd his dwelling here. ENTERING INTO COVENANT. O happy day, that fix'd my choice On thee, my Saviour and my God! Well may this glowing heart rejoice, And tell its raptures all abroad. O happy bond, that seals my vows To Him, who merits all my love! Let cheerful anthems fill the house, While to that sacred shrine I move.'Tis done; the great transaction's done: I am my Lord's, and he is mine: He drew me, and I follow'd on, Charm'd to confess the voice divine. Now rest, my long-divided heart, Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest; With ashes who would grudge to part, When call'd on angels' bread to feast? High Heaven, that heard the solemn vow, That vow renew'd, shall daily hear: Till, in life's latest hour, I bow, And bless in death a bond so dear. JOSEPH BUTLER. 1692-1752. JosEPH BUTLER, the celebrated author of the " Analogy," was born at Wantage, in Berkshire, in 1692. Being of a Presbyterian family, he was sent to the " dissenting" academy at Tewkesbury, with the view of entering the ministry. It was here that he gave the first proofs of the peculiar bent of his mind to abstruse speculations, in some acute and ingenious remarks on Dr. Samuel Clarke's "Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God," in private letters addressed to the author. He also gave much attention to the points of controversy between the members of the c" established" church and the "s dissenters," the result of which was that he went over to the former. After some little opposition from his father, he was allowed to follow his insIination. an, in 1714 removed to Oxford. Having " taken orders," he was, in 1718, appointed preacher at the Rolls' Chapel, which station he occupied. about eight years, when he published a volume of sermons delivered in that 1727-1760.] JOSEPH BUTLER. 506 chapel, which gave him the highest reputation as a profound and original thinker. After various preferments in the church, in 1736 he published his great work, "-The Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed to the Constitution and Course of Nature." His object in it is to demonstrate the connection between the present and future state, and to show that there could be but one author of both, and consequently but one general system of moral government by which they must be regulated. In the execution of this task, his success and triumph were complete. He has built up a solid granite rampart, of such height and strength, for the defence of revealed religion, that all the missiles of infidels, from that day to this, have been hurled against it in vain. In 1738 he was promoted to the bishopric of Bristol, and in 1750 to that of Durham, the highest preferment. He held this but a short time, as he died at Bath in June, 1752. The character of Butler was every thing that would be expected from his writings. Of piety most fervent, and of morals most pure, he lived the life, while he possessed the faith of the Christian. 1 "No man," says his biographer, " ever more thoroughly possessed the meekness of wisdom. Neither the consciousness of intellectual strength, nor the just reputation which he had thereby attained, nor the elevated station to which he had been raised, in the slightest degree injured the natural modesty of his character, or the mildness and sweetness of his temper." His liberality also was equal to his means. His income he considered as belonging to his station, and not to himself; and so thoroughly was this feeling of his understood, that his relatives never indulged the expectation of pecuniary benefit from his death. He well understood the true use of money, that it is worthless and contemptible except as a means of doing good. It was his remark on his promotion to Durham: " It would be a melancholy thing at the close of life to have no reflections to entertain one's self with, but that one had spent the revenues of the bishopric of Durham in a sumptuous course of living, and enriched one's friends with the promotions of it, instead of having really set one's self to do good, and to promote worthy men." How much such a character honors religion! How much its opposite disgraces it! The following just and eloquent remarks upon the design of Butler's Analogy are taken from the admirable analysis of that great work by Bishop Wilson, prefixed to his edition of it.1 "4 Bishop Butler is one of those creative geniuses who give a character to their times. His great work,' The Analogy of Religion,' has fixed the admiration of all competent judges for nearly a century, and will continue to be studied so long as the language in which he wrote endures. The mind of a mlaster pervades it. The author chose a theme infinitely important, and he has treated it with a skill, a force, a novelty and talent, which have left little for others to do after him. He opened the mine and exhausted it himself. A discretion which never oversteps the line of prudence, is in him united Nwith a penetration which nothing can escape. There are in his writings a vastness of idea, a reach and generalization of reasoning, a native simplicity and grandeur of thought, which command and fill the mind. At the same time, his illustrations are so striking and familiar as to instruct as well as persuade. Nothing is violent, nothing far-fetched, nothing pushed beyond its fair limits, nothing fanciful or weak: a masculine power of argument runs through 1 See also a most excellent introduction to Butler's Analogy by Rev. Albert Barnes 43 506 JOBEPH BUTLER. [GEORGE II thle whole. All bespeaks that repose of mind, that tranquillity which springs from a superior understanding, and an intimate acquaintance with every part of his subject. He grasps firmly his topic, and insensibly communicates to his reader the calmness and conviction which he possesses himself He embraces with equal ease the greatest and the smallest points connected with his argument. He often throws out as he goes along, some general principle which seems to cost him no labor, and yet which opens a whole field of contemplation before the view of the reader. ": Butler was a philosopher in the true sense of the term. He searches for wisdom wherever he can discern its traces. He puts forth the keenest sagacity in his pursuit of his great object, and never turns aside till he reaches and seizes it. Patient, silent, unobtrusive investigation was his forte. His powers of invention were as fruitful as his judgment was sound. Probably no book in the compass of theology is so full of the seeds of things, to use the expre-. sion of a kindred genius,1 as the' Analogy.' ": He was a man raised up for the age in which he lived. The wits and infidels of the reign of our Second Charles, had deluged the land with the most unfair, and yet plausible writings against Christianity. A certain fearlessness as to religion seemed to prevail. There was a general decay of piety and zeal. Many persons treated Christianity as if it were an agreed point, amongst all people of discernment, that it had been found out to be fictitious. The method taken by these enemies of Christianity, was to magnify and urge objections, more or less plausible, against particular doctrines or precepts, which were represented as forming a part of it; and which, to a thoughtless mind, were easily made to appear extravagant, incredible, and irrational. They professed to admit the Being and Attributes of the Almighty; but they maintained that human reason was sufficient for the discovery and establishment of this fundamental truth, as well as for the development of those moral precepts, by which the conduct of life should be regulated; and they boldly asserted, that so many objections and difficulties might be urged against Christianity, as to exclude it from being admitted as Divine, by any thoughtful and enlightened person. "'These assertions Butler undertook to refute. He was a man formed for such a task. He knew thoroughly what he was about. He had a mind to weigh objections, and to trace, detect, and silence cavils. Accordingly, he came forward in all the self-possession, and dignity, and meekness of truth, to meet the infidel on his own ground. He takes the admission of the unbeliever, that God is the Creator and Ruler of the natural world, as a principle conceded. From this point he sets forward, and pursues a course of argument so cautious, so solid, so forcible; and yet so diversified, so original, so convincing; as to carry along with him, almost insensibly, those who have once put themselves under his guidance. His insight into the constitution and course of nature is almost intuitive; and the application of his knowledge is so surprisingly skilful and forcible, as to silence or to satisfy every fair antagonist. He traces out every objection with a deliberation which nothing can disturb; and shows the fallacies from whence they spring, with a precision and acuteness which overwhelm and charm the reader. ", Accordingly, students of all descriptions have long united in the praise of Butler He is amongst the few classic authors of the first rank in modern literature He ta.kes his place with Bacon, and Pascal, and Newton, those 1 Lord Bacon. 1727 —1760.] JOSEPH BUTLER. 507 mighty geniuses who opened new sources of informnation on the most important subjects, and commnanded the love and gratitude of mankind. If his powers were not fully equal to those of these most extraordinary men, they were only second to them. IIe was, in his own line, nearly what they were in the inventions of science, and the adaptation of mathematics to philosophy founded on experiment. He was, of like powers of mind, of similar calm and penetrating sagacity, of the same patience and perseverance in pursuit, of kindred acuteness and precision in argument, of like force and power in his conclusions. His objects were as great, his mind as simple, his perception of truth as distinct, his comprehension of intellect nearly as vast, his aim as elevated, his success as surprising." CHRISTIANITY A SCHEME IMPERFECTLY COMPREHENDED. Christianity is a scheme quite beyond our comprehension. The moral government of God is exercised, by gradually conducting things so in the course of his providence, that every one, at length and upon the whole, shall receive according to his deserts; and neither fraud nor violence, but truth and right, shall finally prevail. Christianity is a particular scheme under this general plan of Providence, and a part of it, conducive to its completion, with regard to mankind: consisting itself also of various parts, and a mysterious economy, which has been carrying on from the time the world came into its present wretched state, and is still carrying on, for its recovery, by a divine person, the Messiah; " who is to gather together in one the children of God that are scattered abroad," and establish 6" an everlasting kingdom, wherein dwelleth righteousness." And in order to it, after various manifestations of things relating to this great and general scheme of Providence, through a succession of many ages; after various dispensations, looking forward and preparatory to this final salvation, "In the fulness of time," when Infinite Wisdom thought fit, he, "being in the form of God, made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men; and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and'ecame obedient to death, even the death of the cross: wherefore God also hath highly exalted him, and given him a name which is above every name; that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in the earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." Parts likewise of this economy are, the miraculous mission of the Holy Ghost, and his ordinary assistances given to good men; the invisible government which Christ at present exercises over his church; that which he himself refers to in these words, " In rny Father's house are many mansions —I go to prepare a place for you;" and his future return to "' judge the world in righteousness," and com 508 JOSEPH BUTLER. [GEORGE II. pletely re-establish the kingdom of God. " For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son; that all men should honor the Son, even as they honor the Father." " All power is given unto him in heaven and in earth." "And he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. Then cometh the end, when he shall have delivered up the kingdom to God, even the Father; when he shall have put down all rule, and all authority and power. And when all things shall be subdued unto him, then shall the Son also himself be subject unto him that put all things under him, that God may be all in all." Now little, surely, need be said to show, that this system, or scheme of things, is but imperfectly comprehended by us. The Scripture expressly asserts it to be so. And indeed one cannot read a passage relating to this " great mystery of godliness," but what immediately runs up into something which shows us our ignorance in it; as every thing in nature shows us our ignorance in the constitution of nature. And whoever will seriously consider that part of the Christian scheme which is revealed in Scripture, will find so much more unrevealed, as will convince him, that, to all the purposes of judging and objecting, we know as little of it as of the constitution of nature. Our ignorance, therefore, is as much an answer to our objections against the perfection of one, as against the perfection of the other. It is obvious, too, that in the Christian dispensation, as much as in the natural scheme of things, means are made use of to accomplish ends. And the observation of this furnishes us with the same answer to objections against the perfection of Christianity, as to objections of the like kind against the constitution of nature. It shows the credibility, that the things objected against, how "foolish" soever they appear to men, may be the very best means of accomplishing the very best ends. And their appearing "foolishness" is no presumption against this, in a scheme so greatly beyond our comprehension. The credibility, that the Christian dispensation may have been, all along, carried on by general laws, no less than the course of nature, may require to be more distinctly made out. Consider, then, upon what ground it is we say, that the whole common course of nature is carried on according to general foreordained laws. We know, indeed, several of the general laws of matter; and a great part of the natural behavior of living agents is reducible to general laws. But we know, in a manner, nothing, by what laws storms and tempests, earthquakes, famine, pestilence, become the instruments of destruction to mankind. And the laws, by which persons born into the world at such a time and place, are of such capacities, geniuses, tempers; the laws, by which thoughtq, come into our mind, in a multitude of cases; and by 1727-1760.1 JOSEPHI BUTLER. 509 which innumerable things happen, of the greatest influence upon the affairs and state of the world-these laws are so wholly unknown to us, that we call the events, which come to pass by them, accidental; though all reasonable men know certainly that there cannot, in reality, be any such thing as chance; and conclude that the things which have this appearance are the result of general laws, and may be reduced into them. It is then but an exceeding little way, and in but a very few respects, that we can trace up the natural course of things before us to general laws. And it is only from analogy that we conclude the whole of it to be capable of being reduced into them; only from our seeing that part is so. It is from our finding that. the course of nature, in some respects and so far, goes on by general laws, that we conclude this of the rest. And if that be a just ground for such a conclusion, it is a just ground also, if not to conclude, yet to apprehend, to render it supposable and credible, which is sufficient for answering objections, that God's miraculous interpositions may have been, all along, in like manner, by general laws of wisdom. Thus, that miraculous powers should be exerted at such times, upon such occasions, in such degrees and manners, and with regard to such persons, rather than others; that the affairs of the world, being permitted to go on in their natural course so far, should, just at such a point, have a new direction given them by miraculous interpositions; that these interpositions should be exactly in such degrees and respects only; all this may have been by general laws. These laws are unknown, indeed, to us; but no more unknown than the laws from whence it is that some die as soon as they are born, and others live to extreme old age; that one man is so superior to another in understanding; with innumerable more things, which, as was before observed, we cannot reduce to any laws or rules at all, though it is taken for granted they are as much reducible to general ones as gravitation. Now, if the revealed dispensations of Providence, and miraculous interpositions, be by general laws, as well as God's ordinary government in the course of nature, made known by reason and experience; there is no more reason to expect that every exigence, as it arises. should be provided for by these general laws or miraculous interpositions, than that every exigence in nature should, by the general laws of nature: yet there might be wise and good reasons, that miraculous interposition should be by general laws, and that these laws should not be broken in upon, or deviated from, by other miracles. Upon the whole, then, the appearance of deficiencies and irregularities in nature is owing to its being a scheme but in part maute known, and of such a certain particular kind in other respects. Now we see no more reason why the frame and course of naturo 4abb 510 BERKELEY. [GEORGE IX. should be such a scheme, than why Christianity should. And that the former is such a scheme, renders it credible that the latter, upon supposition of its truth, may be so too. And as it is manifest that Christianity is a scheme revealed but in part, and a scheme in which means are made use of to accomplish ends, like to that of nature; so the credibility, that it may have all along been carried on by general laws, no less than the course of nature, has been distinctly proved. And from all this it is beforehand credible that there might, I think probable that there would, be the like appearances of deficiencies and irregularities in Christianity as in nature; i. e., that Christianity would be liable to the like objections as the frame of nature. And these objections are answered by these observations concerning Christianity; as the like objections against the frame of nature are answered by the like observations concerning the frame of nature. GEORGE BERKELEY. 1684-1753. GEORGE BERKELEY, the celebrated Bishop of Cloyne, in Ireland, was the son of William Berkeley, of the county of Kilkenny, and was born on the 12th of March, 1684, and received his education at Trinity College, Dublin, tc which he was admitted as a fellow in 1707. In 1709 he published his ", Theory of Vision," in which he shows that the connection between the sight and the touch is the effect of habit, and that a person born blind, and suddenly made to see, would at first be unable to tell how the objects of sight would affect the sense of touch. The year following he published that work by which his name is most known, " The Principles of Human Knowledge;" in which he attempts to DIHSPROVE THE EXISTENTCE OF MATTER, and to demonstrate that all material objects are not EXTERNAL TO, but EXIST IN the mind, and are, in short, merely impressions made upon it by the immediate power and influence of the Deity. It should not, however, be supposed that he was so skeptical as to reject the testimony of his senses, or to deny the reality of his sensations. He disputed not the effects but the causes of our sensations, and was, therefore, induced to inquire, whether these causes took their birth from matter external to ourselves, or proceeded merely from impressions on the mind, through the immediate immaterial agency of the Deity. The talent, the elegance, and the metaphysical acuteness of Berkeley's productions, very strongly attracted the attention of the public, and on visiting London, in 1713, he very rapidly acquired, and very uniformly retained nu merous and valuable friends. Among these, were Sir Richard Steele and Dr. Swift, the former of whom engaged him to write some papers for the' Guardian," just then commenced; while the latter introduced him to his relation, Lord Berkeley, who, when appointed ambassador to Italy, in November of that year, selected Berkeley to accompany him as his chaplain and becretary. Flrom this embassy he returned in a year, and after some time accepted an offer of making the tour of Europe with Mr. Ashe, son of the Bishop of Clo 1727-1760.] BERKELEY. 511 gher. He spent four years on the continent, aul on his return in 1721, finding in what general distress the nation was involved in consequence of the failure of the South Sea scheme,' he employed his talents in endeavoring to alleviate the public misfortune, and published " An Essay towards preventing the Ruin of Great Britain." The same year he went to Ireland as chaplain to the Duke of Grafton, then lord lieutenant, to whom, about two years after, he was indebted for a valuable promotion in the church, the deanery of Derry. He had long, however, had a very benevolent object in view, that of promoting education in the island of Bermuda; and now, determined to carry it into effect, he offered to resign his preferment, and to devote his life to this plan, on an income of ~100 per year. He prevailed on three junior fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, to accompany him, and after great exertions he got a charter granted for the erection of a college, to be called " St. Paul's College," in Bermuda, and a promise of ~20,000 from the minister, Sir Robert Walpole. Every thing now promising success to his favorite object, in the fulness of his heart, and in the prospect of the good that was to be accomplished in the western world, he poured forth the following beautiful effusion, the last verse of which is " famniliar as household words:" The muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time Producing subjects worthy fame: In happy climes, where, from the genial sun And virgin earth, such scenes ensue; The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true: In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides, and virtue rules; Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools: There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts; 1 This "Scheme," of such famous memory, was originated by John Blount or Blunt, in 1719, a scrivener by profession, and a man of consummate cunning. Engaging a number of persons to join him, he proposed to government to become the sole public creditor; that is, to become responsible for all the debts due from the government to other trading corporations, on condition that he and his company should have the exclusive right of trading with all countries along thle shores of the Pacific, or the "South Sea." The government accepted the proposition, a bill was carried through parliament, and the South Sea Comany was established. The subscriptions to the stock, however, came in but slowly, till Blunt had the hardihood to circulate a report that Gibraltar and Minorca were about to be exchanged by the ministry for Peru; which arrangement would of course transfer an immense trade at once to the Pacific. Instantaneously the public mind was all inflamed with excitement. Persons of all ages, ranks, and condition s, hastened tt purchase the stock; to secure which thousands laid out their last farthing, and very many rano deeply into debt. The subscribers, however, had held their shares but a short time, when a sudden panic arose, and the bursting of the bubble was as complete and as rapid as had been its formation an I expansion. Many eminent bankers and goldsmiths, who had advanced large sums of money on tlhe security of tle stock, became uLttel'lybankrupt, and countless numbers of fanilies were overwhelsnei in ruin. All confidence, in short, both in individuals and in government was at an end, arid there was scarcely a mansion or cottage in Enlgland of which the inmates were nO' more or less sufferers frots this grand scheme of deception and villany. 61 2 BERKELEY. [GEORGE II. The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay, Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way: The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the dav' Time's noblest offspring is the lasg, La September, 1728, he sailed from England for Rhode Islanc, as the most favorable point from which to sail for the Bermudas. He took up his residence at Newport, where for nearly two years he devoted himself indefatiga. bly to his pastoral labors.' The government, however, disappointed him; the money promised was never paid; and he was compelled to abandon his project and return home. In 1732, he published his " Alciphron," or " Minuteo Philosopher," a series of dialogues on the model of Plato, between two atheists and two Christians; and in 1734 he was promoted to the vacant bishopric of Cloyne, the duties of which he discharged with great zeal and faithfulness to the end of life, the most tempting offers of more lucrative situations having no influence at all upon him. His sedentary life at Cloyne having brought disease upon him, and having received much relief in the use of tar-water, he published, in 1744, his i" Siris, a Chain of Philosophical Reflections and Inquiries concerning the Virtues of Tar-water," a work singularly curious for the multifarious erudition that it embraces, and for the art with which the author has contrived to introduce into it the most profound philosophical and religious speculations. His last work was "Further Thoughts on Tar-water," published in 1752. Desirous to remove to Oxford to educate his son, he offered to resign his bishopric, worth ~1400 a year, so averse was he to the idea of non-residence. But the king would not listen to such a proposition, and said that Berkeley should c" die a bishop in spite of himself," but that he might choose his place of residence. Accordingly, after directing that ~200 a year should be distributed to the poor of his diocese, he removed to Oxford in July, 1752. He enjoyed his retirement but for a short time, for on Sunday evening, January 14, 1753, while Mrs. Berkeley was reading to him the 15th chapter of the First Corinthians, he expired. On this sublime chapter he was commenting with his usual energy and ability, when he was in an instant deprived of existence by a paralytic affection of the heart. It may be said of Berkeley, without exaggeration, that, in point of virtue and benevolence, no one of the sons of men has exceeded him. Whether we consider his public or his private life, we pause in admiration of efforts uncommonly exalted, disinterested, and pure. He was alike an object of enthusiastic love and admiration to extensive societies, and to familiar friends; and, in the relations of domestic life his manners were uniformly mild, sweet, anrd engaging, and in a pre-eminent degree calculated to ensure the most durable and afiectionate attachment. Such, indeed, were the energy and impressive beauty of his character, that it was impossible to be many hours in hlis company without acknowledging its fascination and superiority. In short, 1 Some memorials of his liberality still exist in that ancient town. 1727-1760.] BERKELEY. 513 after the most rigorous survey of the motives and actions of the Bishop of Cloyne, we are tempted to assign, in the language of Mr. Pope, and with ne suspicion of hyperbolical praise, To Berkeley every virtue under heaven.1 NATIONAL LUXURY THE DIRECT'r ROAD TO NATIONAL RUIN. Industry is the natural sure way to wealth; this is so true, that it is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries and comforts of life, or an idle, enjoy them under any form of government. Money is so far useful to the public as it promoteth industry; and credit, having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand without producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and honesty, but must see and own, whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table, and play off their money one to another. The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state; this is as evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind fortuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing in an instant acquire vast estates, without the least desert; while others are as suddenly stript of plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for, on the one hand, but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other, but extreme madness and despair? In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage them to despise the slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest industry, must be ruinous to the public, and even the winners themselves will at length be involved in the public ruin. Frugality of manners is the nourishment and strength of bodies politic. It is that by which they grow and subsist, until they are corrupted by luxury, —the natural cause of their decay and ruin. Of this we have examples in the Persians, Lacedamonians, and Romans: not to mention many later governments which have. sprung up, continued a while, and then perished by the same natural causes. But these are, it seems, of no use to us; and, ill 1 Drake's Essays, vol. iii. p. 74. 2K 514 BERKELEY. [GEORGE IT. spite of them, we are in a fair way of becoming ourselves another useless example to future ages. Simplicity of manners may be more easily preserved in a republic than a monarchy; but if once lost, may be sooner recovered in a monarchy, the example of a court being of great efficacy, either to reform or to corrupt a people; that alone were sufficient to -discountenance the wearing of gold or silver, either in clothes or equipage, and if the same were prohibited by law, the saving so much bullion would be the smallest benefit of such an institution; there being nothing more apt to debase the virtue and good sense of our gentry of both sexes than the trifling vanity of apparel, which we have learned from France, and which hath had such visible ill consequences on the genius of that people. Wiser nations have made it their care to. shut out this folly by severe laws and penalties, and its spreading among us can forebode no good, if there be any truth in the observation of one of the ancients, that the direct way to ruin a man is to dress him up in fine clothes.It cannot be denied that luxury of dress giveth a light behavior to our women, which may pass for a small offence, because it is a common one, but is in truth the source of great corruptions. For this very offence the prophet Isaiah denounced a severe judgment against the ladies of his time.2 The scab, the stench, and the burning are terrible pestilential symptoms, and our ladies would do well to consider, they may chance to resemble those of Zion, in their punishment as well as their offence. But we are doomed to be-undone. Neither the plain reason of the thing, nor the experience of past ages, nor the examples we have before our eyes, can restrain us from imitating, not to say surpassing, the most corrupt and ruined people in those very points of luxury that ruined them. Our gaming, our operas, our masquerades, are, in spite of our debts and poverty, become the wonder of our neighbors. If there be any man so void of all thought and common sense, as not to see where this must end, let him but compare what Venice was at the league of Cambray, with what it is at present, and he will be convinced how truly those fashionable pastimes are calculated to depress and ruin a nation. It is not to be believed, what influence public diversions have on the spirit and manners of a people. The Greeks wisely saw this, and made a very serious affair of their public sports. For the same reason, it will, perhaps, seem worthy the care of our legislature to regulate the public diversions, by an absolute prohibition of those which have a direct tendency to corrupt our morals, 1 These remarks are as just and applicable now as they were il 1721, when they were first published. 2 Read Isaiah iii. 16-24. 1727-1760.] TOLLET. 515 as well as by a reformation of the drama; which, when rightly managed, is such a noble entertainment, and gave those fine lessons of morality and good sense to the Athenians of old, and to our British gentry alove a century ago; but for these last ninety years, hath entertained us, for the most part, with such wretched things as spoil, instead of improving the taste and manners of the audience. Those who are attentive to such propositions only as may fill their pockets, will probably slight these things as trifles below the care of the legislature. But I am sure, all honest, thinking men must lament to see their country run headlong into all those luxurious follies, which, it is evident, have been fatal to other nations, and will undoubtedly prove fatal to us also, if a timely stop be not put to them. ELIZABETH TOLLET. 1694-1754. ELIZABETH TOLLET was the daughter of George Tollett, Esq., commissioner of the navy, in the reigns of King William and Queen Anne. In a short preface to a volume of her poems printed in 1755, she is mentioned as a woman of great virtue and excellent education. " Her poetry does not rise above mediocrity, and she shows most of the spirit and softness of her sex ir tihe Winter Song." ON A DEATH S-HEAD. On this resemblance, where we find A portrait drawn from all mankind, Pond lover! gaze a while, to see What Beauty's idol charms shall be. Where are the balls that once could dart Quick lightning through the wounded heart The skin, whose tint could once unite The glowing red and polish'd white? The lip in brighter ruby drest? The cheek with dimpled smiles imprest? The rising front, where beauty sate Throned in her residence of state; Which, half-disclosed and half-conceal'd, The hair in flowing ringlets veil'd?'Tis vanish'd all! remains alone This eyeless scalp of naked bone: The vacant orbits sunk within: The jaw that offers at a grin. Is this the object then that claims The tribute of our youthful flames? MuEt amorous hopes and fancied bliss, Too dear delusions! end in this? 1 Southey's Specimens, ii. 193. 516 COLLINS. [GEORGE IT. How high does Melancholy swell! Which sighs can more than language tell: Till Love can only grieve or fear, Reflect a while, then drop a tear For all that's beautiful or dear. WINTER SONG. Ask me no more, my truth to prove, What I would suffer for my love With thee I would in exile go, To regions of eternal snow: O'er floods by solid ice confined; mThrough forest bare with Northern wind: While all around my eyes I cast, Where all is wild, and all is waste. If there the timorous stag you chase, Or rouse to fight a fiercer race, Undaunted I thy arms would bear, And give thy hand the hunter's spear, When the low sun withdraws his light, And menaces a half year's night, The conscious moon, and stars above, Shall guide me with my wandering love. Beneath the mountain's hollow brow, Or in its rocky cells below, Thy rural feast I would provide; Nor envy palaces their pride; The softest moss should dress thy bed, With savage spoils about thee spread: While faithful Love the watch should keep, To banish danger from thy sleep. WILLIAM COLLINS. 1720 —1756. WILLIAM COLLINS, one of the very finest of English lyric poets, was born at Chichester, in the year 1720, and was educated at Oxford. In 1744 he repaired to London as a literary adventurer. He won the cordial regard of Johnson, then a needy laborer in the same vocation, who, in his "Lives of the Poets," has spoken of him with tenderness. He tells us that (" his appearance was decent and manly, his knowledge considerable, his views extensive, his conversation elegant, and his disposition cheerful. He designed many works, but his great fault was irresolution; or the frequent calls of immediate necessity broke his scheme, and suffered him to pursue no settled purpose." His odes were published on his own account in 1746; but being disappointed at the slowness of the sale, he is said to have burnt the copies that remained with his own hand. He was shortly relieved from his embarrassments, by a legacy from an uncle of~2000: but worse evils than poverty soon 1727-11760.] COLLINS. 517 overclouded the rest of his life: he sunk gradually into a sort of melancholy, and died in 1756, in a state of helpless insanity.' "The works of Collins," says Campbell, "will abide comnparison with whatever Milton wrote under the age of thirty. If they have rather less exuberant wealth of genius, they have more exquisite touches of pathos. Like Milton, he leads us into the haunted ground of imagination: like him, he has the rich economy of expression haloed with thought, which by single or few words often hints entire pictures to the imagination. A cloud of obscurity sometimes rests on his highest conceptions, arising from the fineness of his associations, and the daring sweep of his allusions; but the shadow is transitory, and interferes very little with the light of his imagery or the warmth of his feelings. His genius loved to breathe rather in the preternatural and ideal element of poetry, than in the atmosphere of imitation, which lies closest to real life. He carried sensibility and tenderness into the highest regions of abstracted thought: his enthusiasm spreads a glow even amongst' the shadowy tribes of mind i' and his allegory is as sensible to the heart as it is visible to the fancy." 2 ODE TO FEAR.3 Thou, to whom the world unknown, With all its shadowy shapes, is shown, Who seest appall'd the unreal scene, While Fancy Lifts the veil between: Ah, Fear! ah, frantic!,ear! I see-I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy-hlaggard eye! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fix'd behold? Who stalks his round, a hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, 1 ", In the year 1756 died our lamented Collins; one of our most exquisite poets, and of whom, pethaps, without exaggeration, it may be asserted, that he partook of the credulity and enthusiasm of Tasso, the magic wildness of Shakspeare, the sublimity of Milton, and the pathos of Ossian." —Drake's Literary Hours. " He had a wonderful combination of excellencies. United to splendor and sublimity of imagination, he had a richness of erudition, a keenness of research, a nicety of taste, and an elegance and truth of moral reflection, which astonished those who had the luck to be intimate with him." —SirE. Brydges. 2 ", Of all our minor poets, that is, those who have attempted only short pieces, Collins is probably the one who has shown most of the highest qualities of poetry, and who excites the most intense interest in the bosom of the reader. He soars into the regions of imagination, and occupies tile highest peaks of Parnassus. His fancy is glowing and vivid, but at the same time hasty and obsculre. He has the true inspiration of the poet. He heats and melts objects in the fervor of lts genius, as iv a furnace."-Hazlitt. 3 Collins, who had often determined to apply himself to dramatic poetry, seems here, with the same view, to have addressed one of the principal powers of the drama, and to implore that mighty influence she had given to the genius of Shakspeare. In the construction of this nervous ode he has shown equal power of judgment and imagination. Nothing can be more striking than the violent and abrupt abbreviation of the measure in the fifth and sixth verses, when the poet seems to feel the strong influence of the power he invokes: " Ah, Fear-ah, frantic Fear I I see-I see thee near.' 44 518 COLLINS. [GEORG0 II. Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind: And those, the fiends, who near allied, O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare: On whom that ravening brood of fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee 2 EPODE. In e.rliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-ful Muse addrest her infant tongue: The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the Bard 1 who first invoked thy name, Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel: For not alone he nursed the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. But who is he,2 whom later garlands grace, Who left awhile o'er Hybla's3 dews to rove, M ith trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous Queen4 Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene, And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appear'd O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart, Thy withering power inspired each mournful line, Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine. ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? Or in some hollow'd seat,'Gainst which the big waves beat, 1 The Greek tragic poet, jEschylus, who was in the battle of Marathon, between the Athenians,rnd Persians, B. C. 490. 2 Sophocles, another Greek dramatic poet. 3 liybla was a mountain in Sicily, famous for its honey and bees. 4 Jocasta, the queen of Thebes, who, after the death of her husband Laius, married her own son (Edipus (whom Collins here calls the "wretch") without knowing who he was. On this story Is fbunded that most sublime 3,nd pathetic tragedy, the "(Edipns Tyrannus" of Sophocles. 1727-1760.] COLLINS. 519 Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought? Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, Be mine, to read the visions old, Which thy awakening bards have told And, lest thou meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true; Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed, In that thrice-hallow'd eve' abroad, When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe, Their pebbled beds permitted leave, And goblins haunt from fire, or fen, Or mine, or flood, the walks of men! O thou, whose spirit most possest The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast! By all that from thy prophet broke, In thy divine emotions spoke! Hither again thy fury deal, Teach me but once like him to feel: His cypress wreath my meed decree, And I, 0 Fear, will dwell with thee! ODE TO EVENING.2 If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; 0 nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain, 1 He here alludes to the old superstitions connected with All-Hallow Even, or Hallow E'en-the last evening of October. 2 Though blank verse had been so successfully employed in English heroic measure by one of the greatest poets that ever lived, and made the vehicle of the noblest poem that ever was written, yet no one had introduced it into lyric poetry before Collins. That he is most happy and successful in the use of it, who can doubt after reading this exquisite " Ode to Evening," the imagery and enthusiasm of which must render it delightful to every reader of taste? "Collins has given but one entire instance of reflecting the scenery of nature as from a poetical mirror. This is the Ode to Evening. Almost all else is the embodiment of intenect. B-t4 this single specimen is perfect in its way. There is not one idle epithet or ill-chosen imnage:-the novelty and happiness of combination show invention even here; thoug. nature is neither added to nor height. ened." —Sir Egerton Brydges. 520 COLLINS. [GEORGE II Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding-star, arising, shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car; Then let me rove some wild and heatlly scene, Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls mgre awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leave-, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes: So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favorite name! THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC.I When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, I If the music which was composed for this ode had equal merit with the ode itself, it must have oeen the most excellent performance of the kind in which poetry and music have, in modern times, united, Other pieces of the same nature have derived their greatest reputation from the perfection 1797-1760.] COLLINS. 521 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined. Till once,'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan DespairLow sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,'Twas sad by fits, by starts'twas wild. But thou, 0 Hope with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. of the music that accompanied them, having in themselves httle more merit than that of an ordinary ballad: but in this we have the whole soul and power of poetry:-expression that, even without the aid of music, strikes to the heart; and imagery of power enough to transport the attention without the forceful alliance of corresponding sounds. What then must have been the effects of these united I The picture of Hope in this ode is beautiful almost beyond imitation. By the united powers of imagery and harmony, that delightful being is exhibited with all the charms and graces that pleasure and fancy have appropriated to her. The descriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge, are excellent, though not equally so: those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are superior to every thing of the kind; and, upon the whole, there may be very little hazard in asserting that this is the finest ode In the English language. Read-Observations on Collins's Poems in lshe 58th vol, of Johnson's Poets. 44* 522 COLLINS [GEORGE IL And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, 0, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Fdun and Dryad known: The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's ard, 1727-1760.] COLLINS. 523 Why, Goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that loved Athenian bower, You learn'd in all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art l Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording sister's page-'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard ago Een all at once together found Cuecilia's mingled world of sound0, bid our vain endeavors cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate! ODE TO THE BRAVE. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By Fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung! There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there! ODE TO MERCY.1 STROPHE. 0 Thou, who sitt'st a smiling bride By Valor's arm'd and awful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored: Who oft with songs, divine to hear, Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword! 1 The Ode to the Brave, written In 1746, and the Ode to Mercy, seem to have been written on the same occasion, namely, the Scotch Rebellion of 1746, when the young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, after landing in Scotland and routing the English forces, was utterly defeated at Culloden The subsequent devastations of the Highlands by the English were dreadful t ad bloody in the highest degree; and well might our gifted poet invoke the genius of Mercy. 524 COLLINS. EGEORGE iI. Thou whc amidst the deathful field, By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground: See Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, And decks thy altar still, though pierc&e with many a wound ANTISTROPHE. When he whom e'en our joys provoke, The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey; Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I see recoil his sable steeds, That bore him swift to savage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; 0 Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown, Where Justice bars her iron tower, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne I ON THE DEATH OF THE POET THOMSON.1 I. In yonder grave a Druid lies Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's sylvan grave! II. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp2 shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. III. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And, whil1 its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. IV. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thanmes in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest! I This ode on the Death of Thomson seems to have been written during an excursion to Richmond on the Thames. " Collins had skill to complain." Of that mournful melody, and those tender images, which are the distinguishing excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship or beauty, he was almost an unequalled master. 2 The harp of 2Eolus, of which see a description in Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 1727-1760.] RICHARDSON. &2L V. And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire,' And'mid the varied landscape weep. VI. But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? Or tears, which Love and Pity shed That mourn beneath the gliding sail! VII. Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year. VIII. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! IX. And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek nature's child, again adieu! x. The genial meads2 assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom! Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. XI. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes; O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say; In yonder grave your Druid lies! SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 1689-1761. SAMUEL RICHIARDSON, who may be said to be the inventor of the modern English novel, was the son of a carpenter in Derbyshire, and was born in 1689. From the limited means of his father, he was restricted to a commonschool education, which is very apparent in the structure of his composition. He early exhibited, however, the most decisive marks of genius, and was re. 1 Thomson was buried in Richmond church. 2 Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Richmond some time before his death. 526 RICHARDSON. [GEORGE III. markably partial to letter-writing, and to the company of his young female friends, with whom he maintained a constant correspondence, and even ventured, though only in his eleventh year, to become their occasional monitor and adviser. "As a bashful and not forward boy," he relates, "I was an early favorite with all the young women of taste and reading in the neighborhood. Half a dozen of them, when met to work with their needles, used, when they got a book they liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read to them; their mothers sometimes with them; and both mothers and daughters used to be pleased with the observations they put me upon making." In this exercise, doubtless, we may see the germ of the future novelist. At the age of sixteen he was put to the printer's trade, which he chose because it would give him an opportunity for reading. At the termination of' his apprenticeship, he became a compositor and corrector of the press, and continued in this office for nearly six years, when he entered into business for himself. By his industry, punctuality, and integrity, he became more and more known, and his business rapidly increased; so that in a few years he obtained the lucrative situation of printer to the House of Commons. He did not, however, neglect to use his pen, and frequently composed prefaces and dedications for the booksellers. He also published a volume of " Familiar Letters," which might serve as models for persons of limited education. In 1740 he published his first novel, "Pamela," which immediately attracted an extraordinary degree of attention. " It requires a reader," says Sir Walter Scott, c" to be in some degree acquainted with the huge folios of inanity over which our ancestors yawned themselves to sleep, ere he can estimate the delight they must have experienced from this unexpected return to truth and nature." Truly original in its plan, it united the interest arising from well-combined incident with the moral purposes of a sermon. Pope praised it as likely to do more good than twenty volumes of sermons; and Dr. Sherlock recommended it from the pulpit. In 1749 appeared Richardson's second and greatest work, "cThe History of Clarissa Harlowe," which raised his reputation at once, as a master of fictitious narrative, to the highest point. Dr. Drake calls it c" perhaps the most pathetic tale ever published." The admiration it excited was not confined to his own country. It was honored with two versions in French, and Rousseau declared that nothing ever equal, or approaching to it, had been produced in any country. As, in the character of Clarissa, Richardson had presented a picture of female virtue and honor nearly perfect, so in 1753, in the "'History of Sir Charles Grandison," he designed to give a character which should combine the elegance of the gentleman with the faith and virtues of the Christian. I"This, though not indeed so pathetic as his former work, discovers more knowledge of life and manners, and is perfectly free from that indelicacy and high coloring which occasionally render the scenery of Clarissa dangerous to young minds." l In 1754 he was elected to the post of master to the Stationers' Company, a situation as lucrative as it was honorable. For some years previous to his death he had suffered much from nervous attacks, which at length terminated in an apoplectic stroke, which proved fatal on the 4th of July, 1761. No character could be freer from vice of every sort, or more perfectly irreproachable, than Richardson. In all the duties of morality and piety he was the most regular and exemplary of men. As a writer, he possessed original 1 Drake's Essays, vol. v._p. 53. 1760-1820.] RICHARDSON. 527 genius, and an unlimited command over the tender passions; yet, owing to the prolixity of his productions and the poverty of his style, his works are continually decreasing in popularity. How few now read "Clarissa," or ic Sir Charles Grandison!" How important, then, is style to the preservation of literary labor! In 1755 was published a curious volume with the following title: —,"A Collection of the Moral and Instructive Sentiments, Maxims, Cautions, and Reflections, contained in the Histories of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles Grandison." From it we make the following extractsMORAL SENTIMENTS. BENEFICENCE. The power of doing good to worthy objects, is the only enviable circumstance in the lives of people of fortune, What joy it is in the power of the wealthy to give themselves, whenever they please, by comforting those who struggle with undeserved distress. Nothing in human nature is so God-like as the disposition to do good to our fellow-creatures. Such is the blessing of a benevolent heart, that, let the world frown as it will, it cannot possibly bereave-it of all happiness; since it can rejoice in the prosperity of others. CALUMNY, CENSURE. No one is exempt from calumny. Words said, the occasion of saying them not known, however justly reported, may bear a very different construction from what they would have done had the occasion been told. Were evil actions to pass uncensured, good ones would lose their reward; and vice, by being put on a foot with virtue in this life, would meet with general countenance. A good person will rather choose to be censured for doing his duty than for a defect in it. CHILDREN. There is such a natural connection and progression between the infantile and more adult state of children's minds, that those who would know how to account for their inclinations, should not be wholly inattentive to them in the former state. At two or three years old, or before the buds of children's minds will begin to open, a watchful parent will then be employed, like a skilful gardener, in defending the flower from blights, and assisting it through its several stages to perfection. EDUCATION. Tutors should treat their pupils, with regard to such of their faulty habits as cannot easily be eradicated, as prudent physicians do their patients in chronical cases; rather with gentle palliatives than harsh extirpatives; which, by means of the resistance given to them by the habit, may create such ferments as may utterly defeat their intention. Neither a learned nor a fine education is of any other value 528 RICHARDSON. [GEORGE III. than as it tends to improve the morals of men, and to make them wise and good.1 A generous mind will choose to win youth to its duty by mildness and good usage, rather than by severity. The Almighty, by rewards and punishments, makes it our interest, as well as our duty, to obey Him; and can we propose to ourselves, for the government of our children, a better example? FRIENDSHIP. The more durable ties of friendship are those which result from a union of minds formed upon religious principles. An open and generous heart will not permit a cloud to hang long upon the brow of a friend, without inquiring into the reason of it, in hopes to be able to dispel it. Freely to give reproof, and thankfully to receive it, is an indispensable condition of true friendship. One day, profligate men will be convinced that what they call friendship is chaff and stubble, and that nothing is worthy of that sacred name that has not virtue for its base. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS. The man or woman who will obstinately vindicate a faulty step in another, seems to indicate that, in like circumstances, he or she would have been guilty of the same fault. All our pursuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles of different sorts and sizes, proportioned to our years and views. We must not expect that our roses will grow without thorns; but then they are useful and instructive thorns, which, by pricking the fingers of the too hasty plucker, teach future caution. T'HE GOOD MAN. A good man lives to his own heart. He thinks it not good manners to slight the world's opinion; though he will regard it only in the second place. A good man will look upon every accession of power to do good as a new trial to the integrity of his heart. A good man, though he will value his own countrymen, yet will think as highly of the worthy men of every nation under the sun. A good man is a prince of the Almighty's creation. A good man will not engage even in a national cause, without examining the justice of it. How much more glorious a character is that of the friend of mankind, than that of the conqueror of nations? 1 " And surely happiness, duty, faith, truth, and final blessedness, are matters of deeper and dearer interest for all men, than circles to the geometrician, or the characters of plants to the botanist, or the affinities and combining principle of the elements of bodies to the chemist, or even than the mechanism (fearful and wonderful though it be) of the perishable Tabernacle of the Soul can be to the anatomist."- Coleridge t760-1820.] SHERLOCK. 529 The heart of a worthy man is ever on his lips; he will be pained when he cannot speak all that is in it. An impartial spirit will admire goodness or greatness wherever he meets it, and whether it makes for or against him. THE GOOD WOMAN. A good woman is one of the greatest glories of the creation. Flow do the duties of a good wife, a good mother, and a worthy matron, well performed, dignify a woman! A good woman reflects honor on all those who had any hand in her education, and on the company she has kept. A woman of virtue and of good understanding, skilled in, and delighting to perform the duties of domestic life, needs not fortune to recommend her to the choice of the greatest and richest man, who wishes his own happiness. YouvrH. It is a great virtue in good-natured youth to be able to say NO. Those who respect age deserve to live to be old, and to be respected themselves. Young people set out with false notions of happiness; with gay, fairy-land imaginations. It is a most improving exercise, as well with regard to style as to morals, to accustom ourselves early to write down every thing of moment that befalls us. There is a docile season, a learning-time in youth, which, suffered to elapse, and no foundation laid, seldom returns. Young folkls are sometimes very cunning in finding out contrivances to cheat themselves. THOMAS SHERLOCK. 1678-1761. Tais learned prelate of the Church of England was born in London, 1678. He was educated at Catherine Hall, Cambridge, of which he became master, and in 1714 was vice-chancellor of the University. In the controversies which arose at that period respecting the proofs of the divine origin of Christianity, Sherlock distinguished himself, particularly in his c"Use and Intent of Prophecy," and his " Trial of the Witnesses of the Resurrection of Jesus." In 1728 he was made Bishop of Bangor, in 1734 was translated to Salisbury, and in 1748 to London. In 1755 and 1756 he revised and corrected a large body of his sermons, which were published in four volumes. He died in 1761, at the advanced age of eighty-three. Sherlock's sermons are among the best specimens of English pulpit eloquence extant. His style, though possessing but little ornament, is clear and vigorous, and a few passages may be selected from his writings, sucn as the Vomparison between Christ and Mahomet, that are truly sublime. 2 L 45 5830 SHERLOCK. [GEORGE III. DIFFERENT ENDS OF RELIGION AND INFIDELITY. Should the punishments of another life be what we have but too much reason to fear they will be, what words can then express the folly of sin? Short are our days in this world, and soon they shall expire: and should religion at last prove a mere deceit, we know the worst of it; it is an error for which we cannot suffer after death: nor will the infidels there have the pleasure to reproach us with our mistake; they and we, in equal rest, shall sleep the sleep of death. But should our hopes, and their fears, prove true; should they be so unhappy as not to die for ever —which miserable hope is the only comfort that infidelity affords-what pains and torments must they then undergo? Could I represent to you the lifferent states of good and bad men; could I give you the prospect which the blessed martyr Stephen had, and show you the blessed Jesus at the right hand of God surrounded with angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect; could I open your ears to hear the never-ceasing hymns of praise which the blessed above sing to him that was, and is, and is to come; to the Lamb that was slain, but liveth for ever; could I lead you through the unbounded regions of eternal -day, and show you the mutual and ever-blooming joys of saints who are at rest from their labor, and live for ever in the presence of God; or, could I change the scene, and unbar the iron gates of hell, and carry you, through solid darkness, to the fire that never goes out, and to the worm that never dies; could I show you the apostate angels fast bound in eternal chains, or the souls of wicked men overwhelmed with torment and despair; could I open your ears to hear the deep itself groan with the continual cries of misery-cries which can never reach the throne of mercy, but return in sad echoes, and add even to the very horrors of hell; could I thus set before you the different ends of religion and infidelity, you would want no other proof to convince you that nothing can recompense the hazard men run of being for ever miserable through unbelief. But, though neither the tongues of men nor of angels can express the joys of heaven, or describe the pains of hell; yet, if there be any truth in religion, these things are certain and near at hand. THE INFORMATION THE GOSPEL GIVES, MOST DESIRABLE. The Christian revelation has such pretences, at least, as may make it worthy of a particular consideration. It pretends to come from heaven; to have been delivered by the Son of God; to have been confirmed by undeniable miracles and prophecies; to have been ratified by the blood of Christ and his apostles, who died in asserting its truth: it can show, likewise, an innumerable cons 1760-1820.] SHERLOCK. 531 pany of martyrs and confessors; its doctrines are pure and holy, its precepts just and righteous; its worship is a reasonable service, refined from the errors of idolatry and superstition, and spiritual, like the God who is the object of it: it offers the aid and the assistance of heaven to the weakness of nature, which makes the religion of the Gospel to be as practicable as it is reasonable: it promises infinite rewards to obedience, and threatens eternal punishment to obstinate offenders, which makes it of the utmost consequence to us soberly to consider it, since every one who rejects it stakes his own soul against the truth of it. Look into the Gospel; there you will find every reasonable hope of nature, nay, every reasonable suspicion of nature cleared up and confirmed, every difficulty answered and removed. Do the present circumstances of the world lead you to suspect that God could never be the author of such corrupt and wretched creatures as men now are? Your suspicions are just and well founded. " God made man upright;" but through the temptation of the devil, sin entered, and death and destruction followed after. Do you suspect, from the success of virtue and vice in this world, that the providence of God does not interpose to protect the righteous from violence, or to punish the wicked? The suspicion is not without ground. God Leaves his best servants here to be tried oftentimes with affliction and sorrow, and permits the wicked to flourish and abound. The call of the Gospel is not to honor and riches here, but to take up our cross and follow Christ. Do you judge from comparing the present state of the world with the natural notion you have of God, and of his justice and goodness, that there must needs be another state in which justice shall take place? You reason right, and the Gospel confirms the judgment. God has appointed a day to judge the world in righteousness: then those who mourn shall rejoice, those who weep shall laugh, and the persecuted and afflicted servants of God shall be heirs of his kingdom. Have you sometimes misgivings of mind? Are you tempted to mistrust this judgment when you see the difficulties which surround it on every side; some which affect the soul in its separate state, some which affect the body in its state of corruption and dissolution? Look to the Gospel: there these difficulties are accounted for; and you need no longer puzzle yourself with dark questions concerning the state, condition, and nature of separate spirits, or concerning the body, however to appearance lost or destroyed; for the body and soul shall once more meet to part no more, but to be happy for ever. In this case the learned cannot doubt, and the ignorant may be sure that'tis the man, the very man himself, who shall rise again; for a union of the same sou and body is as certainly the restoration of the man, as the divid .532 MONTAGU. EGEORGE III. ing them was the destruction. Would you know who it is that gives this assurance? It is one who is able to make good his word: one who loved you so well as to die for you; yet one too great to be held a prisoner in the grave. No; He rose with triumph and glory, the first-born from the dead, and will, in like manner, call from the dust of the earth all those who put their trust and confidence in Him. CHRIST AND MOHAiMiED CONTRASTED. Go to your Natural Religion: lay before her Mohammed and his disciples arrayed in armor and in blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands and tens of thousands who fell by his victorious sword: show her the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirements: show her the prophet's chamber, his concubines and wives; let her see his adultery, and hear him allege revelation and his divine conmmission to justify his lust and his oppression. When she is tired of this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men, patiently instructing both the ignorant and the perverse: let her see him in his most retired privacies: let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and supplications to God: carry her to his table to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse: let her see him injured, but not provoked: let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies: lead her to the cross, and let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!" When Natural Religion has viewed both, ask, Which is the prophet of God? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene through the eyes of the centurion who attended at tihe cross: by him she said, " Truly, this was the Son of God." LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 1690-1762. THIs lady, the daughter of Evelyn, Earl of Kingston, was born at her father's seat at Thoresby, in Nottinghamshire, about the year 1690. Displaying great attractions of person as well as sprightliness of mind from her earliest years, she was the pride of her father, who took every pains with ner education, and had her instructed by the same masters as her brother in the G(reek, Latin, and French languages. In 1712 she was married to Edward Wortley Montagu, Esq., and soon after this, resided principally in Lonclon, 1760-1820.] MONTAGU. 533 where her wit, and learning, and beauty, acquired her a brilliant reputation Her husband had long been on intimate terms with Addison, Pope, and other eminent literary men of the day, and in that society she moved with the same lustre as in the circles of rank and fashion. In 1716, her husband was appointed ambassador to the Porte, and she accompanied him to Constantinople. During her residence here she addressed to her sister, to Mr. Pope, and other friends, the celebrated Letters upon which her fame principally rests. In 1718, her husband being recalled from his embassy, she returned to England, and, by the advice of Pope, settled at Twickenham. The warm friendship between these geniuses did not, however, very long continue; a coolness and finally an open quarrel ensued. The cause of it is involved in considerable mystery, but it is probable that the vanity and irritability of the poet were quite as much to blame as the levity and heartlessness of the lady. Lady Mary's visit to Turkey, besides producing the Letters, is famous for having been followed by the introduction into England. through her means, of the practice of the innoculation for the small-pox. Observing this practice among the villages in Turkey, and seeing its good efibfects, she applied it to her own son, then about three years old, and by great exertions established the practice of innoculation in England. She resided in England for twenty years after her return from Constantinople, during which time she published a considerable quantity of verse, for it hardly deserves the name of poetry. It is enough to say of it, that, from its indelicate character, it has been excluded from the modern editions of her works. For reasons, the nature of which is lot well known, she left England in 1739 without her husband, and resided rnost of the time, for twenty-two years, in Italy. She was prevailed upon, by the solicitations of her daughter, to return to England in 1761; but she did not survive her return to her native country a year, dying of a cancer in the bieast, August 21, 1762. Lady Montagu owes her reputation chiefly to her Letters from Constantinople. The picture of Eastern life and manners given in them, is in general as correct as it is clear, lively, and striking; and they abound not only in wit and humor, but in a depth and sagacity of remark conveyed in a style at once flowing and forcible, such as has rarely proceeded from a female pen. But these literary qualities are more than counterbalancecl by the want of that delicacy, that refinement of feeling, and those pure moral sentiments, without which the female character is any thing but an object of admiration. " Her desire to convey scandal, or to paint graphically, leads her into offensive details, which the more decorous taste of the present age can hardly tolerate. She described what she saw and heard without being scrupulous; and her strong mnasculine understanding, and carelessness as to refinement in habits or expressions, render her sometimes apparently unamiable as well as unfeele. ilg." Still her letters are models of epistolary style,'nd from them, as stcbh, we present a few extracts that are unexceptionable. EASTERN MANNERS AND LANGUAGE. ADRIANOPLE, A/pril 1, O. 5., 1717 To Ma. POPE. * * I no longer look upo, Theocrituls as a romantic write,: he has only given a plain image of the way of life amongst the peasants of his country, who, before oppression had reduced them to want, were, I suppose, all employed as the better sort of them 45~< 534 MONTAGU. EGEORGE III, are now. I don't doubt, had he been born a Briton, but his Idyl. liums had been filled with descriptions of thrashing and churning, both which are unknown here, the corn being all trodden out by oxen; the butter (I speak it with sorrow) unheard of. I read over your Homer here with an infinite pleasure, and find several little passages explained that I did not before entirely comprehend the beauty of; many of the customs, and much of the dress then in fashion, being yet retained. I don't wonder to find more remains here of an age so distant, than is to be found in any other country; the Turks not taking that pains to introduce their own manners, as has been generally practised by other nations, that imagine themselves more polite. It would be too tedious to you to point out all the passages that relate to present customs. But I can assure you that the princesses and great ladies pass their time at their looms, embroidering veils and robes, surrounded by their maids, which are always very numerous, in the same manner as we find Andromache and Helen described. The de. scription of the belt of Menelaus exactly resembles those that are now worn by the great men, fastened before with broad golden clasps, and embroidered round with rich work. The snowy veil that Helen throws over her face is still fashionable; and I never see half-a-dozen of old bashaws (as I do very often) with their reverend beards, sitting basking in the sun, but I recollect good king Priam and his counsellors. Their manner of dancing is certainly the same that Diana is sung to have danced on the banks of Eurotas. The great lady still leads the dance, and is followed by a troop of young girls, who imitate her steps, and, if she sings, make up the chorus. The tunes are extremely gay and lively, yet with something in them wonderfully soft. The steps are varied according to the pleasure of her that leads the dance, but always in exact time, and infinitely more agreeable than any of our dances, at least in my opinion. I sometimes make one in the train, but am not skilful enough to lead; these are the Grecian dances, the Turkish being very different. I should have told you, in the first place, that the eastern manners give a great light into many Scripture passages that appear odd to us, their phrases being commonly what we should call Scripture language. The vulgar Turk is very different from. what is spoken at court, or amongst the people of figure, who always mix so much Arabic and Persian in their discourse, that it may very well be called another language. And'tis as ridiculous to make use of the expressions commonly used, in speaking to a great man or lady, as it would be to speak broad Yorkshire or Somersetshire in the drawing-room. Besides this distinction, they have what they call the sublime, that is, a style proper for poetry, and which is the exact Scripture style. 1760-1820.] M0NTAGIt. 535 FRANCE IN 1718. PARIS, October 10, 0. S., 1718. To LADY RICH. * * The air of Paris has already had a good effect upon me; for I was never in better health, though I have been extremely ill all the road from Lyons to this place. You may judge how agreeable the journey has been to me, which did not want that addition to make me dislike it. I think nothing so terrible as objects of misery, except one had the Godlike attribute of being capable to redress them; and all the country villages of France show nothing else. While the post-horses are changed, the whole town comes out to beg, with such miserable starved faces, and thin tattered clothes, they need no other eloquence to persuade one of the wretchedness of their condition. This is all the French magnificence till you come to Fontainbleau, where you are showed one thousand five hundred rooms in the king's hunting palace. The apartments of the royal family are very large, and richly gilt; but I saw nothing in the architecture or painting worth remembering. I have seen all the beauties, and such nauseous creatures! so fantastically absurd in their dress! so monstrously unnatural in their paints! their hair cut short, and curled round their faces, and so loaded with powder, that it makes it look like white wool! and on their cheeks to their chins, unmercifully laid on a shining red japan, that glistens in a most flaming manner, so that they seem to have, no resemblance to human faces. I am apt to believe that they took the first hint of their dress from a fair sheep newly ruddled.'Tis with pleasure I recollect my dclear pretty countrywomen: and if I was writing to anybody else, I should say that these grotesque daubers give me a still higher esteem of the natu.ral charms of dear Lady Rich's auburn hair, and the lively colors of her unsullied complexion. FEMALE EDUCATION. LovVERE, January 28, N. S., 1753 To TAE COUNTESS OF BUTE. Dear Child-You. have given me a great deal of satisfaction by your account of your eldest daughter. I am particularly pleased to hear she is a good arithmetician; it is the best proof of understanding: the knowledge of numbers is one of the chief ditinctions between us and brutes. If there is any thing int blood, you may reasonably expect your children should be endowed with an uncommon share of good sense. I will therefore. speak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only capable, but de sirous of learning; ir. that case by all means let her be indulged 536:MONTAGU. [GEORGE IIm. in it You will tell me I did not make it a part of your education; your prospect was very different from hers. As you had much in your circumstances to attract the highest offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in the world, as it is hers to know how to be easy out of it. It is the common error of builders and parents to follow some plan they think beautiful, (and perhaps is so,) without considering that nothing is beautiful which is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised that the raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived for a coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north of Britain: thus every woman endeavors to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her contented, but happy in. it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet. To render this amusement complete, she should be permitted to learn the languages. There are two cautions to be given on this subject: first, not to think herself learned when she can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be called vehicles of learning than learning itself. True knowledge consists in knowing things, not words. I would no further wish her a linguist than to enable her to read books in their originals, that are often corrupted, and are always injured by translations. Two hours' application every morning will bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, and she will have leisure enough besides to run over the English poetry, which is a more important part of a woman's education than it is generally supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it bad been stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I saved one of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me an epistle she was quite charmed with. As she had naturally a good taste, she observed the lines were not so smooth as Prior's or Pope's, but had more thought and spirit than any of theirs. She was wonderfully delighted with such a demonstration of her lover's sense and passion, and not a little pleased with her own charms, that had force enough to inspire such elegancies. In the midst of this triumph, I showed her that they were taken fromn Randolph's poems, and the unfortunate transcriber was dismissed with the scorn he deserved. To say truth, the poor plagiary was very'inlucky to fall into my hands; that author, being no longer in'ashion, would have escaped any one of less universal reading 1760-1820.] MONTAGU. 537 than myself. You should encourage your daughter to talk over with you what she reads; and as you are very capable of distinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit and humor, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of young people, and have a train of ill consequences. The second caution to be given her, (and which is most absolutely necessary,) is to conceal whatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude as she would hide crookedness or lameness: the parade of it can only serve to draw on her the envy, and consequently the most inveterate hatred, of. all he and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in four of her acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, besides the amusement of solitude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to be contented with a small expense, which are the certain effects of a studious life; and it may be preferable even to that fame which men have engrossed to themselves, and will not suffer us to share. If she has the same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that I was born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish her with materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is allotted to mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of making Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not difficult to be understood by a moderate capacity. It is a saying of Thucydides, that ignorance is bold, and knowledge reserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it without being more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance than elated by learning. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude work nor drawing. I think it is scandalous for a woman not to know how to use a needle. I was once extremely fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification to me when my father turned off my master, having made a considerable progress for the short time I learned. My over-eagerness in the pursuit of it had brought a weakness in my eyes, that made it necessary to leave off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of my hand. I see by hers, that practice will make her a ready writer: she may attain it by serving you for a secretary, when your health or affairs make it troublesome to you to write yourself; and custom will make it an agreeable amusement to her. She cannot have too many for that station of life which will probably be her fate. The ultimate end of your education was to make you a good wife, (and I have the comfort to hear that you are one;) hers ought to be to make her happy in a virgin state. I will not say it is happier, but it is undoubtedly safer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there is (at the lowest computation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most prudent choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded of this truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering views 538 BYROM. [GEORGE III. I had. for you, (as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity,) I thought I owed you the justice to lay before you all the hazards attending matrimony: you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. Perhaps you may have more success in the instructing your daughter; she has so much company at home, she will not need seeking it abroad, and will more readily take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alone in my family, it would have been thought a great cruelty to suffer you no companions of your own age, especially having so many near relations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I was not sorry to see you not determined on a single life, knowing it was not your father's intention; and contented myself with endeavoring to make your home so easy, that you might not be in haste to leave it. I am afraid you will think this a very long, insignificant letter. I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to give you every proof in my power that I am your most affectionate mother. JOHN BYROM. 1691-1763. JOHNax BYnon, the son of a linen-draper at Manchester, was born in 1691, and at the age of seventeen entered the University of Cambridge. Here he cultivated with great assiduity a taste for elegant letters, and especially for poetry, to which, even in his earliest years, he had shown a marked propensity. After taking his degree, he obtained a fellowship in the university, through the influence of Dr. Richard Bentley, whose daughter Joanna is the it Phcebe" of his pastoral poem, the best of his poetical efforts. As he declined "taking orders," he vacated his fellowship, and soon after married. Having no profession, he went to London, and supported himself by teaching short-hand writing, till, by the death of his elder brother, he inherited the family estate, and spent the remainder of his life in easy circumstances, devoting his time to literary pursuits. He died on the 28th of September, 1763, in the seventy-second year of his age. Byrom's best piece is his pastoral poem of " Colin and Phoebe," remarkable for its easy and flowing versification, and its sprightliness of thought. He also wrote a poem on "Enthusiasm," and one on the " Immortality of the Soul." His comic poem, entitled " The Three Black Crows," has a most excellent moral in it, well illustrating the nature of Rumor, the "Fcama" of Virgil. The Spectator is indebted to him for four or five numbers, of which Nos. 586 and 593 are upon the nature and use of dreams. A PASTORAL. I. My time, 0 ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest; 1760-1820.] BYROM.53 But now she is gone, and has left me behind; What a marvellous change on a sudden I find When things were as fine as could possibly be, 1 thought'twas the spring; but, alas! it was she. II. With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day. But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a poland III. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were there,'Twas pleasure to look at,'twas music to hear; But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide. Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. IV. When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And when Phcebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time, When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime! But now in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: Be still, then I cry; for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. V. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail at my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Conle hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook. And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phcebe's away'? VI. When walking with Phmebe, what sights have I seen. How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made! But now she has left me, though all are still there They none of them now so delightful appear:'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. VII. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The larkr, linnet, throstle and nightingale too; 540 BYROM. [GEORGE III. Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave every thing else its agreeable sound. VIII. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dress'd And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. IX. How slowly Time creeps, till my Phcebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn! Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and'twould melt down the ead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for't when she is here Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. x. Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; But what swain is so silly to live without love? No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair! Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other, briskly, by the hand; Hark-ye, said he,'tis an odd story this About the Crows!-I don't know what it is, Replied his friend.-No! I'm surprised at that; Where I came from it is the common chat; But you shall hear; an odd affair indeed! And, that it happen'd, they are all agreed: Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.Impossible!-Nay, but it's really true; I have it from good hands, and so may you.From whose, I pray?-So having named the man, Straight to inquire h.is curious >omrade ran. 1760-1820.] KING. 541 Sir, did you tell-relating the affairYes, sir, I did: and if it's worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me, But, by the by,'twas two black crows, not three.Resolved to trace so wondrous an event. Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went; Sir-and so forth-Why, yes; te theing is fact, Though in regard to number, not exact; It was not two black crows,'twas only one, The truth of that you may depend upon, The gentleman himself told me the caseWhere'may I find him - Why, in such a place. Away goes he, and having found him out, Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt. Thllen to his last informant he referr'd, And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard? Did you, sir, throw up a black crow i-Not IBless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?Crow-crow-perhaps I imight, now I recall The matter over —And, pray, sir, what was't? Why, I was horizd sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was —as black, sir, as a crow. WILLIAM KING. 1685-1763. Da. WxILLIAMt KING, born at Stepney, in Middlesex, in 1685, ca was knowm and esteemed," says his biographer, "h by the first men of his time for wit and learning; and must be allowed to have been a polite scholar, an excellent orator, and an elegant and easy writer, both in Latin and English." He died in 1763, having sketched his own character in an elegant epitaph, in which, while he acknowledges his failings, he claims the praise of benevolence, tenlperance, and fortitude. The work by which he is now chiefly known is that from which the following extracts are taken-"- Political and Literary Anecdlotes of his own Times." VIRGIL. Most of the commentators on the Greek and Roman poets think it sufficient to explain their author, and to give us the various readings. Some few indeed have made us remark the excellency of the poet's plan, the elegance of his diction, and the propriety of his thoughts, at the same time pointing out as examples the most striking and beautiful descriptions. Ruoeus, in his comment on Virgil, certainly excelled all his fellow-laborers, who were appointed to explain and publish a series of the Roman classics for the use of the Dauphin. His mythological, historical, and geo graphical notes are a great proof of his learning and diligence, But he hath not entered into the spirit of the author, and dis 46 542 KING. [GEORGE III. played the great art and judgment of the poet, particularly his knowledge of men and manners. The learned Jesuit perhaps imagined that remarks of this sort were foreign to the employment of a commentator, or for some political reasons he might think proper to omit them. And yet, in my opinion, nothing could have been more instructive and entertaining, as his comment was chiefly designed for the use of a young prince. The PEneid furnishes us with many examples to the purpose I mention. However, that I may be the better understood, the following remark will explain my meaning. In the beginning of the first book, Juno makes a visit to ZEolus, and desires him to raise a storm and destroy the Trojan fleet, because she hated the whole nation on account of the judgment of Paris, or, as she was pleased to express herself, because the Trojans were her enemies. Gens inimica mihi, &c. Juno was conscious that she asked a god to oblige her by an act which was both unjust and cruel, and therefore she accompanied her request with the offer of Deiopeia, the most beautiful nymph in her train: a powerful bribe, and such as she imagined ZEolus could not resist. She was not disappointed: Bolus accepted her offer, and executed her commands as far as he was able. What I have to observe here, in the first place, is the necessity of that short speech, in which Juno addresses herself to ZE-1us. She had no time to lose. The Trojan fleet was in the Tuscan sea, sailing with a fair wind, and in a few hours would probably have been in a safe harbor. ZEolus therefore answered in as few words as the goddess had addressed herself to him. But his answer is very curious. He takes no notice of the offer of Deiopeia, for whom upon any other occasion he would have thanked Juno upon his knees. But now, when she was given and accepted by him as a bribe, and as the wages of cruelty and injustice, he endeavored by his answer to avoid that imputation, and pretended he had such a grateful sense of the favors which Juno had formerly conferred on him, when she introduced him to Jupiter's table, that it was his duty to obey her commands on all occasions:'Tis your's, great queen, replies the power, to lay The task, and mine to listen and obey."' And thus insinuated even to Juno herself, that this was the sole motive of his ready compliance with her request. I am here put in mind of something similar which happened in Sir Robert Walpole's administration. He wanted to carry a question in the House of Commons, to which he knew there would be great opposition, and which was disliked by some of his own dependarnts. As he was passing through the Court of Requests, he met a mem1 Tuus, O Regina, &c., LEn. i. 76. 1760-1820.] KING. 543 ber of the contrary party, whose avarice he imagined would not reject a large bribe. He took him aside, and said, " Such a question comes on this day; give me your vote, and here is a bank bill of 20001.;" which he put into his hands. The member made him this answer: " Sir Robert, you have lately served some of my particular friends; and when my wife was last at court the king was very gracious to her, which must have happened at your instance. I should therefore think myself very ungrateful (putting the bank bill into his pocket) if I were to refuse the favor you are now pleased to ask me." This incident, if wrought up by a man of humor, would make a pleasant scene in a political farce. But to return to Virgil. The short conference between Juno and ZEolus is a sufficient proof of the poet's excellent judgment. It demonstrates his knowledge of the world, and more particularly his acquaintance with the customs and manners of a great prince's court. Hence we may learn, that a bribe, if it be large enough, and seasonably offered, will frequently overcome the virtue and resolution of persons of the highest rank, and that the power of love and beauty will sometimes corrupt a god, and compel him to discover a weakness unworthy of a man. A REPARTEE. A repartee, or a quick and witty answer to an insolent taunt, or to any ill-natured or ironical joke or question, is always well received (whether in a public assembly or a private company) by the persons who hear it, and gives a reputation to the man who makes it. Cicero, in one of his letters to Atticus, informs him of some reproaches, a kind of coarse raillery, which passed between himself and Clodius in the senate, and seems to exult and value himself much on his own repartees: though I do not think that this was one of Cicero's excellencies. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, when a certain bill was brought into the House of Lords, said, among other things, " that he prophesied last winter this bill would be attempted in the present session, and he was sorry to find that he had proved a true prophet." My Lord Coningsby, who spoke after the bishop, and always spoke in a passion, desired the House to remark,'" that one of the Right Reverends had set himself forth as a prophet; but for his part he did not know what prophet to liken him to, unless to that furious prophet BALAAM, who was reproved by his own ass." The -ishop, in a reply, with great wit and calmness, exposed this rude attack, concluding thus: " Since the noble Lord hath discovered in our manners such a similitude, I am well content to be compared to the prophet BALAAM: but, my Lords, Iam at a loss how to make out the other part of the parallel: Iam sure that Ihave been reproved by nobody but his Lordship." 544 KING. [GEORGE'II. SINGULAR CONDUCT. About the year 1706, 1 knew one Mr. Howe, a sensible wellnatured man, possessed of an estate of ~700 or OO00 per annum: he married a young lady of a good family in the west of England; her maiden name was Mallet; she was agreeable in her person and manners, and proved a very good wife. Seven or eight years after they had been married, he rose one morning very early, and told his wife he was obliged to go to the Tower to transact some particular business: the same day, at noon, his wife received a note from him, in which he informed her that he was under a necessity of going to Holland, and should probably be absent three weeks or a month. He was absent from her seventeen years, during which time she neither heard from him, or of him. The evening before he returned, whilst she was at supper, and with her some of her friends and relations, particularly one Dr. Rose,l a physician, who had married her sister, a billet, without any name subscribed, was delivered to her, in which the writer requested the favor of her to give him a meeting the next evening in the Birdcage Walk, in St. James's Park. When she had read her billet, she tossed it to Dr. Rose, and laughing, "You see, brother," said she, "as old as I am, I have got a gallant." Rose, who perused the note with more attention, declared it to be Mr. Howe's handwriting: this surprised all the company, and so much affected Mrs. Howe, that she fainted away: however, she soon recovered, when it was agreed that Dr. Rose and his wife, with the other gentlemen and ladies who were then at supper, should attend Mrs. Howe the next evening to the Birdcage Walk: they had not been there more than five or six minutes, when MIr. Howe came to them, and after saluting his friends, and embracing his wife, walked home with her, and they lived together in great harmony from that time to the day of his death. But the most curious part of my tale remains to be related.' When Howe left his wife, they lived in a house in Jermyn-street, near St. James's church; he went no farther than to a little street in Westminster, where he took a room, for which he paid five or six shillings a week, and changing his name, and disguising himself by wearing a black wig, (for he was a fair man,) he remained in this habitation during the whole time of his absence. He had had two children by his wife when he departed from her, who were both living 1 " I was very well acquainted with Dr. Rose, and he frequently entertained ume with this remarkable story." 2 London is the only place in all Europe where a man can find a secure retreat, or remain, if he pleases, many years unknown. If he pays constantly for his lodging, for his provisions, and for whatsoever else he wants, nobody will ask a question concerning him, or inquire whence lie comes, or whither Be goes 1760-1820.] KING. 545 at that time: but they both died young in a few years after. However, during their lives, the second or third year after their father disappeared, Mrs. Howe was obliged to apply for an act of parliament to procure a proper settlement of her husband's estate, and a provision for herself out of it during his absence, as it was uncertain whether he was alive or dead: this act he suffered to be solicited and passed, and enjoyed the pleasure of reading the progress of it in the votes, in a little coffee-house, near his lodging, which he frequented. Upon his quitting his house and family in the manner I have mentioned, Mrs. Howe at first imagined, as she could not conceive any other cause for such abrupt elopement, that he had contracted a large debt unknown to her, and by that means involved himself in difficulties which he could not easily surmount; and for some days she lived in continual apprehensions of demands from creditors, of seizures, executions, &c. But nothing of this kind happened; on the contrary he did not only leave his estate quite free and unencumbered, but he paid the bills of every tradesman with whom he had any dealings; and upon examining his papers, in due time after he was gone, proper receipts and discharges were found from all persons, whether tradesmen or others, with whom he had any manner of transactions or money concerns. Mrs. Howe, after the death of her children, thought proper to lessen her family of servants, and the expenses of her housekeeping; and, therefore, removed from her house in Jermyn-street to a little house in Brewer-street, near Golden Square. Just over against her lived one Salt,' a cornchandler. About ten years after Howe's abdication, he contrived to make an acquaintance with Salt, and was at length in such a degree of intimacy with him, that he usually dined with Salt once or twice a week. From the room in which they eat, it was not difficult to look into Mrs. Howe's dining-room, where she generally sate and received her company; and Salt, who believed Howe to be a bachelor, frequently recommended his own wife to him as a suitable match. During the last seven years of this gentleman's absence, he went every Sunday to St. James's church, and used to sit in Mr. Salt's seat, where he had a view of his wife, but could not easily be seen by her. After he returned home, he never would confess, even to his most intimate friends, what was the real cause of such a singular conduct; apparently, there was none: but whatever it was, he was certainly ashamed to own it. Dr. Rose has often said to me, that he believed his brother Howe2 1 "I knew Salt, who related to me the particulars which I have here mentioned, and many others, which have escaped my memory." 2 ", And yet I have seen him after his return addressing his wife in the language of a young bridegroom. And I have been assured by some of his most intimate friends, that he treated her during the rest of their lives with the greatest kindness and affection." 2 M 4-,6 546 SHENSTONE. [GEORGE III. would never have returned to his wife, if the money which he took with him, which was supposed to have been ~1000 or ~2000, had not been all spent: and he must have been a good economist, and frugal in his manner of living, otherwise his money would scarce have held out; for I imagine he had his whole fortune by him, I mean what he carried away with him in money or bank bills, and daily took out of his bag, like the Spaniard in Gil Blas, what was sufficient for his expenses. WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763. TiIIs lover of rural life was born at the Leasowes, in Shropshire, in 1714, and was distinguished, even in childhood, for his love of reading and thirst for lknowledge. He was first taught to read by an old village dame, whom he has immortalized in his poem after Spenser's manner, called c" The SchoolMistress." He was sent to Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1732, where he continued his studies for ten years. Here he published, at intervals, his principal poems, which consist of elegies, odes, ballads, the ", Judgment of Hercules," and several other pieces. In 1745 he went to reside on his paternal estate, to which he devoted all his time, talents, and capital, so that the Leasowes became, under his care, a perfect fairy-land. " Now," says Dr. Johnson, " was excited his delight in real pleasures, and his ambition of rural elegance: he began from this time to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters; which he did with such judgment and such fancy, as made his little domain the envy of the great, and the admiration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers." But all this was attended with great expense. He spent his estate in adorning it, and his death, which took place in 1763, was probably hastened by his anxieties.Besides his poems, he wrote "Essays on'Men and Manners," which display much ease and grace of style, united to judgment and discrimination. " They have not the mellow ripeness of thought and learning of Cowley's essays, but they resemble them more closely than any others in our language.",' He is a pleasing writer," says Campbell, "c both in his lighter and graver vein. His genius is not forcible, but it settles in mediocrity without meanness. But with all the beauties of the Leasowes in our minds, it may still be regretted, that, instead of devoting his whole soul to clumping beeches, and projecting mottoes for summer-houses, he had not gone more into living nature for subjects, and daescribed her interesting realities with the same fond and natural touches which give so much delightfulness to his portrait of THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. Ah me! fill sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest worth neglected lies; While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise; I See the fine piece of Goldsmith, entitled 1" History of a Poet's Garden." 1760-1820.] SHIESTONE. 547 Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize: Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In every village markc'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, A matron old, whom we school-mistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which learning near her little dome did stow; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow; And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind mlight curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low; And as they look'd they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their ganimbols do display; And at the door imprisoning board is seen, Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermix'd, which thence resound, Do learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the harebell that adorns the field: And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'dl; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air;'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair,'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare: And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 548 SHENSTONE. [GEORGE III. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear: Ne would esteem him act as nmought behove, Who should not honor'd eld with these revere: For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame: Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favor did her past deportment claim; And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete; If winter'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer seat; Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foemen did a song entreat, All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; And, in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed; And tortious death was true devotion's meed; And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawnly saints in smouldering flames did burn: Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return. In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed, The matron sate; and some with rank she graced, (The source of children's and of courtier's pride!) Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig she'frays: E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts, the giddy crowd she sways; 1760-1820.] DODSLEY. 549 Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold,'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. But now Dan Phcebus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her prison door; And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I implore! For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers, For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. ROBERT DODSLEY. 1703-1764. THIS eminent bookseller and respectable author was born at Mansfield, in 1703. Being' placed as an apprentice to a stocking-weaver, and not lilting his situation, he ran off to London, and took the place of a footman, and in 1732 published a volume of poems under the title of " The Muse in Livery, or the Footman's Miscellany," which attracted considerable attention. His next production was a dramatic piece called " The Toyshop," which was acted with great success, and the profits of which enabled him to set up as. bookseller. Patronized by Pope and other authors of the day, his shop in Pali Mall soon became the resort of a large literary circle; and so rapidly did his business increase, that in his latter days Dodsley might be considered as standing at the head of the bookselling trade in London. Having acquired a competent fortune by his double occupation of author and bookseller, he retired from business, to enjoy the fruits of his exertions, but died at Durham, while on a visit to a friend, September 25, 1764. Besides the above, Dodsley wrote and published, anonymously, that well known and ingenious little work,," The Economy of Human Life," which is full of the best moral maxims. He also wrote a tragedy called," Cleone," which was well received, and a farce called ", The King and the Miller of Mansfield." But he is now more known for the works which he projected and published, than for his own productions. One of these was the ", Preceptor," a very useful book, in 2 vols., containing treatises on various subjects, and for which Dr. Johnson wrote a preface. Another was his " Collection of Old Plays," in 12 vols. His " Collection of Poems in Six Volumes, by Several Hands," is still a very valuable book. But he is most known as the projector of the ", Annual Register," in 1758, which still goes by his name. He also has the credit of having first encouraged the talents of Dr. Johnson, by purchasing his poem of " London," in 1738, for ten guineas, and of having, many years afterwards, been the projector of the English Dictionary. 550 DODSLEY. [GEORGE III. EMULATION. If thy soul thirsteth for honor, if thy ear hath any pleasure in the voice of praise, raise thyself from the dust whereof thou art made, and exalt thy aim to something that is praiseworthy. The oak, that now spreadeth its branches towards the heavens, was once but an acorn in the bowels of the earth. Endeavor to be first in thy calling, whatever it be; neither let any one go before thee in wvell-doing: nevertheless, do not envy the merits of another, but improve thine own talents. Scorn also to depress thy competitor by dishonest or unworthy methods; strive to raise thyself above him only by excelling him, so shall thy contest for superiority be crowned with honor, if not with success. By a virtuous emulation the spirit of man is exalted within him; he panteth after fame, and rejoiceth as a racer to run his course. The examples of eminent men are in his visions by night; and his delight is to follow them all the day long. He formeth great designs; he rejoiceth in the execution thereof; and his name goeth forth to the ends of the world. But the heart of the envious man is gall and bitterness; his tongue spitteth venom; the success of his neighbor breaketh his rest. He sitteth in his cell repining; and the good that happeneth to another is to him an evil. Hatred and malice feed upon his heart; and there is no rest in him. He feeleth in his own breast no love of goodness; and therefore believeth his neighbor is like unto himself. He endeavors to depreciate those who excel him; and putteth an evil interpretation on all their doings. He lieth on the watch, and meditates mischief; but the detestation of man pursueth him; he is crushed as a spider in his own web. TEMPERANCE. The nearest approach thou canst make to happiness on this side the grave, is to enjoy from heaven health, wisdom, and peace of mind. These blessings, if thou possessest, and wouldst preserve to old age, avoid the allurements of voluptuousness, and fly from her temptations. When she spreadeth her delicacies on the board, when her wine sparkleth in the cup, when she smileth upon thee, and persuadeth thee to be joyful and happy; then is the hour of danger, then let Reason stand firmly on her guard. For, if thou hearkenest unto the words of her adversary, thou art deceived and betrayed. The joy which she promiseth, changeth to madness; and her enjoy-ments lead on to diseases and death. Look iound her board, cast thine eyes upon her guests, and 1760-1820.] DODSLEY. 551 observe those who have been allured by her smiles, who have listened to her temptations. Are they not meagre? are they not sickly? are they not spiritless? Their short hours of jollity and riot are followed by tedious days of pain and dejection; she hath debauched and palled their appetites, that they have now no relish for her nicest dainties: her votaries are become her victims; the just and natural consequence which God hath ordained in the constitution of things, for the punishment of those who abuse his gifts. But who is she, that with graceful steps, and with a lively air, trips over yonder plain? The rose blusheth on her cheeks; the sweetness of the morning breatheth from her lips; joy, tempered with innocence and modesty, sparkleth in her eyes; and from the cheerfulness of her heart she singeth as she walks. Her name is Health; she is the daughter of Exercise and Temperance; their sons inhabit the mountains; they are brave, active, and lively; and partake of all the beauties and virtues of their sister. Vigor stringeth their nerves; strength dwelleth in their bones; and labor is their delight all the day long. The employments of their father excite their appetites, and the repasts of their mother refresh them. To combat the passions, is their delight; to conquer evil habits, their glory. Their pleasures are moderate, and therefore they endure; their repose is short, but sound and undisturbed. Their blood is pure; their minds are serene; and the physician knoweth not the way to their habitations. ANGER. As the whirlwind in its fury teareth up trees, and deformeth the face of Nature, or as an earthquake in its convulsions overturneth cities; so the rage of an angry man throweth mischief around him: danger and destruction wait on his hand. But consider, and forget not, thine own weakness; so shalt thou pardon the failings of others. Indulge not thyself in the passion of anger; it is whetting a sword to wound thy own breast, or murder thy friend. If thou bearest slight provocations with patience, it shall be imputed unto thee for wisdom; and if thou wipest them from thy remembrance, thy heart shall feel rest, thy mind shall not re proach thee. Do nothing in thy passion. Why wilt thou put to sea in the violence of a storm? If it be difficult to rule thine anger, it is wise to prevent it: avoid, therefore, all occasions of falling into wrath; or guard thyself against them whenever they occur 552 DODSLEY. [GEORGE II1. Harbor not revenge in thy breast; it will torment thy heart, and discolor its best inclinations. Be always more ready to forgive than to return an injury: he that watches for an opportunity of revenge, lieth in wait against himself, and draweth down mischief on his own head. A mild answer to an angry man, like water cast upon the fire, abateth his heat; and from an enemy, he shall become thy friend. Consider how few things are worthy of anger; and thou wilt wonder that any but fools should be wroth. In folly or weakness it always beginneth; but remember, and be well assured, it seldom concludeth without repentance. On the heels of Folly treadeth Shame; at the back of Anger standeth Remorse. WOMAN. Give ear, fair daughter of Love, to the instructions of Prudence; and let the precepts of Truth sink deep in thine heart: so shall the charms of thy mind add lustre to thy form; and thy beauty, like the rose it resembleth, shall retain its sweetness when its bloom is withered. In the spring of thy youth, in the morning of thy days, when the eyes of men gaze on thee with delight; ah! hear with cau. tion their alluring words; guard well thy heart, nor listen to their soft seducements. Remember thou art made man's reasonable companion, not the slave of his passion; the end of thy being is to assist him in the toils of life, to soothe him with thy tenderness, and recompense his care with soft endearments. Who is she that winneth the heart of man, that subdueth him to love, and reigneth in his breast? Lo! yonder she walketh in maiden sweetness, with innocence in her mind, and modesty on her cheek. Her hand seeketh employment; her foot delighteth not in gadding abroad. She is clothed with neatness; she is fed with temperance; humility and meekness are as a crown of glory circling her head. Decency is in all her words; in her answers are mildness and truth. Submission and obedience are the lessons of her life; and peace and happiness her reward. Before her steps walketh Prudence; Virtue attendeth at her right hand. The tongue of the licentious is dumb in her presence; the awe of her virtue keepeth him silent. When Scandal is busy, and the fame of her neighbor is tossed Iromn tongue to tongue, if Charity and Good-nature open not her mouth, the finger of Silence resteth on her lip. Her breast is the mansion of goodness; and therefore she suspecteth no evil in others 1760-1820.] DODSLEY. 553 Happy were the man that should make her his wife; happy the child that shall call her mother. She presideth in the house, and there is peace; she commandeth with judgment, and is obeyed. She ariseth in the morning; she considers her affairs; and appointeth to every one their proper business. The care of her family is her whole delight; to that alone she applieth her study: and elegance with frugality is seen in her mansions. The prudence of her management is an honor to her husband, and he heareth her praise with silent delight. She informeth the minds of her children with wisdom: she fashioneth their manners from the example of her own goodness. The word of her mouth is the law of their youth; the motion of her eye commandeth their obedience. She speaketh, and her servants fly; she pointeth, and the thing is done: for the law of love is in their hearts; her kindness addeth wings to their feet. In prosperity she is not puffed up; in adversity she healeth the wounds of Fortune with patience. The troubles of her husband are alleviated by her counsels, and sweetened by her endearments; he putteth his heart in her bosom, and receiveth comfort. Happy is the man that hath made her his wife; happy the child that calleth her mother. RICH AND POOR. The man to whom God hath given riches, and a mind to employ them aright, is peculiarly favored, and highly distinguished. He looketh on his wealth with pleasure; because it affordeth him the means to do good. He protecteth the poor that are injured; he suffereth not the mighty to oppress the weak. He seeketh out objects of colnpassion; he inquireth into their wants; he relieveth them with judgment, and without ostentation. He assisteth and rewardeth merit; he encourageth ingenuity, and liberally promoteth every useful design. He carrieth on great works; his country is enriched, and the laborer is employed: he formeth new schemes, and the arts re ceive improvement. He considereth the superfluities of his table as belonging to the poor, and he defraudeth them not. The be nevolence of his mind is not checked by his fortune. He rejoiceth therefore in riches, and his joy is blameless. But woe unto him that heapeth up wealth in abundance, and rejoiceth alone in the possession thereof; that grindeth the face of the poor, and considereth not the sweat of their brows. 47 554 DODSLEY. [GEORGE III. He thriveth on oppression without feeling; the ruin of his brother disturbeth him not. The tears of the orphan he drinketh as milk; the cries of the widow are music to his ear. His heart is hardened with the love of wealth; no grief or distress can make impression upon it. But the curse of iniquity pursueth him; he liveth in continual fear. The anxiety of his mind, and the rapacious desires of his own soul, take vengeance upon him for the calamities he hath brought upon others. O! what are the miseries of poverty, in comparison with the gnawings of this man's heart! Let the poor man comfort himself, yea, rejoice; for he hath many reasons. He sitteth down to his morsel in peace; his table is not crowded with flatterers and devourers. He is not embaro rassed with dependants, nor teased with the clamors of solicitation. Debarred from the dainties of the rich, he escapeth all their diseases. The bread that he eateth, is it not sweet to his taste? the water he drinketh, is it not pleasant to his thirst? yea, far more delicious than the richest draughts of the luxurious. His labor preserveth his health, and produceth him a repose to which the downy bed of Sloth is a stranger. He limiteth his desires with humility; and the calm of contentment is sweeter to his soul than the acquirements of wealth and grandeur. Let not the rich, therefore, presume on his riches, nor the poor despond in his poverty; for the providence of God dispenseth happiness to them both, and the distribution thereof is more equally made than the fool can believe. BENEVOLENCE. VVhen thou considerest thy wants, when thou beholdest thy imperfections, acknowledge his goodness, 0 Man I who honored thee with reason, endowed thee with speech, and placed thee in society to receive and confer reciprocal helps and mutual obligations. Thy food, thy clothing, thy convenience of habitation, thy protection from the injuries, thy enjoyment of the comforts and the pleasures of life, thou owest to the assistance of others, and couldst not enjoy but in the bands of society. It is thy duty, therefore, to be friendly to mankind, as it is thy interest that men should be friendly to thee. As the rose breatheth sweetness from its own nature, so the heart of a benevolent man produceth good works. He enjoyeth the ease and tranquillity of his own breast; aRn rejoiceth in the happiness and prosperity of his neighbor. He openeth not his ear unto slander; the faults and the failings of 1760-1820.] YOUNG. 555 men give pain to his heart. His desire is to do good, and he searcheth out the occasions thereof: in removing the oppression of another, he relieveth himself. From the largeness of his mind, he comprehendeth in his, wishes the happiness of all men; and from the generosity of his heart, he endeavoreth to promote it. EDWARD YOUNG. 1681-1765. EDWARD YoUNGe, the celebrated author of the " Night Thoughts," was born at Upham, in Hampshire, in 1681. He was educated at Oxford, where he took his degree of Bachelor of Civil Law in 1714, and his Doctor's degree in 1719. That he was distinguished for his ingenuity and learning above his fellow-students and contemporaries, is known by a complaint of Tindal the infidel, who said, " The other boys I can always answer, because I know where they have their arguments, which I have read a hundred times: but that fellow Young is continually pestering me with something of his own." After publishing a number of poetical pieces of rather indifferent merit, in 1721 he gave to the public his tragedy of "Revenge," which is one of the finest efforts of his genius; but unfortunately it was written after the model of the French drama, and though the thoughts are refined and full of imagination, and a true poetic feeling pervades the whole, it has hardly vitality enough to keep it alive as a drama. In 1725 he published the first of his Satires, and in three or four years the other six followed, under the title of " The Love of Fame, the Universal Passion." They are evidently the production of a mind rendered acute by observation, enriched by reflection, and polished with wit; and they abound in ingenious and humorous allusions. Their chief defect is in the perpetual exaggeration of the sentiment. Goldsmith says, that," they were in higher reputation when published than they stand at present;" and that i" Young seems fonder of dazzling than of pleasing, of raising our admiration for his wit than of our dislike of the follies he ridicules." I In 1728 Young entered the church, and was appointed chaplain to George the Second. Three years after, he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, daughter of the Earl of Litchfield, and widow of Colonel Lee. She died in 1741, leaving one son. A daughter whom she had by her former husband, and who was married to Mr. Temple, son of Lord Palmerston, died in 1736, and Mr. Temple four years after. It has generally been believed that Mr. and Mrs. Tem pie were the Philander and Narcissa of the Night Thoughts. Mrs. Temple died of a consumption, at Lyons, on her way to Nice, and Young accompanied her to the continent.2 Some, most inconsiderately, have identified Young's son with the Lorenzo of the Night Thoughts. This is absurd, for when this character of the finished infidel was drawn by the father, the son was only eight years old. I Essay on English Poetry. Young's Satires were published before those of Pope. 2 To her death at Lyons the two lines in Night Third doubtless allude, for the city authorities re. fused to allow her to be buried in "consecrated" ground! "While Nature melted, Superstitiol raved; That mourn'd the dead, and this denied a gravy." 556 YOUNG. [GEORGE Ill. Of the Night Thoughts, which were published from 1742 to 1744, Yollng's favorite and most finished poem, it may be said that they show a mind stored with reading and reflection, purified by virtuous feelings, and supported by religious hope. There are in them great fertility of thought and luxuriance of imagination, uncommon originality in style, and an accumulation of argument and illustration which seems almost boundless.' "i In this poem," says Dr. Johnson, "c Young has exhibited a very wide display of original poetry, variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions; a wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue, and of every odor." In 1756 Dr. Joseph Warton paid a very just and elegant tribute to the poetical reputation of Young, by dedicating to him his most learned and instructive " Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope." Young was at that time the only survivor of that brotherhood of poets who had adorned and delighted the preceding age, and among whom Pope shone with such unrivalled lustre. In 1762, when he was upwards of fourscore, Young printed his poem of:a Resignation," in which, for the first time, a decay of his powers is manifested. In April, 1765, he closed his long, useful, and virtuous life. He had performed no duty for the last three or four years, but he retained his intellects to the last. In his personal manners, Young is said to have been a man of very social habits, and the animating soul of every company with whom he mixed. Nobody ever said more brilliant things in conversation. Dr. Warton, who knew him well, says that he was one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, most exemplary in his life and sincere in his religion. If he stooped below the dignity of his high profession, in courting worldly favor and applause, as without doubt he did, no one has more convincingly shown how utterly worthless was the object of this inconsistent ambition. As a poet, if he ranks not in the first class, he takes a very high place in the second. If his taste be not the purest, or his judgment not always the best, he has an exuberance, a vigor, and an originality of genius, which amply atone for all his defects. As respects the moral influence of his poetry, there has been and can be but one opinion. No one can rise from the studious reading of the Night Thoughts, without feeling more the value of time, and the importance of improving it aright, both for the life that now is, and for that which is to come. It is a book full of the purest and noblest sentiments, which, if followed, cannot fail of making us wiser and better. INTRODUCTION TO THE NIGHT THOUGHTS. THE VALUE OF TIME. THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, I wake: How happy they, who wake no more Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I See Life, by Rev. J. Mitford. Read, also, his Life by Dr. Johnson-a biographical sketch in Drake's Essays-and another in the sixth volume of Campbell's Specimens. The criticisms of the latter, however I cannot consider just. 1760-1820.] YOUNG. 557 I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought, From wave to wave of fancied misery, At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored,'tis only change of pain (A bitter change!) severer for severe. The Day too short for my distress; and Night, E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the color of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebori throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound! Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds; Creation sleeps.'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd; Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue, Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours: Where are they? With the years beyond the flood, It is the signal that demands despatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down —On what? a fathomless abyss; A dread eternity! how surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He, who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes! From different natures marvellously mixt, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguish'd link in Being's endless chain! Midway from Nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonor'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost! At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own: How reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man, Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread: Alternately transported, and alarm'd! What can preserve my life! or what destroy I An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. 47" 558 YOUNG. [GEORG2 hII.'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods; or, down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool; Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds, With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal: E'en silent night proclaims eternal day. For human weal, heaven husbands all events; Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost! Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around, In infidel distress? Are angels there? Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire? They live! they greatly live a life on earth Unkindled, unconceived; and from an eye Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall On me, more justly nuimber'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude: How populous, how vital, is the grave! This is creation's melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; The land of apparitions, empty shades! All, all on earth, is Shadow, all beyond Is Substance; the reverse is folly's creed: How solid all, where change shall be no more! Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts, TInters celestial hopes without one sigh. Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by heaven To fly at infinite; and reach it there, Where seraphs gather immortality, On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow, In His full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more! Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire And is it in the flight of threescore years, To push eternity from human thought, And smother souls immortal in the dust? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarm'd, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 1760-1820.1 YOUNG 559 MAN'S RESOLUTIONS TO REFORM. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, " That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel: and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least, their own; their future selves applaud; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails; That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool: And scarce in human wisdom, to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage: when young, indeed, In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool: Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing, no scar the sky retains; The parted wave no furrow from the keel; So dies in human hearts the thought of death: E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. LIFE AND DEATH. Life makes the soul dependent on tie dust; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Through chinks, styled organs, dim life peeps at light; Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day; All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel; Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven! By tyrant life dethroned, imprison'd, pain'd? By death enlarged, ennobled, deified? Death but entombs the body; life the soul. DYING RICH. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fatme' 560 YOUNG. [GEORGE III, Earth's highest station ends in "Here he lies," And " dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. If this song lives, posterity shall know One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late; Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme For future vacancies in church or state; Some avocation deeming it-to die, Unbit by rage canine of dying rich; Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell! SOCIETY NECESSARY FOR HAPPINESS. Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive, What is she, but the means of Happiness? That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool; A melancholy fool, without her bells. Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives The precious end, which makes our wisdom wise. Nature, in zeal for human amity, Denies, or damps, an undivided joy: Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; Joy flies monopolists: it calls for Two; Rich fruit! heaven-planted! never pluck'd by One. Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give To social man true relish of himself. Full on ourselves, descending in a line, Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight: Delight intense is taken by rebound; Reverberated pleasures fire the breast. INSUFFICIENCY OF GENIUS AND STATION WITHOUT VIRTUlE. Genius and art, ambition's boasted wings, Our boast but ill deserve. A feeble aid! Duedalian enginery! If these alone Assist our flight, fame's flight is glory's fall. Heart merit wanting, mount we ne'er so high, Our height is but the gibbet of our name. A celebrated wretch, when I behold; When I behold a genius bright, and base, Of towering talents, and terrestrial aims; Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere, The glorious fragments of a soul immortal, With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the dust. Struck at the splendid, melancholy sight, At once compassion soft, and envy, rise — But wherefore envy? Talents angel-bright, If wanting worth, are shining instruments In false ambition's hand, to finish faults Illustrious, and give infamy renown. Great ill is an achievement of great powers. Plain sense but rarely leads us far astray. Reason the means, affections choose our end; 1760-1820.] YOUNG. 561 Means have no merit, if our end amiss. If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain; Hearts are proprietors of all applause. Right ends and means make wisdom: Worldly-wise Is but half-witted, at its highest praise. Let genius then despair to make thee great; Nor flatter station: What is station high?'Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts and begs; It begs an alms of homage from the throng, And oft the throng denies its charity. Monarchs and ministers are awful names; Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir. Religion, public order, both exact External homage, and a supple knee. To beings pompously set up, to serve The meanest slave; all more is merit's due, Her sacred and inviolable right Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth; Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account, And vote the mantle into majesty. Let the small savage boast his silver fur; His royal robe unborrow'd and unbought, His own, descending fairly from his sires. Shall man be proud to wear his livery, And souls in ermine scorn a soul without Can place or lessen us or aggrandize? Pygmies are pygmies still, though perch'd on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself: Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids: Her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall. Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause? The cause is lodged in immortality. Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power; What station charms thee? I'll install thee there;'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before? Then thou before wast something less than man. Has thy new post betray'd thee into pride? That treacherous pride betrays thy dignity; That pride defames humanity, and calls The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. High worth is elevated place:'Tis more; It makes the post stand candidate for Thee; Makes more than monarchs-makes an honest man; Though no exchequer it commands,'tis wealth; And though it wears no ribbon,'tis ren)wn; Renown, that would not quit thee, though disgraced, Nor leave thee pendent on a master's smile. Other ambition nature interdicts; Nature proclaims it most absurd in man, By pointing at his origin, and end; Milk, and a swath, at first, his whole demand; His whole domain, at last, a turf, or stone; To whom, between, a world may seem too small. 2N 562 FALCONER. [GEORG:E III. THE LOVE OF PRAISE. What will not men attempt for sacred praise The Love of Praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart: The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; The modest shun it, but to make it sure. O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells; Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, Harangues in Senates, squeaks in Masquerades. Here, to Steele's humor makes a bold pretence; There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead; Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes, Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. Satire i. THE LANGUID LADY. The languid lady next appears in state, Who was not born to carry her own weight; She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, She, by just stages, journeys round the room: But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs To scale the Alps-that is, ascend the stairs. My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil; Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; And that is spoke with such a dying fall, That Betty rather sees, than hears the call: The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, Piece out tl' idea her faint words deny. O listen with attention most profound! Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. And help! oh help! her spirits are so dead, One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, She pants! she sinks away! and is no more. Let the robust and the gigantic carve, Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve: But chew she must herself; ah, cruel fate! That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat. Satire v. WILLIAM FALCONER. 1730-1769. WILLIAMI FALCONER was the son of a barber in Edinburgh, and was born in the year 1730. He had very few advantages of education, and in early life went to sea in the merchant service. He was afterwards mate of a ves. sel that was wrecked in the Levant, and was one of three only, out of the crew, that were saved; a catastrophe which formed the subject of his future 1760-1820.] FALCONE R. 56 3 poem, ",The Shipwreck," which he published in 1762, and on which his chief claim to merit rests. Early in 1769 his " Marine Dictionary" appeared, which has been spoken highly of by those who are capable of estimating its merits. In the latter part of the same year he embarked in the Aurora, for India, but the vessel was never heard of after she passed the Cape, " so that the poet of the Shipwreck may be supposed to have perished by tha same species of calamity which he had rehearsed." 1 The subject of the Shipwreck and the fate of its author, bespeak an uncom mon partiality in its favor. If we pay respect to the ingenious scholar, who can produce agreeable verses amidst the shades of retirement or the shelves of his library, how much more interest must we take in the " ship-boy on the high and giddy mast," cherishing refined visions of fancy at the hour which he may casually snatch from fatigue and danger! His poem has the sensible charm of appearing a transcript of reality, and from its vividness and power of description, powerfully interests tlie feelings, and leaves a deep impression or truth and nature on the mind. THE VESSEL GOING TO PIECES.-DEATH OF ALBERT, TEIE COMMIANNDER. With mournful look the seamen eyed the strand Where death's inexorable jaws expand: Swift from their minds elapsed all dangers past, As, dumb with terror, they beheld the last. Now on the trembling shrouds, before, behind, In mute suspense they mount into the wind — The Genius of the deep, on rapid wing, The black eventful moment seem'd to bring. The fatal Sisters, on the surge before, Yoked their infernal horses to the prore.The steersmen now received their last command To wheel the vessel sidelong to the strand. Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend, High on the platform of the top ascend; Fatal retreat! for while the plunging prow Immerges headlong in the wave below, Down-prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends, And from above the stem deep crashing rends. Beneath her beak the floating ruins lie; The foremast totters, unsustain'd on high: And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea, Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er her lee; While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay Drags the mnain-topmast from its post away. Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain Through hostile floods their vessel to regain. The waves they buffet, till, bereft of strength. O'erpower'd they yield to cruel fate at length. The hostile waters close around their head, They sink for ever, number'd with the dead! Those who remain their fearful doom await, Nor longer mourn their lost companions' fate. I Campbell's Specimens, vol. vi. p. 98. 564 1EA&LCONER. [GEORGE III. The heart that bleeds with sorrows all its own, Forgets the pangs of friendship to bemoan. — Albert and Rodmond and Palemon here, With young Arion, on the mast appear; Even they, amid th' unspeakable distress, In every look distracting thoughts confess; In every vein the refluent blood congeals, And every bosom fatal terror feels. Inclosed with all the demons of the main, They view'd th' adjacent shore, but view'd in vain. Such torments in the drear abodes of hell, Where sad despair laments with rueful yell, Such torments agonize the damned breast, While fancy views the mansions of the blest. For Heaven's sweet help their suppliant cries ilnplore i But Heaven, relentless, deigns to help no inore! And now, lash'd on by destiny severe, With horror fraught, the dreadful scene drew near! The ship hangs hovering on the verge of deat*1, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath 1 — In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore Would arm the mind with philosophic lore; In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, To smile serene amid the pangs of death. E'en Zeno's self, and Epictetus old, This fell abyss had shudder'd to behold. Had Socrates, for god-like virtue famed, And wisest of the sons of men proclaim'd, Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress, His soul had trembled to its last recess!O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above, This last tremendous shock of fate to prove. The tottering frame of reason yet sustain! Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain! In vain the cords and axes were prepared, For now th' audacious seas insult the yard; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shatter'd top half buried in the skies, Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground, Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound! Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, And quivering with the wound, in torment reels; So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's blows. —Again she plunges! hark! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock! Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes In wild despair; while yet another stroke, With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak; Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 1760-1820.] FALCONER. 565 At length asunder torn, her frame divides, And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides, As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung, Still, on the rigging thirty seamen clung: Some, struggling, on a broken crag were,ast, And there by oozy tangles grappled fast; Awhile they bore th' o'erwhelming billows' rage, Unequal combat with their fate to wage; Till all benumb'd and feeble they forego Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. Some, fromn the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown On marble ridges, die without a groan. Three with Palemon on their skill depend, And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. Now on the mountain-wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath th' involving tide; Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew! Next, 0 unhappy chief! th' eternal doom Of Heaven decreed thee to the briny tomb! What scenes of misery torment thy view! What painful struggles of thy dying crew! Thy perish'd hopes all buried in the flood, O'erspread with corses! red with human blood! So pierced with anguish hoary Priam gazed, When Troy's imperial domes in ruin blazed; While he, severest sorrow doom'd to feel, Expired beneath the victor's murdering steel. Thus with his helpless partners till the last, Sad refuge! Albert hugs the floating mast; His soul could yet sustain the mortal blow, But droops, alas! beneath superior woe: For now soft nature's sympathetic chain Tugs at his yearning heart with powerful strain, His faithful wife for ever doom'd to mourn For him, alas! who never shall return; To black adversity's approach exposed, With want and hardships unforeseen enclosed: His lovely daughter left without a friend, Her innocence to succor and defend; By youth and indigence set forth a prey To lawless guilt, that flatters to betrayWhile these reflections rack his feeling mind, Rodmond, who hung beside, his grasp resign'd; And, as the tumbling waters o'er him roll'd, His out-stretch'd arms the master's legs enfold.Sad Albert feels the dissolution near, And strives in vain his fetter'd limbs to clear; For death bids every clinching joint adhere. All-faint, to heaven he throws his dying eyes, And, "0 protect my wife and child!" he cries; The gushing streams roll back th' unfinish'd sound I He gasps! he dies! and tumbles to the ground!l 48 566 TALBOT. [GEORGE II. CATHERINE TALBOT. 1720-1770. CATH]ERINE TALBOT, the only daughter of Rev. Edward Talbot, Archdeacon of Berks, was born in the year 1720. She early exhibited strong marks of a feeling heart, a warm imagination, and a powerful understanding. To these natural talents were added all the advantages of a thorough education founded on Christian principles. In 1741 she was introduced to the celebrated Miss Elizabeth Carter,l with whom she maintained the most close and intimate friendship to the close of her life. At what age she began to write for the public eye, does not appear; but it is certain that her talents and at tainnients early introduced her into a valuable literary acquaintance, of which Archbishop Seclker, and Dr. Butler, the author of the "Analogy," may be named. But great as were her talents, and brilliant as her accomplishments, she possessed qualities of infinitely more importance both to herself and society. Her piety was deep and ardent: it was the spring of all her actions, as its rewards was the object of all her hopes. Her life, however, affords but little scope for narrative; passing on in a smooth, equable tenor, without dangers or adventures. But she was not of a strong constitution, and the disease to which she had long been subject-a cancer-at length made rapid strides upon her delicate frame, and she expired on the 9th of January, 1770. The chief publications of Miss Talbot are, 1"Reflections on the Seven Days of the Week," which have passed through numerous editions, twentysix "Essays," five "Dialogues," three, Prose Pastorals," a "Fairy Tale," three " Imitations of Ossian," two c"Allegories," No. 30 of the 4"Rambler," and a few " Poems;" all of which may be read with great profit, as the production of one who possessed the most exquisite qualities both of the head and heart.2 A SENSE OF GOD' S PRESENCE. Let me ask myself, as in the sight of God, what is the general turn of my temper, and disposition of my mind? My most trifling words and actions are observed by Him: and every thought is naked to His eye. Could I suppose the king, or any the greatest person I have any knowledge of, were within reach of observing my common daily behaviour, though unseen by me, should I not be very particularly careful to preserve it, in every respect, decent and becoming? Should I allow myself in any little froward humors? Should I not be ashamed to appear peevish and ill-natured? Should I use so much as one harsh or unhandsome expression even to my equal, or my meanest inferior, even were I ever so much provoked? Much less should I behave irreverently to my parents or superiors. This awful Being, in whom I live and move, and from whom no obscurity can hide me, by whom the very hairs of my head are all numbered, He knows the obligations of every relation in life. He sees in their full light the 1 This lady died in 1806, consequently beyond the period (1800) to which I have been obliged to restrict myself in the preparation of this work, in order to do any justice to our earlier w riters. 2 Read-edition of her works, by Rev. M. Pennington;-a notice of her life in Drake s Essays, ve' V, and some notices In Sir Elgerton Brydges's " Censura Literaria." 1760-1820.] TALBOT. 567 reciprocal duties of parents and children, of husbands and wives, of neighbors and fellow-servants. He knows the aggravated guilt of every offence against these ties of society, however we may be disposed to treat them as trifles: and every piece of stubbornness and pride, of ill-humour and passion, of anger and resentment, of sullenness and perverseness, exposes us to His just indignation. Reflections on Sunday. SELF-EXAMINATION. That I may be better in future, let me examine a little what temper I have been in the last twenty-four hours. In general, perhaps, I can recollect nothing much amiss in it: but let me descend to particulars. Things are often very faulty, that appear at first sight very trifling. Perhaps I have so fond a conceit of myself as to think that I can never be in the wrong. Has any uneasiness happened in the family this last day? Perhaps 1 think the fault was wholly in others, and the right entirely on my side. But ought I not to remember, that in all disputes, there is generally some fault on both sides? Perhaps they begun: —but did not I carry it on?-They gave the provocation: —but did not I take it? —Am not I too apt to imagine that it would be mean entirely to let a quarrel drop, when I have a fair opportunity to reason, and argue, and reproach, to vindicate my injured merit, and assert my right? Yet, is this agreeable to the precepts and example of Him, " who, when he was reviled, reviled not again?" Is it agreeable to His commands, who has charged me, if my brother trespass against me, to forgive him, not seven times only, but seventy times seven? Is it agreeable to that Christian doctrine which exhorts us, not to think of ourselves highly, but soberly, as we ought to think: and that, in lowliness of mind, every one should think others better than himself? And alas, how often do I think this disrespect, though a slight one, provoking to me? This situation, though a happy one, not good enough for me? How often have I had in my mouth that wise maxim, that a worm, if it is trod upon, will turn again! Wretch that I am, shall I plead the example of a vile worm of the earth for disobeying the commands of my Saviour, with whom I hope hereafter to sit in heavenly places?1 Reflections on Monday. ALL CAN DO GOOD. Every one of us may in something or other assist or instruct some of his fellow-creatures: for the best of human race is poor 1 It is proper to observe that this excellent illustration of these unchristian passions, though expressed in the first person, conveys no sort of idea of the mild and humble disposition of the writer hei self. 568 TALBOT. [GEORGE dI. and needy, and all have a mutual dependence on one another: there is nobody that cannot do some good: and everybody is bound to do diligently all the good they can. It is by no means enough to be rightly disposed, to be serious, and religious in our closets: we must be useful too, and take care, that as we all reap numberless benefits from society, society may be the better for every one of us. It is a false, a faulty, and an indolent humility, that makes people sit still and do nothing, because they will not believe that they are capable of doing much: for everybody can do something. Everybody can set a good example, be it to many or to few. Everybody can in some degree encourage virtue and religion, and discountenance vice and folly. Everybody has some one or other whom they can advise, or instruct, or in some way help to guide through life. Those who are too poor to give alms, can yet give their time, their trouble, their assistance in preparing or forwarding the gifts of others; in considering and representing distressed cases to those who can relieve them; in visiting and comforting the sick and afflicted. Everybody can offer up their prayers for those who need them: which, if they do reverently and sincerely, they will never be wanting in giving them every other assistance that it should please God to put in their power. Reflections on Thursday. IMPORTANCE OF TIME. Another week is past; another of those little limited portions of time which number out my life. Let me stop a little here, before I enter upon a new one, and consider what this life is which is thus imperceptibly stealing away, and whither it is conducting me? What is its end and aim, its good and its evil, its use and improvement? WVhat place does it fill in the universe? What proportion does it bear to eternity? Let me think, then, and think deeply, how I have employed this week past. Have I advanced in, or deviated from the path that leads to life? Has my time been improved or lost, or worse than lost, misspent? If the last, let me use double diligence to redeem it. Have I spent a due portion of my time in acts of devotion and piety, both private, public, and domestic? And have they been sincere, and free from all mixture of superstition, moroseness, or weak scrupulosity? Have I, in society, been kind and helpful, mild, peaceable, and obliging? Have I been charitable, friendly, discreet? Have I had a due regard, without vanity or ostentation, to set a good example? Have I been equally ready to give and receive instruction, and proper advice? Careful to give no offence, and patient to take every thing in good part? Hlave I been honest, upright, and disinterested? Have I, in my way, and according to my station and calling, been diligent, fru 1760-1820.] TALBOT. 569 gal, generous, and industrious to do good? Have I, in all my behavior, consulted the happiness and ease of those I live with, and of all who have any dependence upon me? H-ave I preserved my understanding clear, my temper calm, my spirits cheerfill, my body temperate and healthy, and my heart in a right frame? If to all these questions I can humbly, yet conidently answer, that I have done my best: if I have truly repented all the faulty past. and made humble, yet firm, and vigorous, and deliberate resolutions for the future, poor as it is, the honest endeavor will be graciously accepted. Reflections on Surday. IMPORTANCE OF EARLY RISING. Awake, my Laura, break the silken chain, Awake, my Friend, to hours unsoil'd by pain: Awake to peaceful joys and thought refined, Youth's cheerful morn, and Virtue's vigorous mind: Wake to all joys fair friendship can bestow, All that from health and prosperous fortune flow. Still dost thou sleep? awake, imprudent fair; Few hours has life, and few of those can spare. Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies: While yet the birds their early matins sing, And all around us blooming as the spring. Ere sultry Phcbus with his scorching ray Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay, Scorch'd every flower, embrown'd each drooping greeir, Pall'd the pure air, and chased the pleasing scene. Still dost thou sleep? 0 rise, imprudent fair; Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare. Think of the task those hours have yet in view, Reason to arm, and passion to subdue; While life's fair calm, and flattering moments last, To fence your mind against the stormy blast: Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store, Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore, And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. Imperfect beings! weakly arm'd to bear Pleasure's soft wiles, or sorrow's open war; Alternate shocks from different sides to feel, Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel: Not weakly arm'd, if ever on our guard, Nor to the worst unequal if prepared: Not unsurmountable the task, if loved, Nor short the time, if every hour improved. 0 rouse thee then, nor shun the glorious strife, — Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life: Assert thy reason, animate thy heart, And act through life's short scene the useful part: Then sleep in peace, by gentlest memory crown'd, Till time's vast year has fill'd its perfect round. 48, 570 CHATTERTON. [ GEORGE III. THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1752-1770. THomrAs CHATTERTON was the son of the master of a free-school in Bristol, and was born on the 20th of November, 1752. His father dying about three months before the birth of the son, the whole care of his education devolved upon the mother, who appears to have discharged her duty with great fidelity. At the age of eight, he was put to a charity-school at Bristol, where he soon discovered a great passion for books, and before he was twelve had perused about seventy volumes, chiefly on history and divinity, and written some verses which were wonderful for his years. At the age of fourteen he was bound apprentice to a Mr. Lambert, a scrivener in his native city, and he devoted all his leisure time to acquiring a knowledge of English antiquities and obsolete language, as a sort of preparation for the wonderful fabrication he shortly after palmed upon the world. It was in the year 1768 that he first attracted public attention. On the occasion of the new bridge at Bristol being opened, there appeared in the Bristol Journal an article purporting to be the transcript of an ancient manuscript, entitled, "c A Description of the Fryers first passing over the Old Bridge, taken from an Ancient Manuscript." This was traced to Chatterton, who said he had received the paper, together with many other ancient manuscripts, from his father, who had found them in an iron chest in the Redeliff church, near Bristol, and that they were written by Thomas Rowley, a priest of the fifteenth century. Having deceived many persons of some literary pretensions in Bristol, he wrote to Horace Walpole, in London, sending him some specimens of his Rowleian poetry, and requesting his patronage. The virtuoso, however, having shown the poetical specimens to Gray and Mason, who pronounced them to be forgeries, sent the youth a cold reply, and advised him to stick to his professional business. In the mean time Chatterton commenced a correspondence with the Town and Country Magazine, to which he sent a number of communications relating to English Antiquities; and his situation in Mr. Lambert's office becoming every day more and more irksome to him, he solicited and obtained a release from his apprenticeship; his master, it is said, being alarmed by the hints which Chatterton gave of his intention to destroy himself. In the month of April, 1770, Chatterton, then seventeen years old, arrived in London, with many of his ancient manuscripts, and some acknowledged original poems, and received from the booksellers several important literary engagements. He was filled with the highest hopes, and his letters to his mother and sister, which were always accompanied with presents, expressed the most joyous anticipations. But suddenly, for some causes that are not known, all his dreams of honor and wealth to be obtained from his literary labors vanished. His poverty soon became distressing-he suffered from actual want of food; and-having no religious principles to sustain him-he took poison, and was found dead in his bed on the 25th of August, 1770. The chief of the poems of Chatterton, published under the name of Rowley, are the "c Tragedy of Ella," the "' Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin," ", Ode to Ella," the c" Battle of Hastings," a" The Tournament," one or two " Dialogues,' and a ",Description of Canynge's Feast." 1 "In estimating the promises of 1 t It will be asked, For what end or purpose did he contrive such an imposture? I answer, From iucrative views; or perhaps from the pleasure of deceiving the world, a motive which, in many minds, operates more powerfully than the hopes of gain. lie probably promised to himself greater emolu 1760-1820.] CHATTERTON. 571 his.genius," says Campbell, "I would rather lean to the utmost enthusiasm of his admirers, than to the cold opinion of those, who are afraid of being blinded to the defects of the poems attributed to Rowley, by the veil of obso. lete phraseology which is thrown over them. If we look to the ballad of Sir Charles Bawdin, and translate it into modern English, we shall find its strength and interest to have no dependence on obsolete words. In the striking passage of the martyr Bawdin standing erect in his car to rebuke Edward, who beheld him from the window, when'The tyrant's soul rush'd to his face,' and when he exclaimed,'Behold the man! he speaks the truth, He's greater than a lding;' in these, and in all striking parts of the ballad, no effect is owing to mock antiquity, but to the simple and high conception of a great and just character, who'Summ'd the actions of the day, Each night before he slept.' What a moral portraiture from the hand of a boy! The inequality of Chatterton's various productions may be compared to the disproportions of the ungrown giant. His works had nothing of the definite neatness of that precocious talent which stops in early maturity. His thirst for knowledge was that of a being taught by instinct to lay up materials for the exercise of great and undeveloped powers. Even in his favorite maxim, pushed it might be to hyperbole, that a man by abstinence and perseverance might accomplish whatever he pleased, may be traced the indications of a genius which nature had meant to achieve works of immortality. Tasso alone can be compared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet ever equalled him at the same age."' DEATH OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. The feather'd songster chanticleer Had wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn: King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat, Proclaim the fated day. "Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for by the God That sits enthroned on high! Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, To-day shall surely die." ments from this indirect mode of exercising his abilities: or he might have sacrificed even the vanIty of appearing in the character of an applauded original author, to the private enjoyment of the success of his invention and dexterity."- Warton. 1 For papers on the authenticity of the Rowleian poems, read-Campbell's "Specimens," vi. 152162; Warton's " History of English Poetry," vol. ii. section xxvi.; " An Essay on the Evidence, external and internal, relating to the Poems attributed to Thomas Rowley," by T. J. Mathias, and "The Life of Thomas Chatterton, with Criticisms on his Genius and Writings, and a Concise YView of the Controversy concerning Rowley's Poems," by George Gregory, D. D. 572 CHATTERTON. [GEORGE U1. Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; "Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state." Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of wo; He journey'd to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go. But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles's life. "Oh good Sir Charles!" said Canterlone, "Bad tidings I do bring." "Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles; " What says the traitor king i" " I grieve to tell: before yon sun Does from the welkin fly, He hath upon his honor sworn, That thou shalt surely die." "We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; " Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little space? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared. B it tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day, T Ian live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye. We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; "What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate, Of all we mortal men. Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye; Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry l" Saith godly Canynge, " I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and hapless wife;'Tis this that wets mine eye." "Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor king. When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and' wife. :1760-1820.] CHATTERTON. 678 In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat: I make no doubt but he is gone Where soon I hope to go, Where we for ever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe. He taught me justice and tule laws With pity to unite; And eke he taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right: He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor, Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door: And none can say but all my life I have his wordis kept; And summ'd the actions of the day Each night before I slept. What though I on a sled be drawn, And mangled by a hind, I do defy the traitor's power, He cannot harm my mind: What though, uphoisted on a pole, M3y limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There, with the servants of the Lord, My name shall live for aye. Then, welcome death! for life eterne I leave this mortal life: Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife! Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay." Saith Canynge, "'Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly." And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground. 574 CHATTERTON. [GEORGE Ir. And just before the officers His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of wo With loud and dismal din. "Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear, In quiet let me die; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as I. Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, With thee, sweet dame, to stay.'Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love, Receive this holy kiss." Then Florence, faltering in her say, Trembling these wordis spoke: " Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! My heart is wellnigh broke. Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, It eke shall end my life." And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say: "I go to life, and not to death; Trust thou in God above, And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts him love. Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run, Florence! should death thee take-adieu Ye officers, lead on." Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear; "Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!"Sir Charles then dropp'd a tear. Till tired out with raving loud, She fell upon the floor; Sir Charles exerted all his might, And march'd from out the door. Upon a sled he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweetLooks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street. 1760-1820.j CHATTERTON. 575 Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun, Much glorious to behold. Then five-and-twenty archers came; Each one the bow did bend, From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend. Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sled, By two black steeds in trappings white, With plumes upon their head. Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout. And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along. And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say, "0 Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day." At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate. Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare: "Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile I Exposed to infamy; But be assured, disloyal man, I'm greater now than thee. By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown; And hast appointed me to die By power not thine own. Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow; Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land, T let them know how wide the rule'Twixt king and tyrant hand. 576 CHATTERTON. [GEORGE IlL Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head"From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sled. King Edward's soul rush'd to his face, He turn'd his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say: "To him, that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring; Behold the man! he spake the truth; He's greater than a king!" "So let him die 1" Duke Richard said "And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows." And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill. Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gain'd in the bloody war. And to the people he did say: "Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully. As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow. You leave your good and lawful king, When in adversity; Like me, unto.the true cause stick, And for the true cause die." Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching him unto himself His parting soul to take. Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke: And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne. 1760-1820.] CHATTERTON. 677 The bloody axe his body fair Into four partis cut; And every part, and eke his head, Upon a pole was put. One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour. The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble. Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God's mercy sing! RESIGNATION. O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys; To Thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise. The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill — But what the Eternal acts is right. O teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. If in this bosom aught but Thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away. Then why, my soul, dost thou complain t Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless. But ah! my breast is human stillThe rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare. But yet, with fortitude resign'd, I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow. The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirits steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, revealw. 2 to49 7 t. A-KENSIDE. [GEORGE UL. MARK AKENSIDE. 1721-1)770. FEw English poets of the eighteenth century are to be ranked before the author of "The Pleasures of the Imagination." He was born on the 9th of November, 1721, at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and was educated at the University of Edinburgh. His parents designed him for the ministry, but as his education progressed, other views governed him, and he devoted limself to the study of medicine as his future profession. After remaining three years at the Scottish capital, he went to Leyden, where he also studied three years, and took his degree of M. D. in 1744. Returning home the same year, he published his poem, 1" The Pleasures of the Imagination." On offering the copy to Dodsley, he demanded ~120 for the manuscript, but the wary publisher hesitated at paying such a price for the work of an unknown youth of twenty. three. He therefore showed the work to Pope, when the latter, having glanced over a few pages, said, " Don't be niggardly about the terms, for this is no every-day writer." No sooner was it published than it excited great attention, and received general applause. But he could not reap from it "tilhe means whereby to live," and he betook himself to the practice of his profession. He first settled in Northampton; but finding little encouragement there, he removed to Hampstead, and thence finally to London. Here he experienced the difficulty of getting into notice in a large city, and though he acquired several professional honors, he never obtained any large share of practice. He was busy in presenting himself to public notice, by publishing medical essays and observations, and delivering lectures, when his career was terminated by a putrid fever, on the 23d of January, 1770. The Pleasures of the Inagination is written in blank verse, with great beauty of versification, elegance of language, and splendor of imagery. Its object is to trace the various pleasures which we receive from nature and art to their respective principles in the human imagination, and to show the connection of those principles with the moral dignity of man, and the final purposes of his creation.1 This task Akenside has executed in a most admirable manner. If his philosophy be not always correct, his general ideas of moral truth are lofty and prepossessing. He is peculiarly eloquent in those passages in which he describes the final causes of our emotions of taste; he is equally skilful in delineating the processes of memory and association; and he gives an animating view of Genius collecting her stores for works of excellence. Of this poem Dr. Johnson remarks, "It has undoubtedly a just claim to a very particular notice, as an example of great felicity of genius and uncommon amplitude of acquisitions, of a young mind stored with images, and much exercised in combining and comparing them. The subject is well chosen, as it includes all images that can strike or please, and thus comprises every species of poetical delight." He complains, however, with equal justice, of the poet's amplitude of language, in which his meaning is frequently obsoured, and sometimes wh tfly buried. In maturer life Akeriside intended to revise and alter the whole poem, but he died before he had completed his design. The portion that lie did " improve" is contracted in some parts and expanded in others; but if it be more philosophically correct, it is shorn of much of its beauty and poetic fire; and 1 Campbell's Specimens, vol. vi. p. 128. 1760-1820.] AKIENSIDE. 579 tb.e original inspiration, under which he had written the work, does not ap. pear to have been ready at his call.' INTRODUCTION.-TlE SUBJECT PROPOSED With what attractive charms this goodly frame Of nature touches the consenting hearts Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores Which beauteous imitation thence derives To deck the poet's or the painter's toil; My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers Of musical delight! and while I sing Your gifts, your honors, dance around my strain. Thou smiling queen of every tuneful breast, Indulgent Fancy! from the fruitful banks Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf Where Shakspeare lies, be present: and with thee Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings, Wafting ten thousand colors through the air, Which, by the glances of her magic eye, She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms, Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre, Which rules the accents of the moving sphere, Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend, And join this festive train? for with thee comes The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come Her sister Liberty will not be far. Be present, all ye genii, who conduct The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, New to your springs and shades: who touch his ear With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye The bloom of nature; and before himl turn The gayest, happiest attitude of things. Oft have the laws of each poetic strain The critic-verse employ'd; yet still unsung Lay this prime subject, though importing most A poet's name: for fruitless is th' attempt, By dull obedience and by creeping toil, Obscure, to conquer the severe ascent Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings, Imnpatient of the painful steep, to soar High as the summit; there to breathe at large Ethereal air; with bards and sages old, Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes, To this neglected labor court my song: Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task'ro paint the finest features of the mind, And to most subtle and mysterious things Give color, strength, and motion. But the love 1 Read-Mrs. Barbauld's elegant Essay, prefixed to an edition of his poem, published in 1796; tm which she characterizes his genius as lofty and elegant, chaste, classical, ana correct. 56ib AKENSIDE. [GEORGEB [II Of nature and the muses bids explore, Through secret paths erewhile untrod by man, The fair poetic region, to detect Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, And shade my temples with unfading flowers Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess, Where never poet gain'd a wreath before. But not alike to every mortal eye Is this great scene unveil'd. For since the claims Of social life to different labors urge The active powers of man; with wise intent The hand of nature on peculiar minds Imprints a different bias, and to each Decrees its province in the common toil. To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, The golden zones of heaven; to sonme she gave To weigh the moment of eternal things, Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain, And will's quick impulse: others by the hand She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore What healing virtue swells the tender veins Of herbs and flowers; or what the beams of morn Draw forth, distilling from the clefted rind In balmy tears. But some to higher hopes Were destined; some within a finer mould She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame. To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds The world's harmonious volume, there to read The transcript of himself. On every part They trace the bright impressions of his hand: In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores, The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form Blooming with rosy smiles, they see portray'd That uncreated beauty, which delights The mind supreme. They also feel her charms, Enamour'd; they partake th' eternal joy. MAN S IMMORTAL ASPIRATIONS. Say, why was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame; But that th' Omnipotent might send him forth In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds; To chase each partial purpose from his breast, And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice Of truth and virtue, up the steep ascent Of nature, calls him to his high reward, Th' applauding smile of heaven? Else wherefore burns 1760-1820.] AKIENSIDE. 581 In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardor, to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free; Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns To heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame? Who that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye Shoots round the wild horizon, to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand; will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet The high-born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm; Rides on the volley'd lightning through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars The blue profound, and hovering round the sun, Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of time. Thence far effused, She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets; through its burning signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, Invests the orient. Now amazed she views Th' empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. E'en on the barriers of the world untired She meditates th' eternal depth below; Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhell'd and swallow'd up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of renown, Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but fiom these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all th' ascent of things enlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene. 49* 582 AKENSIDE. [GEORGE U1, CAUSE OF OUR PLEASURE IN BEAUTY. Then tell me, for ye know, DI)es beauty ever deign to dwell where health And active use are strangers? Is her charm Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends Are lame and fruitlessl Or did nature mean This pleasing call the herald of a lie; To hide the shame of discord and disease, And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart Of idle faith? O no: with better cares Th' indulgent mother, conscious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, By this illustrious image, in each kind Still most illustrious where the object holds Its native powers most perfect, she by this Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire,And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe, Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul, The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, And every charm of animated things, Are only pledges of a state sincere, Th' integrity and order of their frame, When all is well within, and every end Accomplish'd. Thus was beauty sent from heaven, The lovely ministress of truth and good In this dark world: for truth and good are one, And beauty dwells in them, and they in her, With like participation. Wherefore, then, O sons of earth! would ye dissolve the tie? O wherefore, with a rash, impetuous aim, Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand Of lavish fancy paints each flattering scene Where beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire Where is the sanction of eternal truth, Or where the seal of undeceitful good, To save your search from folly! Wanting these, Lo! beauty withers in your void embrace, And with the glittering of an idiot's toy Did fancy mock your vows. THE SUPERIORITY OF MORAL OVER NATURAL BEAUTY.' Thus doth beauty dwell There most conspicuous, e'en in outward shape, Where dawns the high expression of a mind: By steps conducting our enraptured search 1 Our poet is exceedingly infelicitous in giving, as an illustration of this fine subject, the historical fact of the assassination of Julius Czesar by Brutus and the rest of the conspirators. In a moral point of view, It was an atrocious murder, utterly unjustifiable: and in a political point of view, it was highly inexpedient. For however unscrupulous Caesar was in his means to attain power; when obtained, few men have used it with more wisdom or clemency. In every great quality how superior was he to the hollow-hearted, selfish Augustus I The former, for instance, spared Cicero, his enemy, and the main stay of the party of Pompey; the latter sacrificed him, though professedly a friend, to the vengeance of Antony. 1760-1 820.] AKENSIDE. 583 To that eternal origin, whose power, Through all th' unbounded symmetry of things, Like rays effulging from the parent sun, This endless mixture of her charms diffused. Mind, mind alone, (bear witness, earth and hea Ven!) The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime: here, hand in hand, Sit paramount the graces; here enthroned, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy. Look then abroad through nature, to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unshaken through the void immense; And speak, O man! does this capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate The strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Ccesar's fate, Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail? For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free! TASTE. What then is taste, but these internal powers Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; But God alone, when first his active hand Imprints the secret bias of the soul. He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer day's Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, His rude expression and untutor'd airs, Beyond the power of language, will unfold The form of beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding! But though Heaven In every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair culture's kind parental aid, Without enlivening suns, and genial shower., And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest promised in its splring. 584 ARENSIDE. [GEORGE II, Nor yet will every soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labor: or attend His will, obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Different minds Incline to different objects: one pursues The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another sighs for harnlony and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flowery stream, To spread his careless limbs amid the cool Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain Resound soft-warbling all the livelong day: Consenting zephyr sighs; the weeping rill Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves; And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. Such and so various are the tastes of men. CONCLUSION. O! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair imagination culls To charm th' enliven'd soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows, at large, whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring Distils her dews, and from the silken geml Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand Of Autumn ulnges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow. not a cloiud imbibes 1760-1820.] GRAY. 585 The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only: for th' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight: her temper'd powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations; if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons: all declare For what th' eternal Maker has ordain'd The powers of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine: he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions, act upon his plan; And form to his the relish of their souls THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771. TaIS most eminent poet and distinguished scholar was born in Lon-Ion iii 1716. After receiving the first portion of his classical education at Eton, he entered the University of Cambridge, where he continued five years; after which he travelled, as companion with Horace Walpole, through France and part of Italy. At Reggio, however, these ill-assorted friends parted in mutual dislihke, and Gray proceeded alone to Venice, and-there remained only till he was provided with the means of returning to England. As to the cause of the separation, Walpole was afterwards content to bear the blame. " Gray," said he, " was too serious a companion for me: he was for antiq' ities, &c., while I was for perpetual balls and plays; the fault was mine." 586 GRAY. [GEORGE III. Two months after his return to England, his father died in embarrassed circumstances, and Gray returned to Cambridge, where he prosecuted his studies, with an ardor and industry seldom equalled, to the end of his life. In 1742 he produced his "' Ode to Spring," and in the autumn of the same year he wrote the "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and the "-Hymn to Adversity;" but he did not publish them till some years after. They were circulated among his friends, who were, of course, delighted with them, and they received from their gifted author touches and re-touches, till they were brought to the perfection in which we now have them. So slow was he in poetical composition, that his next ode, ": On the Death of a favorite Cat," was not written till 1747. In 1750 appeared his most celebrated poem, the "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." Few poems were ever so popular. It soon ran through eleven editions, and has ever since been one of those few, favorite pieces that every one has by heart. In 1757 the office of poet-laureate, made vacant by the death of Cibber, was offered to Gray, but declined. The same year he published his two odes on 9"The Progress of Poesy," and "&The Bard." Though they showed to a still higher degree the power and the genius of the poet, and were felt to be magnificent productions, they were not so popular, because they were less understood.1 In 1768, the Professorship of History at Cambridge becoming vacant, it was conferred upon our poet, than whom a person of greater and more extensive scholarship could not be found at that time in England. But his habitual indolence in writing unfitted him for the office; for though he retained it till his death, he delivered no lectures. In the spring of 1770 illness overtook him, as he was projecting a tour in Wales; but recovering, he was able to effect the tour in the autumn. But the next year, 1771, on the 24th of July, he was seized with an attack of gout in the stomach, froim which, as an hereditary complaint, he had long suffered; and died on the 30th of the same month, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. The life of Gray is one singularly devoid of interest and variety, even for an author. It is the life of a student giving himself up to learning, account. ing it as an end itself, and "c its own exceeding great reward." He devoted his time almost exclusively to reading: writing was with him an exception, and that, too, a rare one. His life was spent in the acquisition of knowledge. At the time of his death, c"he was perhaps the most learned man in Europe. He was equaily acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of science and that not superficially, but thoroughly. He knew every branch of history, both natural and civil; had read all the original historians of England, France, and Italy; and was a great antiquary. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal part of his plan of study; voyages and travels of all sorts were his favorite amusement: and he had a fine taste in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening."2 As a poet, though we cannot assent to the enthusiastic encomium of his ardent admirer and biographer, Mr. Matthias,3 that he is "second to none," 1 He himself prefixed to them a quotation from Pindar, owvavra svVs7ron'V, " vocal to the intelligent alone." ~ From a sketch of his life by the Rev. William Temple. "I am sorry," says the excellent Dr. Be.ttie, in writing to a friend, "you did not see Mr. Gray on his return: you would have been much pleased with him. Setting aside his merit as a poet, which, however, in my opinion, is greater than any of his contemporaries can boast, in this or any other nation, I found him possessed of the most exact taste, the soundest judgment, and most extensive learning." Works, by T J. Matthias, 2 vols. quarto; the best edition. 1760-1820.] GRAY, 587 yet, after naming Milton, and Shakspeare, and Spenser,.and Chaucer, if we were compelled to assign the fifth place to some one, we know not to whom it would be, if not to Thomas Gray. There are in the poems that he has left us, few though they be, such a perfect finish of language, such felicity of ex. pression, such richness and harmony of numbers, and such beauty and sublimity of thought and imagination, as to place him decidedly at the head of all English lyric poets. True, Collins comes next, and sometimes approaches him almost within a hair's-breadth: but after all there is distance between them, and that distance is generally clearly perceptible. Of the "c Bard" and "The Progress of Poesy," Mr. Matthias justly observes, "1 There is not another ode in the English language which is constructed like these two compositions; with such power, such majesty, and such sweetness, with such proportioned pauses andt —just cadences, with such regulated measures of the verse, with such master principles of lyrical art displayed and exemplified, and, at the same time, with such a concealment of the difficulty, which is lost in the softness and uninterrupted flowing of the lines in each stanza, with such a musical magic, that every verse in it in succession dwells on the ear, and harmonizes with that which has gone before." As a man, he had great benevolence of feeling, the strictest principles of virtue, and the most unbending integrity.' As an instance of the strictness of his principles, lie once made it his particular request to a friend who was going to the continent, that he would not pay a visit to Voltaire; and when his friend replied, "c What can a visit from a person like me to him signify 2?" he rejoined, with peculiar earnestness, A" Sir, every tribute to such a man signifies." If such sentiments were more generally felt and acted on, men of elevated positions would not so often presume upon their talents, or eloquence, or learning, as being a sufficient covering for their moral deficiencies. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. I. 1. Awake, _-Eolian lyre, awake,2 And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs 3 A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. i "His faculties were endowed with uncommon strength; he thought with a manly nervousness; and he penetrated forcibly into every subject which engaged his attention. But his petty manners were disagreeably effeminate and fastidious; his habits wanted courage and hardiness; and his temper and spirits were a prey to feebleness, indolence, and trivial derangements. His heart was pure; and his conduct, I firmly believe, stained with no crime. He loved virtue for its own sake, and felt a just and never slackened indignation at vice."- Sir Egerton Brydge,, " Censulra Literaria," viii. 217. Read, also, a well-sustained and most interesting dialogue between Gray and Walpole in the same author's "Imaginative Biography." Read, also, Drake's "Literary Hours," 3 vols.-a most fuscinat ing work. 2 Awake up, my glory; awake, psaltery and harp.-Psalm lvii. 8. 3 The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all it touches, are here described; its quiet majestic progress enriching every subject (otherwise dry dAnd barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers; and its more rapid and irresistible course, when swollen and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous passions. 588 GRAY. EGEORGE III. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. I. 2. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,' Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy conzmmand. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. I. 3. Thee the voice, the dance, obey,2 Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day; With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air,'In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. II. 1. Man's feeble race, what ills await,3 Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse 2 Night, and all her sickly dews, I Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the first Pythian of Pindar. 2 Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body. S To compensate the real and imaginary ills of life, the Muse was given to mankind by the same Providence that sends the day, by its cheerful presence, to dispel the gloom and terrors of the night. 1760 4820.] GRAY. 58 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar' Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. II. 2. In climes beyond the solar road,2 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shivering Native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame. II. 3. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,3 Isles, that crown th' ZEgean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mmeander's amber waves In lingering labyrinths creep, How do your tunefull echoes languish Mute, but to the voice of anguish 1 Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. 1. Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's4 Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: The dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. "This pencil take," she said, "whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year: 1 Or seen the morning's well-appointed star Come marching up the eastern hills afar. —Cowey. 2 Extensive influence of poetic genius over the remotest and most uncivilized nations: its conneotion with liberty, and the virtues that naturally attend on it. 8 Progress of Poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England. Chaucer was not unacquainted with the writings of Dante, or of Petrarch. The Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, had travelled in Italy, and formed their taste there; Spenser imitated theItalian writers; Milton improved on them; but this school expired soon after the Restoration, and a new one arose on the French model, which has subsisted ever since. 4 Shakspear.. 50 590 GxAY. [GEORGE III. Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." II1. 2. Nor second He,' that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne,2 the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw: but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race,3 With necks in thunder clothed,4 and long-resounding pace,. III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.5 But ah!'tis heard no moreOh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear,6 Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far-but far above the Great. THE BARD.7 I. 1. "Ruin seize theej ruthless King!s Confusion on thy banners wait! 1 Milton. 2 I" For the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels-and above the firmament, that was over their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a sapphire-stone.-This was the appearance of the glory of the Lord."-Ezekiel i. 20, 26, 28. 3 Meant to express the stately march and sounding energy of Dryden's rhymes. 4 " Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?"-Job. b " Words that weep, and tears that speak."-Cotwley. 6 Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that croak and clamor in vain below, while it pursues its light, regardless of their noise. 7 This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. -Over this inimitable ode a tinge so wildly awful, so gloomily terrific, is thrown, as without any exception to place it at the head of lyric poetry."-Drake's Literary Hosrs. 8 " This abrupt execration plunges the reader into that sudden, fearful perplexity which is designed 1760-1820.] GRAY. 591 Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,1 Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side2 He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:3 "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lanced 1. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brows Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair6 Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air;7) And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. " Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay."8 o predominate through the whole. The irresistible violence of the prophet's passions bears him sway, who, as he is unprepared by a formal ushering in of the speaker, is unfortified against the impressions of his poetical frenzy, and overpowered by them, as sudden thunders strike the deepest..kll readers of taste, I fancy, have felt this effect from the passage; they will be pleased, however, to see their own feelings so well expressed as they are in this note." —lason. 1 The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. 2 Snowdon was a name given by the Saxons to that mountainous tract which the Welsh themselves call Craigian-eryrie: it included all the highlands of Caernarvonshire and Merionethshire, as far east as the river Conway. 8 Gilbert de Glare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edwald. 4 Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They both were Lords Marchers, whose lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king in this expedition. 56 The turbulent impetuosity of the preceding stanza, and the sedate majesty of this, form a most pleasing and animated contrast."- Wakefield. 6 The image was taken from a well-known picture of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being in the vision of Ezekiel: there are two of these paintings, both believed to be originals; one at Florence, the other in the Duke of Orleans' collection at Paris. 7 " Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurl'd The imperial ensign, which full high advanced, Shone, like a mneteor, streaming to the wind." P-aradise Lost, i. 535. 8 "-Hoel," observes Mr. Mitford, "is called high-born, as being the son or Owen Gwynedd, prince of North Wales." Llewellyn's poetry, we are told, was characterized by his countrymen as a soft lay, and the Bard is himself styled the tender-hearted prince. Dr. Evans mentions Cadlwasrlo and Urien among those bards of whom no works remain. 592 GRAY. [GEORGE III. I. 3. " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlinmmon bow his cloud-topt head.t On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,2 Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.3 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep.4 They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line." II 1. "Weave the warp, and weave the woofsd The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing King! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,7 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangss The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! 1 "The cloud-capt towers."-Shakpeare. 2 The shores of Caernarvonshire, opposite to the Isle of Anglesey. 3 Camden and others observe, that eagles used annually to build their aerie among the rocks of Stnowdon, which from thence (as some think) were named by the Welsh Craigian-eryrie, or the Crags of the Eagles. At this day the highest point of Snowdon is called the Eagle's Nest. 4 "Here," says an anonymous critic, " a vision of triumphant revenge is judiciously made to ensue, after the pathetic lamentation which precedes it. Breaks-double rhymes-an appropriated cadence -and an exalted ferocity of language, forcibly picture to us the uncontrollable tumultuous workings of the prophet's stimulated bosom." —Mason. 56 a Can there be an image more just, apposite, and nobly imagined, than this tremendous tragical winding-sheet? In the rest of this stanza the wildness of thought, expression, and cadence, are admirably adapted to the character and situation of the speaker, and of the bloody spectres, his assistants. It is not indeed peculiar to it alone, but a beauty that runs throughout the whole composition, that the historical events are briefly sketched out by a few striking circumstances, in which the Poet's office of rather exciting and directing, than satisfying the reader's imagination, is perfectly observed. Such abrupt hints, resembling the several fragments of a vast ruin, suffer not the mind to be raised to the utmost pitch by one image of horror, but that instantaneously a second and a thlld are pre. aented to it, and the affection is still uniformly supported."-Aszon. Critic. 6i Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkley Castle. I Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous Queen, whose relentless cruelty is well know-A. 3 Triulmphs of Edward the Third in France. 1760-1820.] GRAY. 593 Amazement in his van, with Flight colmbined, And Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind." II. 2. "Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled 2 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born?3 Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,4 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey."5 II. 3. " Fill high the sparkling bowl,6 The rich repast prepare, Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.7 Heard ye the din of battle bray,8 1 Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his cours tiers and his mistress. 2 Edward, the Black Prince, dead some time before his father. 3 The summer friends, in the Hymn to Adversity. "'This image is inexpressibly beautiful, but not superior to that which it so happily and unaffectedly introduces." —Wakefield. 4 Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. See Froissart, and other contemporary writers. 6 " This representation of the whirlwind, under the image of a beast of prey lying in ambush in the daytime, expectant of the night, is not only perfectly just and natural, but incomparably sublime."- Wakefield. 6 Richard the Second (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop and the confederate lords in ther manifesto, by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older writers) was starved to death. The story of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon. is of much later date. " This stanza (as an ingenious friend remarks) has exceeding merit. It breathes, in a lesser com. pass, what the ode breathes at large, the high spirit of lyric enthusiasm. The transitions are sudden and impetuous; the language full of fire and force; and the imagery carried, without impropriety, to the most daring height. The manner of Richard's death by famine exhibits such beauties of personi.fication, as only the richest and most vivid imagination could supply. From thence we are hurried, with the wildest rapidity, into the midst of battle; and the epithet kindred, places at once before our eyes all the peculiar horrors of civil war. Immediately, by a transition most striking and lunexpected, the poet falls into a tender and pathetic address; which, from the sentiments, and also from the numbers, has all the melancholy flow, and breathes all the plaintive softness, of Elegy. Again the scene changes; again the Bard rises into an allegorical description of carnage, to whichl the metre is admirably adapted: and the concluding sentence of personal punishment on Edward Is de. nounced with a solemnity that chills and terrifies."-Mrtson. 7 What can exceed the terrible sublimity of this picture? and what is at all worthy to be put in competition with it, except that of Milton, which our author seems to have had'n view I,"He ceased, for both seem'd highly pleased; and Death Grinn'd horrible, a ghastly srnile."-Paradise Lost, ii. 845 8 Ruinous wars of York and Lancaster. 2 P 594 GRAY. [GEORGE III Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,' With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith,2 his father's fame,3 And spare the meek usurper's holy head.4 Above, below, the rose of snow,5 Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant gore6 Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.' III. 1. "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.7 (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail,8 All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail! "a III. 2. "Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. 1 Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c., be. lieved to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Caesar. 2 Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her crown. 3 Henry the Fifth. 4 Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown. 6 The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster. 6 The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own tinme by the name of the boar. 7 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of ner, are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places. 8 It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and would return again to reign over Britain. 9 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor. 1760-1820.] GRAY. 595 In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,' Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear!2 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. III. 3. "The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale grief; and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.3 A voice, as of the cherub choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; 4 And distant warblings lessen on my ear,5 That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.6 I Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, says, "And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and majestical departure, that with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes." 2 Taliessin, chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory is held in high veneration among his countrymen. 8 Shakspeare. 4 Milton. 6 The succession of poets after Milton's time. 6 The original argument of this capital Ode, as its author had set it down in one of the pages or his common-place book, is as follows: " The army of Edward I., as they march through a deep valley, are suddenly stopped by the appearance of a venerable figure seated on the summit of an inaccessible rock, who, with a voice more than human, reproaches the king with all the misery and desolation which he had brought on his country; foretells the misfortunes of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit declares, that all his cruelty shall never extinguish the noble ardor of poetic genius in this island; and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate true virtue and valor in immortal strains, to expose vice and infamous pleasure, and boldly censure tyranny and oppression. Hra sonlg ended, he precipitates himself from the mountain, and is swallowed up by the river that rolls at its foot." 596 GRAY. [G EORCE III. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.1 The Curfew tolls 2 the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.3 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! HIow bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. 1 The reasons of that universal approbation with which this Elegy has been received, may he learned from the comprehensive encomium of Dr. Johnson: "It abounds with images which find a mirror in every soul; and with sentiments, to which every bosom returns an echo." "Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher; it is the corner-stone of his glory."-Lord Byron. " Of smaller poems, the Elegy of Gray may be considered as the most exquisite and finished example in the world, of the effect resulting from the intermixture of evening scenery and pathetic reflection." —Drake's Literary Hours, ii. 6,6. 2 Dr. Warton would spoil the tranquil simplicity of this line, by introducing a pause with a note of admiration after the word " tolls." But such affectation of solemnity and suddenness in his musing is nowhere to be found in our author. 3 "I know not what there is of spell in the following simple line,'The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,' but no frequency of repetition can exhaust its touching charm. This fine poem overcame even the soiteful enmity of Johnson, and forced him to acknowledge its excellence."-Sir Egerton B rydges. 1.760-1820.] GRAY. 597X The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Powel, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, I.f Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storie.d urn, or animated. bust, Back to its mansion call tile fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene,' The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast2 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,3 I A writer in the ninth volume of the Quarterly Review cites the following passage from Bishop Hall's Contemplations, as a singular instance of accidental resemblance: "There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowels of the earth, many a fair pearl in the bosom of the sea, that never was ceen, nor never shall be." So Milton in his Comus speaks of the " Sea-girt isles, That, like to rich and various gems, inlay The unadorned bosom of the deep." 2 1" What son of Freedom is not in raptures with this tribute of praise to such an exalted charas ter, in immortal verse? This honorable testimony and the noble detestation of arbitrary power, with which it is accompanied, might possibly be one cause of Dr. Johnson's animosity against our poet. Upon this topic the critic's feelings, we know, were irritability itself and'tremblingly alive all o'er.' "-Wakefield. 3 These two verses are specimens of sublimity of the purest kind, like the simple grandeur of lIe, brew poetry; depending solely on the thought, unassisted by epithets and the artificial decorations of expression. 598 G1RAY. [GEORGE III. The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 1 deck'd Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.2 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate i If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn: "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "-Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love. I -- Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than his'shapeless sculpture' "-Lord Byron. L a the first edition it stood,'Awake and faithful to her wonted fires,',tnd think rather better. He means to say, in plain prose, that we wish to be remembered by our friensds after our death, in the same manner as when alive we wished to be remembered by them in omU absence: this would be expressed clearer, if the metaphorical term'fires' was rejected, and the line run thus:-' Awake and faithful to her first desires.' I do not pat this alteration down for the idle vanity of aiming to amend the passage, but purely to explain it."-M-fason. 1760-1820.] GRAY. 599 " One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, -with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."' THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.2 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.3 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,4 That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's5 holy shade; 1 " Between this line and the Epitaph, Mr. Gray originally inserted a very beautiful stanza, which was printed in some of the first editions, but afterwards omitted, because he thought (and in my opinion very justly) that it was too long a parenthesis in this place. The lines, however, are, In themselves, exquisitely fine, and demand preservation."-Mason. "' There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground." 2 This epitaph has been commented on, and translated into different languages, by various men of eminence, most of them divines. Did it never occur to any of these, that there was an impropriety in making the " bosom" of Almighty God an abode for human frailty to repose in? Unless, therefore, the author meant by the word "bosom" only remembrance, there is certainly a great inconsistency in the expression. 3," Gray has, in his ode on Eton College, whether we consider the sweetness of the versification or its delicious train of plaintive tenderness, rivalled every lyric effort of ancient or of modern date." —Drake's Literary Hours, ii. 84. 4 These spires and ltowers are addressed by the poet without any use or intention; for nothing is afterwards asserted of them, and they are introduced only to be dismissed in silence, and without further notice. The Towers of London, in the second epode of the "Bard," are not apostrophized with so little meaning. 6 King Henry the Sixth, founder of the College. So in the Bard, ii. 3:"And spare the meek usurrer's holy head." Shakspeare, In Richard the Third, twice applies the same epithet; and in the Installation Ode our author's expression, murdered saint, is applicable enough (notwithstanding Henry was never actually canonized) to the monarch who, as has been well said, would have adorned a cloister, though he. disgraced a crown. 600 GRAY. [GEORGE III. And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among l Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way.2 Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!3 Ah, fields beloved in vail! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing; My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,4 To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seens Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball 1 " That is, the turf of whose lawn, the shade of whose grove, the flowers of whose mead. So in Shakspeare:-'The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword;' that is,'The courtier's eye, the soldier's sword, the scholar's tongue.' This singularity often occurs in Mr. Pope."- Wakef eld. 2 Mr. Wakefield has a complaint against this compound epithet. The silver-shedding tears of Shakspeare, Two Gent. of Per. Act. iii. sc. 1, and the silver-quioering rills of Pope, might perhaps have reconciled him to it, if he had recollected them. Both these expressions, as well as one from Dart's " Westmpinster Abbey," inster Abbey, " "Where Thames in silver-currents winds his way," are cited in this place by Mr. Mitford. 8 Mr. Wakefield here quotes from the "Odyssey," 0. 397. And it may be remarked, that the anelents were by no means unacquainted with that species of pathos which is derived from the melancholy delight of early remembrance. The feeling which induces us to dress up the past in a fancied superiority of enjoyment, is natural and universal; nor can the indulgence of' it be pernicious, so,ong as it Sloes not interfere with the necessary energies of the present hour. 4 " And bees their honey redolent of spring." Dryden's Pythag. System. As Gray refers this expression to Dryden, it is probable that he was not acquainted with any ear lier authority. Dr. Johnson is highly offended at it, as passing beyond the utmost limits of our language, and of common apprehension. The critic, perhaps, never in his life partook of the feelings here described, or possibly he would not have objected to the expression. 5 The ill-natured criticism of Dr. Johnson on this line cannot be refuted better than it has been by Mr. Mitford. "His supplication to Father Thames, to tell him who drives the hoop, or tosses the ball, is useless and puerile. Father Thames had no better means of knowing than himself."-Are we by this rule of criticism to judge the following passage in the twentieth chapter of Rasselast "As they were sitting together, the princess cast her eyes on the river that flowed before her: Answer, said she, great Father of Waters, thou that rollest thy floods through eighty nations, to the Invocation of the daughter of tny native king. Tell me, if thou waterest, through all thy course, a single habitation, from wnsch tnou dost not hear the murmurs of complaint." 1760-1820.] GRAY. 601 While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labors ply'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,1 Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of mlorn. Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to conme, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around them wait2 The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murtherous bandl Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fuiry Passions tear,3 The vultures of the mind, Disdainftlf Anger, pallid Fear. And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. 1 " This is at once poetical and just: and yet there seems to be an impropriety in the next verse: Less pleasing when possest: for though the olect of hope may truly be said to be less pleasing in possession than in the fancy; yet Holpe in person cannot possibly be possessed." — Wakefield. 2,, This representation of the ministers of Fate, and the two succeeding stanzas, which exhibit the variety of human passions, with their several attributes, blends moral instruction with all the alimation and sublimity of poetry."- Walkefield. 3 " I do not know that any poet, ancient or modern, has given so complete a picture of the paessons in so short a compass."- wahkefield. 51 b02 GRAY. [GEORGE nIL The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath' A griesly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more;-where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise. SONG. Thyrsis, when we parted, swore Ere the spring he would returnAh! what means yon violet flower, And the bud that decks the thorn?'Twas the lark that upward sprung!'Twas the nightingale that sung! 1 A most happy idea; and the whole stanza is exquisitely beautiful, and will not be disgraced by appearing in the same view with a passage in "Paradise Lost," where description is carried to its higheqt pitch of excellence:"Immediately a place Before his eyes appear'd, sad, noisome, dark; A lazar-house it seem'd; wherein were laid Numbers of all diseased; all maladies Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds, Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs, Demoniac phrensy, moping melancholy, And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums. Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: Despair Tended the sick, busied from couch to couch; And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook." Book xi. ver. 417. 1760-1820.] GRAY. 603 Idle notes! imntimely green! Why this unavailing haste? Western gales and skies serene Prove not always winter past. Cease, my doubts, my fears to move — Spare the nonor of my iove. The chief prose compositions of Gray are his letters, which are among the best in the language, full of just remarks, beautiful criticisms, and descriptions of natural scenery. "which a painter might study, and which a poet alone could have conceived;" and occasionally exhibit a genial humor which mark the author of the 1" Ode to a Favorite Cat." In 1798, before the letters of Cowper were published, Dr. Beattie thus writes to a friend: VsI am acquainted with many parts of your excursion through the north of England, and very glad that you had my old friend Mr. Gray's'Letters' with you, which are indeed so well written, that I have no scruple to pronounce them the best letters that have been printed in our language. Lady Montagu's are inot without merit, but are too artificial and affected to be confided in as true, and Lord Chesterfield's have much greater faults; indeed, some of the greatest that letters can have: but Gray's letters are always sensible, and of classical conciseness and perspicuity. They very much resemble what his conversation was." HOW HE SPENDS HIS TIME IN THE COUNTRY.'ro MR. WxLPOTI. I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach-wheels have so often honored, it would be needless to give you; suffice it, I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids his galloping after them in the field, yet he continues still to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mightily cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest, (the vulgar call it a common,) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; but just such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do, may venture to climb; and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds,And, as they bow their hoary tops, relate, In murmu:"`ng sounds, the dark decrees of fate: ~t604 GRAY. [GEORGE fII. While visions, as poetic eyes avow, Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough. At the foot of one of these squats me I,1 (II penseroso,) and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is, talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is entirely your own fault. I shall be in town in about three weeks. Adieu. September, 1737. NETLEY ABBEY AND SOUTHAMPTON.-BEAUTIFUL SUNSET. To MRi. NICHOLLS.2 I received your letter at Southampton, and as I would wish to treat everybody according to their own rule and measure of good breeding, have, against my inclination, waited till now before I answered it, purely out of fear and respect, and an ingenious diffidence of my own abilities. If you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well-turned period, which is always my principal concern. So I proceed to tell you that my health is much improved by the sea; not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the common people do: no! I only walked by it, and looked upon it. The climate is remarkably mild, even in October and November; no snow has been seen to lie there for these thirty years past; the myrtles grow in the ground against the houses, and Guernsey lilies bloom in every window; the town, clean and well-built, surrounded by its old stone walls, with their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having formed two beautiful bays on each hand of it, stretches away in direct view till it joins the British Channel: it is skirted on either side with gently-rising grounds, clothed with thick wood, and directly cross its mouth rise the high lands of the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Netley Abbey; there may be richer and greater houses of reli. glon, but the Abbot is content with his situation. See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade of those old trees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking slowly, "1 The same ludicrous expression is met with in Foote's play of' The Knights,' p. 27, from the mouth of Sir Penurious Trifle:-' And what does ome I, but take a trip to a coffee-house in St. Martin's Lane,' &c. See also'Don Quixote' by Smollet, vol. iv. p. 30."-J-litford. 2 Rector of Lounde and Bradwell, in Suffolk. His acquaintance with Mr. Gray commenced a few years beforc the date of this, when he was a student in Calmbridge 1760-.1820.] GRAY. 605 (good man!) and bidding his beads for the souls Df his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descending) nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have excluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye; only on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail shot by and was lost, he turned and crossed himself to drive the tempter from him that had thrown that distraction in his way? I should tell you, that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty young fellow, told me that he would not for all the world pass a night at the Abbey (there were such things seen near it) though there was a power of money hid there. From thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge; but of thlese I say no more; they will be published at the University press. P. S.-I must not close my letter without giving you one principal event of my history; which was, that (in the course of my late tour) I set out one morning before five o'clock, the moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and got to the sea-coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I saw the clouds and dark vapors open gradually to right and left, rolling over one another in great smoky wreaths, and the tide, (as it flowed gently in upon the sand,) first whitening, then slightly tinged with gold and blue; and all at once a little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a whole one, too glorious to be distinctly seen., It is very odd it makes no figure on paper; yet I shall remember it as long as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder whether anybody ever saw it before? I hardly believe it. TO MR. NICHOLLS, ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. It is long since that I heard you were gone in haste into Yorkshire on account of your mother's illness, and the same letter informed me that she was recovered, otherwise I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one can never have any more than a single mother You may think this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a green gosling! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as you, and yet I never discovered this (with full evidence and conviction I mean) till it was too late, It is thirteen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I live it 1 See a description of similar beauty by Jeremy Taylor, p. 223, under " Dawn and Progress of Ieason." K 1 4 606 SMOLLET. [GEORGE III. sinks deeper into my heart., Many a corollary could I draw from this axiom for your use, (not for my own,) but I will leave you the merit of doing it for yourself. TO MR. MASON, ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE. I break in upon you at a moment when we least of all are permitted to disturb our friends, only to say, that you are daily and hourly present to my thoughts. If the worst2 be not yet past, you will neglect and pardon me: but if the last struggle be. over; if the poor object of your long anxieties be no longer sensible to your kindness, or to her own sufferings, allow me (at least in idea, for what could I do were I present more than this?) to sit by you in silence, and pity from my heart not her, who is at rest, but you, who lose her. May He, who made us, the Master of our pleasures and of our pains, preserve and support you! Adieu! I have long understood how little you had to hope. March 28, 1767. TOBIAS SMOLLET. 1721-1771. TOBIAS SXOLLET was descended of a family of some note in Dumbartonshire, Scotland, and passed his earliest years along the banks of the Leven. He early showed a genius for poetry, but on finishing his academical education, he was put apprentice to a surgeon, and pursued his professional studies with diligence, till the death of his grandfather, on whom he had depended, left him without the means of support, and he went to London. Not being able to get literary employment, he accepted an appointment as surgeon'smate on board a man-of-war. But his literary taste prevailed over his professional, and quitting the service he returned to London in 1746, and soon became one of the most successful authors of the day. Novels, plays, and a ", History of England" were produced in rapid succession, and added largely to his income. After a life of most checkered character, having suffered long from ill health, he set out for Italy in 1770, in hopes to receive benefit from that climate; but after a short residence in the neighborhood of Leghorn in very distressed circumstances, he died October 21, 1771. As a novelist, Smollet's reputation, once very high, is growing less every year with the best portion of the reading world. and must continue to do so as a love of moral purity shall continue to increase: for 4"indecency and l "Ite seldom mentioned his mother without a sigh. After his death her gowns and wearing appa2 el were found in a trunk in his apartments just as she had left them; it seemed as if he could never take the resolution to open it, in order to distribute them to his female relations, to whom. by his will, he bequeathed them."-lc1ason. 2 ",As this little billet (which I received at the Hot Wells at Bristol) then breathed. and still seems to breathe, the very voice of friendship in its tenderest and most pathetic note, I cannot refrain fromn publishing it in this place. I opened it almost at the precise moment when it would necessarily be the most affectilg."- -Mlason. 1 60-1820.] SMOLLET. 607 filth" pervade all his fictitious writings.' As an historian, he writes in a clear and easy style; but neither his temper of mind noT his pursuits qualified him for an historical writer. As a poet, though he takes not a very high rank, yet the few poems which he has left have a delicacy which is not to be found in his novels. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.2 Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valor long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smolky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks; Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy towering spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains but those of sorrow flow, And naught be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. Oh! baneful cause, oh! fatal nlorn, Accursed to ages yet unborn! 1 Read-Hazlitt's "English Comic Writers," whose opinion I here quote, being happy to say that I never read but one of Smollet's novels, and such was its character that I never wish to read another. 2 These fine verses were written in 1746, on the barbarities committed in the Highlands by order of the Duke of Cumberland, after the battle of Culloden. The dreadful cruelties practised tl on the vanquished, made his name execrated throughout Scotland, and have fixed an indelible stain upon his memory. Read-Chambers's " History of the Rebellion," a small work replete with interest. When Smollet wrote this poem, he was, as mentioned in the above biographical sketch, a surgeon'smate, lately returned from service abroad. It is said that he originally finished the poem in six stanzas; when, some one representing that such a diatribe against government might injure his prospects, he sat down and added the still mnore pointed invective of the seventh stanza. 608 SMOLLET. [GEORGE II. The sons against their fathers stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murdering steel! The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend: And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. While the warm blood bedews nmy veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathizing verse shall flow: "' Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. On Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout, in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war, The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gayly green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown'd with toil; And heart resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy tn gulard! 1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTI0I. 609 JOHN HAWKESWORTH. 1719 -1773. BUT little is known of the family or early history of John Hawkesworth. He was born in the year 1719, but how or where educated it is not known. His first appearance as a writer was in 1744, at the age of twenty-five, when he was engaged by the editor of the Gentleman's Magazine to succeed Dr. Johnson as compiler of the Parliamentary Debates; so that he must have had, at that time, considerable reputation as a literary character. In 1752, owing to the success which the c" Rambler" had met with, he was induced to project and commence a periodical paper, under the title of c" The Adventurer," having received the promise of assistance from Johnson, Warton, and others. For a work of this kind he was eminently qualified. His learning, though not deep, was elegant and various; his style was polished, his imagination ardent, his standard of morals high, and he possessed an intimate knowledge of the world. The first number of the " Adventurer" was published on the 7th of November, 1752, and the paper was continued every Tuesday and Saturday, until the 9th of March, 1754. The name, design, and management, and the writing of seventy of the one hundred and forty numbers, are to be ascribed to Hawkesworth. The sale, during its circulation in separate papers, was very extensive; and when thrown into volumes, four large editions passed through the press in eight years. "c The variety, the fancy, the taste, and practical morality, which the pages of this periodical paper exhibit, were such as to ensure popularity; and it may be pronounced, as a whole, the most spirited and fascinating of the class to which it belongs." The reputation which Hawkesworth had acquired induced him, at the request of Garrick, to turn his attention to the drama, and in 1760, he brought forward his first piece, called " Zimri, an Oratorio," which was tolerably well received. A few other plays followed: but as they did not meet with great success, in 1765 he undertook the office of Reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine; which department he filled with great ability until the year 1772. In 1765 he published an edition of Swift's works, in 19 volumes, accompanied by.explanatory notes, and prefixed with a well-written life. On the return of Captain Cook from his first voyage of discovery in the South Seas, it being thought desirable, by government, to intrust the task of compiling an account of the voyage to a literary man, rather than to one of the voyagers, Dr. Hawkesworth's reputation as a beautiful and able writer obtained for him the commission. He completed his task in 1773, in 3 vols. quarto, which were illustrated by charts, maps, and engravings, executed in a very splendid manner. For this labor he received the princely remuneration of six thousand pounds. The work, however, met with very severe and deserved censure, owing to the glowing representations and the licentious pictures it presented of the manners and customs of the islanders of the South Seas; and to some speculations of a religious character which seemed to border upon skepticism. His enemies made the most of these defects, and held them up to public ridicule and censure; and so keen was his sensibility, that his health was soon afibcted by it, and he died on the 16th of November of the same year, 1773. Dr. Hawkesworth was certainly an elegant scholar. "His writings, with the exception of the last ill-fated work, have a tendency uniformly conducive to the interests of virtue and religion; and we may add, that the errors of Read, a very interesting memoir of Hawkesworth in the fifth volume of;Drake's BEsa Bs. 2Q 610 rIAWKESWORTH. EGEORGE III. that unfortunate production must be attributed rather to defect of judgment, than to any dereliction of principle. His imagination was fertile and brilliant, his diction pure, elegant, and unaffected. He was in a high degree charitable, humane, and benevolent; his manners were polished and affable, and his conversation has been described as uncommonly fascinating. He died, it is said, tranquil and resigned, and, we trust, deriving hope and comfort from a firm belief in that religion which his best writings had been employed to defend." VALUE OF FAMILIAR LETTERS. In a series of familiar letters between the same friends for thirty years, their whole life, as it were, passes in review before us; we live with them, we hear them talk, we mark the vigor of life, the ardor of expectation, the hurry of business, the jollity of their social meetings, and the sport of their fancy in the sweet intervals of leisure and retirement; we see the scene gradually change; hope and expectation are at an end; they regret pleasures that are past, and friends that are dead; they complain of disappointment and infirmity;, they are conscious that the sands of life which remain are few; and while we hear them regret the approach of the last, it falls, and we lose them in the grave. Such as they were, we feel ourselves to be; we are conscious to sentiments, connections, and situations like theirs; we find ourselves in the same path, urged forward by the same necessity; and the parallel in what has been, is carried on with such force to what shall be, that the future almost becomes present; and we wonder at the new power of those truths, of which we never doubted the reality and importance. Preface to the Letters of Dean Swift. DANGER OF RELAPSE AFTER PURPOSES OF AMENDMENT. The dread of death has seldom been found to intrude upon the cheerfulness, simplicity, and innocence of children; they gaze at a funeral procession with as much vacant curiosity as at any other show, and see the world change before them without the least sense of their own share in the vicissitude. In youth, when all the appetites are strong, and every gratification is heightened by novelty, the mind resists mournful impressions with a kind of elastic power, by which the signature that is forced upon it is immediately effaced: when this tumult first subsides, while the attachment of life is yet strong, and the mind begins to look forward, and concert measures by which those enjoyments -may be secured which it is solicitous to keep, or others obtained to atone for the disappointments that are past, then death starts up like a spectre in all its terrors, the blood is chilled at his appearance, he is perceived to approach with a constant and irresistible pace; retreat is impossible, and resistance is vain. 1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 611 The terror and anguish which this image produces whenever it first rushes upon the mind, are always complicated with a sense of gull and remorse; and generally produce some hasty and zealous purposes of more uniform virtue and more ardent devotion, of something that may secure us not only from the worm that never dies, and the fire that is not quenched, but from total mortality, and admit hope to the regions beyond the grave. This purpose is seldom wholly relinquished, though it is not always executed with vigor and perseverance; the reflection which produced it often recurs, but it still recurs with less force; desire of immediate pleasure becomes predominant; appetite is no longer restrained; and either all attempts to secure future happiness are deferred "to a more convenient season," or some expedients are sought to render sensuality and virtue compatible, and to obtain every object of hope without lessening the treasures of possession. Thus vice naturally becomes the disciple of infidelity; and the wretch who dares not aspire to the heroic virtue of a Christian, listens with eagerness to every objection against the authority of that law by which he is condemned, and labors in vain to establish another that will acquit him: he forms many arguments to justify natural desires; he learns at length to impose upon himself; and assents to principles which y et in his heart he does not believe; he thinks himself convinced that virtue must be happiness, and then dreams that happiness is virtue. Let those who still delay that which yet they believe to be of eternal moment, remember that their motives to effect it will still grow weaker, and the difficulty of the work perpetually increase; to neglect it now, therefore, is a pledge that it will be neglected for ever: and if they are roused by this thought, let them instantly improve its influence; for even this thought, when it returns, will return with less power, and though it should rouse them now, will. perhaps rouse them no more. But let them not confide in such virtue as can be practised without a struggle, and which interdicts the gratification of no passion but malice; nor adopt principles which could never be believed at the only time when they could be useful; like arguments which men sometimes form when they slumber, and the moment they awake discover to be absurd. Let those who in the anguish of an awakened mind have regretted the past, and resolved to redeem it in the future, persist invariably to do whatever they then wished to have done. Ilet this be established as a constant rule of action, and opposed to all the cavils of sophistry and sense; for this wish will inevitably return when it must for ever be ineffectual, at that awfu I moment when " the shadow of death shall be stretched over them, and thea night commence in which no man can work." Adventurer, No:30 612 HAWKESWORTII. [GEORGE Ill. HOW FAR THE PRECEPT TO LOVE OUR ENEMIES IS PRACTICABLE. To love an enemy is the distinguishing characteristic of a religion which is not of man but of God. It could be delivered as a precept only by Him who lived and died to establish it by his example. At the close of that season,' in which human frailty has commemorated sufferings which it could not sustain, it cannot, surely, be incongruous to consider, what approaches we can make to that divine love which these sufferings expressed, and how far man, in imitation of his Saviour, can bless those who curse him, and return good for evil. We cannot, indeed, behold the example but at a distance; nor consider it without being struck with a sense of our own debility: every man who compares his life with this divine rule, instead of exulting in his own excellence, will smite his breast like the publican, and cry out, " God be merciful to me a sinner!" Thus to acquaint us with ourselves, may, perhaps, be one use of the precept; but the precept cannot, surely, be considered as having no other. I know it will be said, that our passions are not in our power; and that, therefore, a precept, to love or to hate, is impossible; for if the gratification of all our wishes was offered us to love a stranger as we love a child, we could not fulfil the condition, however we might desire the reward. But admitting this to be true, and that we cannot love an enemy as we love a friend; it is yet equally certain, that we rmay perform those actions which are produced by love, from a higher principle: we may, perhaps, derive moral excellence from natural defects, and exert our reason instead of indulging a passion. If our enemy hungers, we may feed him, and if he thirsts, we may give him drink: this, if we could love him, would be our conduct; and this may still be our conduct, though to love him is impossible. The Christian will be prompted to relieve the necessities of his enemy, by his love to God: he will rejoice in an opportunity to express the zeal of his gratitude and the alacrity of his obedience, at the same time that he appropriates the promises and anticipates his reward. But though he who is beneficent upon these principles, may, in the Scripture sense, be said to love his enemy; yet something more may still be effected: the passion itself in some degree is in our power; we may rise to a yet nearer emulation of divine forgiveness; we may think as well as act with kindness, and be sanctified as well in heart as in life. 1 The season which commemorates the sufferings of the Saviour 1760-1820.] HAWICKESWORTH. 613 Though love and hatred are necessarily produced in the human breast, when the proper objects of these passions occur, as the color of material substances is necessarily perceived by an eye before which they are exhibited; yet it is in our power to change the passion, and to cause either love or hatred to be excited by placing the same object in different circumstances; as a changeable silk of blue and yellow may be held so as to excite the idea either of yellow or blue. No act is deemed more injurious, or resented with greater acri nuony, than the marriage of a child, especially of a daughter, without the consent of a parent: it is frequently considered as a breach of the strongest and tenderest obligations; as folly and ingratitude, treachery and rebellion. By the imputation of these vices, a child becomes the object of indignation and resentment: indignation and resentment in the breast, therefore, of the parent, are necessarily excited: and there can be no doubt, but that these are species of hatred. But if the child is considered as still retaining the endearing softness of filial affection, as still longing for reconciliation, and profaning the rites of marriage with tears; as having been driven from the path of duty, only by the violence of passions which none have always resisted, and which many have indulged with much greater turpitude; the same object that before excited indignation and resentment, will now be regarded with pity, and pity is a species of love. Those, indeed, who resent this breach of filial duty with implacabiliity, though perhaps it is the only one of which the offender has been guilty, demonstrate that they are without natural affection; and that they would have prostituted their offspring, if not to lust, yet to affections which are equally vile and sordid, the thirst of gold, or the cravings of ambition: for he can never be thought to be sincerely interested in the felicity of his child, who, when some of the means of happiness are lost by indiscretion, suffers his resentment to take away the rest. Among friends, sallies of quick resentment are extremely frequent. Friendship is a constant reciprocation of benefits, to which the sacrifice of private interest is sometimes necessary: it is zommon for each to set too much value upon those which he bestows, and, too little upon those which he receives; this mutual mistake in so important an estimation, produces mutual charges of unkind ness and ingratitude; each, perhaps, professes himself ready to forgive, but neither will condescend to be forgiven. Pride, therefore, still increases the enmity which it began; the friend is considered as selfish, assuming, injurious, and revengeful; he conse quently becomes an object of hatred; and while he is thus considered, to love him is impossible. But thus to consider him, is at once a folly and a fault; each ought to reflect, that he is, at least 52 614 HIAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III. in the opinion of the other, incurring the crimes that he imputes; that the foundation of their enmity is no more than a mistake, and that this mistake is the effect of weakness or vanity, which is common to all mankind: the character of both would then assume a very different aspect, love would again be excited by the return of its object, and each would be impatient to exchange acknowledgments, and recover the felicity which was so near being lost. But if, after we have admitted an acquaintance to our bosom as a friend, it should appear that we had mistaken his character; if he should betray our confidence, and use the knowledge of our affairs, which perhaps he obtained by offers of service, to effect our ruin: if he defames us to the world, and adds perjury to falsehood; we may still consider him in such circumstances as will incline us to fulfil the precept, and to regard him without the rancor of hatred or the fury of revenge. Every character, however it may deserve punishment, excites hatred only in proportion as it appears to be malicious; and pure malice has never been imputed to human beings. The wretch, who has thus deceived and injured us, should be considered as having ultimately intended, not evil to us, but good to himself. It should also be remembered that he has mistaken the means; that he has forfeited the friendship of Him whose favor is better than life, by the same conduct which forfeited ours; and that to whatever view he sacrificed our temporal interest, to that also he sacrificed his own hope of immortality; that he is now seeking felicity which he can never find, and incurring punishment that will last for ever. And how much better than this wretch is he, in whom the contemplation of his condition can excite no pity? Surely if such an enemy hungers, we may, without suppressing any passion, give him food: for who that sees a criminal dragged to execution, for whatever crime, would refuse him a cup of cold water? On the contrary, he whom God has forgiven must necessarily become amiable to man: to consider his character without prejudice or partiality, after it has been changed by repentance, is to love him; and impartially to consider it, is not only our duty, but our interest. Thus may we love our enemies, and add a dignity to our nature, of which pagan virtue had no conception. But if to love our enemies is the glory of a Christian, to treat others with coldness, neglect, and malignity, is rather the reproach of a fiend than a man. Unprovoked enmity, the frown of unkindness, and the menaces of oppression, should be far from those who profess themselves to be followers of Him. who in his life went about doing good; who instantly healed a wound that was given in his defence; and who, when he was fainting in his last agony, and 1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTII. 615 treated with mockery and derision, conzeived at once a prayer and an apology for his murderers: " Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." Adventurer, No. 48. CARAZAN, THE MERCHANT OF BAGDAD. Carazan, the merchant of Bagdad, was em.nent throughout all the East for his avarice and his wealth: his origin was obscure as that of the spark which, by the collision of steel and adamant, is struck out. of darkness; and the patient labor of persevering diligence alone had made him rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent he was thought to be generous; and he was still acknowledged to be inexorably just. But whether in his dealings with men he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or whether in proportion as he accumulated wealth he discovered his own importance to increase, Carazan prized it more as he used it less; he gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power: and as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freezing influence extended to his bosom. But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer; he performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid his vows at the Temrple of the Prophet. That devotion which arises from the Love of God, and necessarily includes the Love of Man, as it connects gratitude with beneficence, and exalts that which was moral to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the object not only of affection but reverence. On the contrary, the devotion of the selfish, whether it be thought to avert the punishment which every one wishes to be inflicted, or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy with guilt, never fails to excite indignation and abhorrence. Carazan, therefore, when he had locked his door, and turning round with a look of circumspective suspicion, proceeded to the mosque, was followed by every eye with silent malignity; the -poor suspended their supplication when he passed by; and though he was known by every man, yet no man saluted him. Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such was the character which he had acquired, when notice was given by proclamation, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the centre of the city, that his table should be spread for the public, and that the stranger should be welcome to his bed. The multi tude soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they beheld hinl distributing bread to the hungry and apparel to the naked —liis eye softened with compassion, and his cheek glowing with delight 616 HAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III Every one gazed with astonishment at the prodigy; and the murmur of innumerable voices increasing like the sound of approaching thunder, Carazan beckoned with his hand; attention suspended the tumult in a moment, arid he thus gratified the curiosity which had procured him audience. "To Him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the Almighty and the most merciful, be everlasting honor! Hie has ordained sleep to be the minister of instruction, and his visions have reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my harem, with my lamp burning before me, computing the product of my merchandise, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I fell into a deep sleep, and the hand of Him who dwells in the third Heaven was upon me. I beheld the Angel of death coming forward like a whirlwind, and he smote me before I could deprecate the blow. At the same moment I felt myself lifted from the ground, and transported with astonishing rapidity through the regions of the air. The earth was contracted to an atom beneath; and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of Paradise was now in sight; and I was intercepted by a sudden brightness which no human eye could behold: the irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced; my day of probation was past: and from the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor could any thing be added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the powers of nature could reverse, my confidence totally forsook me; and while I stood trembling and silent, covered with confusion and chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by the radiance that flamed before me: "' Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted; because it was not prompted by Love of God; neither can thy righteousness be rewarded, because it was not produced by Love of Man: for thy own sake only hast thou rendered to every man his due; and thou hast approached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou hast not looked up with gratitude, nor -around thee with kindness. Around thee, thou hast, indeed, beheld vice and folly; but if vice and folly could justify thy parsimony, would they not condemn the bounty of Heaven.? If not upon the foolish and the vicious, wlhere shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil their dew? Where shall the lips of the Spring breathe fragrance, or the hand of Autumn diffuse plenty? Remember, Carazan, that thou hast shut compassion from thine heart, and grasped thy treasures with a hand of iron: thou hast lived for thyself; and, therefore, henceforth for ever thou shalt subsist alone. From the light of Heaven, and from the society of all beings, shalt thou be driven; solitude shall protract the lingering hours of eternity, and darkness aggravate the horrors of despair.' At this moment I was driven by 1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 61 7 some secret and irresistible power through the glowing system of creation, and passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As I approached the verge of nature, I perceived the shadows of total and boundless vacuity deepen before me, a dreadful region of eternal silence, solitude, and darkness! Unutterable horror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation burst from me with all the vehemence of desire: Oh! that I had been doomed for ever to the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt! their society would have alleviated the torment of despair, and the rage of fire could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or if I had been condemned to reside in a comet, that would return but once in a thousand years to the regions of light and life; the hope of these periods, however distant, would cheer me in the dread interval of cold and darkness, and the vicissitudes would divide eternity into time. While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was quenched in utter darkness. The agonies of despair every moment increased, as every moment augmented my distance from the last habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thousand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach of all but that Power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward into an immense abyss of darkness, through which I should still drive without succor and without society, farther and farther still, for ever and for ever. I then stretched out my hand towards the regions of existence, with an emotion that awaked me. Thus have I been taught to estimate society, like every other blessing, by its loss. My heart is warmed to liberality; and I am zealous to communicate the happiness which I feel, to those from whom it is derived; for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride of prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, in the dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, have been more highly prized than the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda." At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly silent, and looked upward in ecstasy of gratitude and devotion. The multitude were struck at once with the precept and exam ple; and the caliph, to whom the event was related, that he might be liberal beyond the power of gold, commanded it to be recorded for the benefit of posterity. Adventurer, No. 132. A LESSON FROM THE FLIGHT OF TIME.1 The hour is hastening, in which, whatever praise or censure I have acquired by these compositions, if they are remembered at all, will be remembered with equal indifference, and the tenor of L The concluding paragraph of the last number of the Adventurer. 5'V 618 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. theml only will afford me comfort. Time, who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly moulder the hand that is now writing it in the dust, and still the breast that now throbs at the reflection: but let not this be read as something that relates only to another; for a few years only can divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that has written. This awful truth, however obvious, and however reiterated, is yet frequently forgotten; for, surely, if we did not lose our remembrance, or at least our sensibility, that view would always predominate in our lives, which alone can afford us comfort when we die. The following little poem, composed but a month before his death, and dictated to Mrs. Hawkesworth before he rose in the morning, will prove how vividly he felt, at that period, the consolations arising from dependence on the mercy of his God. HYIMN. In Sleep's serene oblivion laid, I safely pass'd the silent night; At once I see the breaking shade, And drink again the morning light, New-born I bless the waking hour, Once more, with awe, rejoice to be; My conscious soul resumes her power, And springs, my gracious God, to thee 0, guide me through the various maze My doubtful feet are doorn'd to tread; And spread Thy shield's protecting blaze, When dangers press around my head. A deeper shade will soon impend, A deeper sleep my eyes oppress; Yet still thy strength shall me defend, Thy goodness still shall deign to bless. That deper shade shall fade away, That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes; Thy light shall give eternal day! Thy love the rapture of the skies! OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774.'l:iss distinguished poet, novelist, historian, and essayist, was born at Pallah in tne county of Longford, Ireland, on November 10, 1728. His father was a clergyman, and held the living of Kilkenny West, in the county of Westrneath. After studying the classics at two or three private schools, he en. tered Trinity College, Dubtlin, as a sizer,' in his fifteenth year. Here he was 1 See Note 2. on page 93. 1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 619 idle, extravagant, and occasionally insubordinate; though we ought in justice to say that a most injudicious and passionate tutor, a Mr. Wilder, should be held partly responsible for the unsatisfactory nature of Goldsmith's college career. About the time of his leaving the university his father died,1 but his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who had already borne the principal part of the expenses of his education, amply supplied the father's place. Disappointed in one or two plans that he had marked out for him, he determined to send him to London, to study the law, at the Temple. But stopping at Dublin on his way, he lost, in gambling, the sum that had been given him for the ex penses of his journey, and returned home penniless. The kindness of his uncle was not yet exhausted, and he sent himn to Edlinburgh to study medi cine, where he arrived at the close of the year 1752. Here he remained. about eighteen months, when, in consequence of becoming security to a considerable amount for a classmate, he was obliged to quit the city abruptly, and sailed for Leyden. Here he studied about a year, and then set out to make the tour of Europe on foot; having with him, it is said, only one clean shirt, and no money, and trusting to his wits for support.2 By various expedients he worked his way through Flanders, parts of France and Germany, Switzerland, (where he composed part of " The Traveller,") and the North of Italy, and returned to London in the autumn of 1756, with an empty pocket, indeed, but with a mind enriched by observations of foreign countries, which he has so admirably expressed in that charming poem-i- The Traveller." After trying various means of a professional character for support, he resolved to depend upon his pen; and in April, 1757, made an engagement with Mr. Griffiths, the proprietor of the Monthly Review, to write for that journal, for a salary, and his board and lodging in the proprietor's house. At the end of seven or eight months, this engagement was given up by mutual consent, and Goldsmith went into private lodgings, to finish his," Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe," which was published in 1759. His next publication was "LThe Bee," a series of Essays on a variety of subjects, published weekly, which, for want of support, terminated with the eighth number, November 24, 1759. Though neglected at their first appearance, yet, when known, some time after, to be from the samle pen as 1" The Traveller," and the "Vicar of Wakefield," they were very generally read and admired. Such is the world; withholding from unknown and unhonored genius that praise which it lavishes when needed not. 1 "To this very amiable father, the son, by his power in the delineation of character, has gives celebrity in three of his sketches; one in the' Citizen of the World' (Letter 27th); a second,n Dr Primrose, in the' Vicar of Wakefield;' and a third, as the family always stated, in reference to his spiritual character, in the Preacher in the'Deserted Village.' Each has peculiarities that distinguislh it from the other, yet touched so skilfully, that with some variation, they cannot be sald to offer a contradiction." —Priot. 2 The following passage in the " Vicar of Wakefield" is supposed to describe his own travels: " had some knowledge of music, and now turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards night-fall, I played one ot,ny most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence t)r the next day." Se also the lines in "The Traveller," in the picture of the Swiss"' Ald haply, too, some pilgrim thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed." And also in the picture of France, "How often have I led thy sportive choir With tuneless pipe, beside the muirmuring Loire?" &c. 620 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. In 1760, he published his "Letters of a Citizen of the World,"l which were very generally read and as generally admired; and have long taken their stand in the list of English classics. His next work was his celebrated novel, 4"The Vicar of Wakefield," which, though finished in 1763, was not published till 1766, when his ", Traveller" had established his fame. But it no sooner appeared than it secured the warmest friends among every description of readers; with the old, by the purity of its moral lessons; and with the young, by the interest of the story. Its great charm is its close adherence to nature; nature in its commendable, not in its vicious points of view. cc The Primrose family, is a great creation of genius: such a picture of warm-hearted simplicity, mingled with the little foibles and weaknesses common to the best specimens of humanity, that we find nothing like it in the whole range of fictioil."2 In December, 1764, was published ",The Traveller," the earliest of his productions to which Goldsmith prefixed his name. Dr. Johnson was the first to introduce it to the public, in a notice in the Critical Review, closing his remarks with these words: "c Such is the poem on which we now congratulate the public, as on a production to which, since the death of Pope, it wvill not be easy to find any thing equal." It is hardly necessary to say how perfectly this sentiment has been universally concurred in; for few poems in the English language have been more deservedly popular. In 1765 he published his ballad of the ", Hermit," and engaged in other works for the booksellers, to supply his immediate wants. In 1768 appeared his comedy of "The Good-Natured Man," which had not much success; but in the next year the ", Deserted Village" was given to the public, which gave him a still higher rank, and still greater celebrity as a poet.3 In the same year'he 1 These Letters purported to be written by a Chinese philosopher, who, in travelling through Europe, for the purpose of examining the manners and customs of the various nations, fixed his residence for some time in England, for the purpose of describing the manners of its people. He is full of the wisest reflections upon men and manners, and sometimes utters very startling sentiments. 2 Prior, vol. ii. p. i l. " We read the' Vicar of Wakefield' in youth and in age,-we return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an author who contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature."-Sir Walter Scott. " The irresistible charm this novel possesses, evinces how much may be done -without the aid of extravagant incident, to excite the imagination and interest the feelings. Few productions of this kind afford greater amusement in the perusal, and still fewer inculcate more impressive lessons of morality. Though wit and humor abound in every page, yet in the whole volume there is not one thought injurious in its tendency, nor one sentiment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language, in the words of an elegant writer, is what'angels might have heard, and virgins told.' " —Washington rrving. An interesting anecdote relative to this novel, told by Boswell in his Life of Johnson, and which has been illustrated by a most beautiful engraving, may here be repeated:-" I received one mornlung," says Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and round that his landlady had arrested him for his rent; at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira, and a glass before nim. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means Dy which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return; and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis. charged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." S,, The' Deserted Village' has an endearing locality, and introduces us to beings with whom the imagination contracts an intimate friendship. Fiction in poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and enchanted resemblance; and this ideal beauty of nature has been ~eldom united with so much sober fidehl;y as in the groups and scenery of the Deserted Village.' "-Campbell 1760.-1820.] GOLDS3MITH. 621 entered into engagements for writing his histories of Rome, Greece, anl England. Two years after, he appeared the second time as a dramatic author, and with very great success. Dr. Johnson said of " She Stoops to Conquer," that he knew of no comedy for many years that had so much exhilarated an audience, and had answered the great end of comedy —making an audienle3 merry. One of his last publications was a c" History of the Earth, and Animated Nature," which appeared in 1774, and for which he received the sum of eight hundred and fifty pounds; but such was hlis improvidence that his mloney was gone almost as soon as received. A tale of distress would take tiom him his last penny. His affairs, in consequence, became very much deranged; and his circumstances, preying upon his mind, are supposed to have accelerated his death, which occurred on the 4th of April, 1774.'"Thus terminated the life of an admirable writer and estimable man at the early age of forty-five, when his powers were in full vigor, and much was to be expected from their exertion. The shock to his friends appears to have been great fi'rom the unexpected loss of one whose siubstantial virtues, with all his foibles and singudlarities, they had learned to value. Burke, on hearing it, burst into tears; Sir Joshlia Reynolds relinquished painting for the day, —a very unusual forbearance; and Dr. Johnson, though little prone to exhibit strong emotions of grief, felt most sincerely on this occasion." I Three months afterward he thuis wrote to Boswell: "4 Of poor dear Dr. Goldsmith there is little to be told more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, I am afraid more violent from uneasiness of mind. He had raised money and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But letanot his frailties be renlemblerec: lie was a very great man."2 To the merits of Goldsmith, as a writer, the testimony of critics almost innumerable light be adduced. But the following few lines from an admirable article by Sir Walter Scott, will suffice: "The wreath of' Golds nith is unsullied; he wrote to exalt virtue and expose vice; and he accomplished his taskl in a manner which raises hliri to the highest rank among British authors. We close his volume with a sigh, that such an author should have written so little fiomn the stores of his own genius, and that he should have so prematurely been removed firom the sphere of literature which he so highly adlorlied." 3 1 Prior, vol. ii. p. 519. 2,s Here Fancy's favorite, Goldsmnith, sleeps; The Dunces smile, but Johnson weeps." St. Janes's Ch'tronicle, April 7, 1774. 3 Read-the article on Goldsmith in the 3cd vol. of Scott's Prose Works: also, another in the 57th vol. of (;uarterly Review: also life, in Mrs. B3arbauld's "Lives of the British Novelists:" also, Life and Works by Prior, 6 vols., one of the most valuable contributions to English literature of the present century. In Boswell's Johnson, Goldsmith is frequently mentioned, but not in such a manner as to do any justice to his character. How could it be expected from such a man? When the work was first published, 3urlie, much displeased that Goldsmith should be so unsdervalued'1n it, remarlied to a lady: " What rational opinion, my dear snadaem, could yous expect a lawyer to give of a poet?' Wilkes improved upon this, and remarlred at a dinner, "A Scotch lawyer and an Irish poet I hold to be about as opposite as tile antipodes." Sir Joshua Reynolds also expressed his decided dissent froln Boswvell's opinions; and George Stevens, in his usual sarcastic spirit, remarked, "Why, sir, it is not unusual for a man whlo has emuch genius to be censured by one who has none." And Sir Walter Scott remnarked, "I wonder why Boswsell so often displays a malevolent feeling towards Golosrrith. Jvallry fSr Johnson's good graces, perhaps." Tlhat Johnson's opinion was most favorable to Goldsmith, Boswell's olvn book testifies. Hear him: " Goldsmith was a masn wlho, whatever ne wrote. did it better than ally other mtan could do. He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey; and every 622 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE IIL. ITALY. Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And e'en in penance planning sins anew All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, nor far removed the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state; At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the skies; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; While naught remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, The sports of children satisfy the child; -evrx he lived he would have deserved it more." Again: " Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an historian, he stands in the first class." i Either Sir Joshua Reynolds, or some other friend who communicated the story to Im, calling one 1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 623 Each nobler aimnn, represt by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind: As ill those domes, where Coesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. The Traselise, FRANCE. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, wholl all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew; And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.' Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze. And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away; Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honor forms the social temper here: Honor, that praise which real merit gains Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land: day at Goldsmith's lodgings, opened the door without ceremony, and discovered him, not in meditao tian, or In the throes of poetic birth, but in the boyish office of teaching a favorite dog to sit upright upon its haunches, or, as it is commonly said, to beg. Occasionally he glanced his eyes over his desk, and occasionally shook his finger at the unwilling pupil, in order to make him retain his position; while on the page before him was written that couplet, with the ink of the second line still wet, from the description of Italy:"By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, The sports of children satisfy the child." The sentiment seemed so appropriate to the employment, that the visitor could not refrain from giv. ing vent to his surprise in a strain of banter, which was received with characteristic good humoe, and the admission at once made, that the amusement in which he had been engaged had given birth to the idea. 1,"I had some knowledge of music," says George Primrose, in the' Vicar of Wakefield,', with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into a present means of subsisteace. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of tie French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes; and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day." 624 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE Ill. From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise; They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seemting blest, they grow to what they seem.' But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure'on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. The Traveller. BRITAIN. -My genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide; There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind! Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd fresh from Nature's hand; Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man.2 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;'I:oo blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But fobster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. I There is. perhaps, no couplet in English rhyme more perspicuously condensed than those two lines of' The Traveller,' in which the author describes the at once flattering, vain, and happy character of the French."-Campbell. 2', We talked of Goldsmith's'Traveller,' of which Dr. Johnson spoke highly; and, while I was helping him on with his greatcoat, he repeatedly quoted from it the character of the British nation which he did with such energy that the tear started in his eye."-Boswell's Johnson. 1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 625 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Till over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or phrensy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. The TraveUer. THE VILLAGE PREACHER. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, Tihe village preacher's modest Inansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The rtiin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd: The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the sides; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd 2 R 53 626 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE Tll. The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. The Deserted Yihage. AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIEo. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good wordFrom those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor,Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wonderous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways,Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew,But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd her,When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead, Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day. 1760-1820.] GOIDSMIITH. 627 But Goldsmith's prose is no less charming than his poetry. There are, in his essays, entitled " The Citizen of the World," an ease and gracefulness of style, a chaste humor, a rich poetical fancy, and a nice observation of men and manners, that render them truly "' a mine of lively and profound thought, happy imagery, and pure English." 1 LIFE ENDEARED BY AGE. Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the vigor of youth, we had learned to despise=, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me, by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue, and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardor to continue the game. Whence, my friend, this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years? whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it becomes scarcely worth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil? Life would be insupportable to an old man who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigor of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery; but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could be only prejudicial, and life acquires an imaginary value in proportion as its real value is no more. Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, 1 At a dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, when some unkind remark was made of Goldsmith, Johnson broke out warmly in his defence, and in the course of a spirited eulogium, said, "Is there a man, sir, now, who can pen an essay with such ease and elegance as Dr. Goldsmith?" "The prose of Goldsmith is the model of perfection, and the standard of our language; to equaJ which the efforts of most would be vain, and to exceed it, every expectation folly."- Headley. 628 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. from the length of our acquaintance with it. " I would not choose," says a French philosopher, "to see an old post pulled up with which I had been long acquainted." A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects insensibly becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. Hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of possession; they love the world and all that it produces; they love life and all its advantages, not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, commanded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows: "Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or without being even confronted by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude and in darkness for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with the splendor of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember me; but my friends, my family, and relations are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former prison; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace; I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed-in that prison-from which you were pleased to release me." The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison, we look round with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing; its company pleases, yet for all this it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation; it has nc new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which tc surprise, yet still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, stil we love it; husband the wasting treasure with increased frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, —an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love 1760-1a20.] GOLDSMITH. 629 of the king, his master, which was equivalenit to riches. Life opened all her treasures before him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted even in the beginning. He professed an aversion to living, was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. "; If life be in youth so displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it appear when age comes on? if it be at present indifferent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought imbittered every reflection; till at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol! Had this selfdeluded man been apprized that existence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age without shrinking; he would have boldly dared to live, and served that society by his future assiduity which he basely injured by his desertion. Citizen of the World, Letter LXXIII. A CITY NIGHT-PIECE. The clock has just struck two; the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket; the watchman forgets the hour in slumber; the laborious and the happy are at rest; and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl; the robber walks his midnight round; and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person. Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, or,he sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever-changing, but a few hours past, walked before me-where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities. What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam: no sound is heard but of the chiming clock or the distant watch-dog: all the bustle of human pride is forgotten. An hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity. There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room. What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded, and, with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession. H[re, he cries, stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds: 630 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile. Temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The rewards of state were conferred on amusing, and not on useful members of society. Their riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction. How few appear in those streets, which, but some few hours ago, were crowded! And those who appear now no longer wear their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery. But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too great even for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather horror than. pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with disease. The world has disclaimed them: society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger. These poor shivering females have once seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty." Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve? Poor houseless creatures! the world will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny; and every law which gives others security becomes an enemy to them. Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility? or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse? Tenderness without a capacity of relieving, only makes the man wlo. feels it more wretched than the object which sues for assistance Citizen of the World, Let ONX VII I This idea is repeated in the " Deserted Village:"" Ah I turn thine eyes, Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn; Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head." 1760 —1820.] GOLDSMITH. 631 SCENERY OF THE ALPS. Nothing can be finer or more exact than Mr. Pope's description of a traveller straining up the Alps. Every mountain he comes to he thinks will be the last: he finds, however, an unexpected hill rise before him; and that being scaled, he finds the highest summit almost at as great a distance as before. Upon quitting the plain, he might have left a green and fertile soil, and a climate warm and pleasing. As he ascends, the ground assumes a more russet color, the grass becomes more mossy, and the weather more moderate. When he is still higher, the weather becomes more cold, and the earth more barren. In this dreary passage he is often entertained with a little valley of surprising verdure, caused by the reflected heat of the sun collected into a narrow spot on the surrounding heights. But it much more frequently happens that he sees only frightful precipices beneath, and lakes of amazing depth, from whence rivers are formed, and fountains derive their original. On those places next the highest summits, vegetation is scarcely carried on: here and there a few plants of the most hardy kind appear. The air is intolerably cold -either continually refrigerated with frosts, or disturbed with tempests. All the ground here wears an eternal covering of ice and snow, that seem continually accumulating. Upon emerging from this war of the elements, he ascends into a purer and serener region, where vegetation is entirely ceased-where the precipices, composed entirely of rocks, rises perpendicularly above him; while he views beneath him all the combat of the elements, clouds at his feet, and thunders darting upwards, from their bosoms below. A thousand meteors, which are never seen on the plain, present themselves; circular rainbows, mock suns, the shadow of the mountain projected upon the body of the air, and the traveller's own image reflected as in a looking-glass upon the opposite cloud. Hiitory of the Earth and fnimated Naturle. HISTORY OF A POET S GARDEN. Of all men who form gay illusions of distant happiness, per haps a poet is the most sanguine. Such is the ardor of his hopes, that they often are equal to actual enjoyment; and he feels more in expectance than actual fruition. I have often regarded a character of this kind with some degree of envy. A man possessed of such warm imagination commands all nature, and arrogates possessions of which the owner has a blunter relish. While life continues, the alluring prospect lies before him; he travels in thta pursuit with confidence, and resigns it only with his last breath. 632 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. It is this happy confidence which gives life its true relish, and keeps up our spirits amidst every distress and disappointment. Hov much less would be done, if a man knew how little he can do a. How wretched a creature would he be, if he saw the end as well as the beginning of his projects! He would have nothing left but to sit down in torpid despair, and exchange employment for actual calamity. I was led into this train of thinking upon lately visiting the beautiful Gardens of the late Mr. Shenstone; who was himself a poet, and possessed of that warm imagination which made him ever foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness. Could he but have foreseen the end of all his schemes, for whom he was improving, and what changes his designs were to undergo, he would have scarcely amused his innocent life with what, for several years, employed him in a most harmless manner, and abridged his scanty fortune. As the progress of this improvement is a true picture of sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up my imagination, which, while I walked pensively along, suggested the following revery. As I was turning my back upon a beautiful piece of water enlivened with cascades and rock-work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a prattling brook, the Genius of the place appeared before me, but more resembling the God of Time, than him more peculiarly appointed to the care of gardens. Instead of shears, he bore a scythe; and he appeared rather with the implements of husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having remembered this place in its pristine beauty, I could not help condoling with him on its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many alterations which had been made, and all for the worse; of the many shades which had been taken away, of the bowers that were destroyed by neglect, and the hedge-rows that were spoiled by clipping. The Genius with a sigh received my condolement, and assured me, that he was equally a martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and rusticity. Seeing me desirous of knowing farther, he went on: "You see, in the place before you, the paternal inheritance of a poet; and to a man content with a little, fully sufficient for his subsistence: but a strong imagination and a long acquaintance with the rich are dangerous foes to contentment. Our poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved to prepare for its future enjoyment; and set about converting a place of profit into a scene of pleasure. This he at first supposed could be accomplished at a small expense; and he was willing for a while to stint his income, to have an opportunity of displaying his taste. The improvement in this manner went forward; one beauty attained, led him to wish for some other; but he still hoped that every emenda 1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 633 tion would be the last. It was now, therefore, found that the improvement exceeded the subsidy, that the place was grown too large and too fine for the inhabitant. But that pride which was once exhibited could not retire; the garden was made for the owner, and though it was become unfit for him, he could not willingly resign it to another. Thus the first idea of its beauties contributing to the happiness of his life was found unfaithful; so that, instead of looking within for satisfaction, he began to think of having recourse to the praises of those who came to visit his improvement. 1 "In consequence of this hope, which now took possession of his mind, the gardens were opened to the visits of every stranger; and the country flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers of his taste left by no means such strong marks of their applause, as the envious did of their malignity. All the windows of his temples, and the walls of his retreats, were impressed with the characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obscenity; his hedges were broken, his statues and urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was now, therefore, necessary to shut up the gardens once more, and to deprive the public of that happiness, which had before ceased to be his own. "' In this situation the poet continued for a time in the character of a jealous lover, fond of the beauty he keeps, but unable to supply the extravagance of every demand. The garden by this time was completely grown and finished; the marks of art were covered up by the luxuriance of nature; the winding walks were grown dark; the brook assumed a natural sylvage; and the rocks were covered with moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and his garden was obliged to be sold for the benefit of those who had contributed to its embellishment. " The beauties of the place had now for some time been celtbrated as well in prose as in verse; and all men of taste wished for so envied a spot, where every urn was marked with the poet's pencil, and every walk awakened genius and meditation. The first purchaser was one Mr. Truepenny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three thousand pounds, and was willing also to be possessed of taste and genius. " As the poet's ideas were for the natural wildness of the landscape, the button-maker's were for the more regular productions of art. He conceived, perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button to be of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will, he employed the shears to some purpose; he clipped up the hedges, cut down the gloomy 634 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE ITI. walks, made vistas upon the stables and hogsties, and showed his friends that a man of taste should always be doing. s" The next candidate for taste and genius was a captain of a ship, who bought the garden because the former possessor could find nothing more to mend; but unfortunately he had taste too. His great passion lay in building, in making Chinese temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the place before had an appearance of retirement and inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled air; every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or a temple; the improvement was converted into a little city, and it only wanted inhabitants to give it the air of a village in the East Indies. 6" In this manner, in less than ten years, the improvement has gone through the hands of as many proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and to show their taste too. As the place had received its best finishing from the hand of the first possessor, so every innovator only lent a hand to do mischief. Those parts which were obscure, have been enlightened; those walks which led naturally, have been twisted into serpentine windings. The color of the flowers of the field is not more various than the variety of tastes that have been employed here, and all in direct contradiction to the original aim of the first improver. Could the original possessor but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would he look upon his favorite spot again! He would scarcely recollect a dryad or a wood-nymph of his former acquaintance, and might perhaps find himself as much a stranger in his own plantation, as in the deserts of Siberia." Essay, XXXII. The following paragraph is one of those gems in English Prose Literature, of which few authors, if any, afford a greater number than Goldsmith. It is in the latter part of a review, as severe as his good-nature would allow, of Barrett's translation of Ovid's Epistles; to be found in the Critical Review of 1759. ALL CANNOT BE POETS. But let not the reader imagine we can find pleasure in thus exposing absurdities which are too ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish that those whose greatest sin is, perhaps, the venial one of writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as we do, not as faults, but foibles: they may be good and useful members of society without being poets. The regions of taste can be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indifihrent accommodation by the way. Let such as have not got a passport fiSom nature, be content with happiness, and leave to the poet the unrivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his fan1 1760-1820.] HUME. 635 DAVID HUME. 1711-1776. DAVID HUnME, the 2elebrated Scotch historian, was born in Edinburgh in 1711. He was designed for the law, but having no inclination for it, he applied himself to mercantile pursuits, and in 1734 became clerk to a house in Bristol. He did not, however, continue long in that line, owing to his strong propensity to literature. He says in his autobiography, "I went over to France with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat, and I then laid that plan of life which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I resolved to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune; to maintain, unimpaired, my independency; and to regard every object as contemptible except the improvement of my talents in literature." In 1738 he published his "c Treatise of Human Nature," a metaphysical work, which met with a very indifferent reception. In 1742 appeared his "'Moral Essays," which were a little better received. During the next ten years he published his " Inquiry concerning Humran Understanding," cc Political Discourses," and,Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals." While many of the principles of these works are exceptionable, they are, as compositions, a model of a perspicuous and a highly finished style. In 1754 he published the first volume of his " History of England," which he commenced with the House of Stuart "The History of the House of Tudor" followed in 1759, and the two volumes containing the earlier English History, which completed the work, in 1761. While this work was in progress, he gave to the world his "Natural History of Religion," which was attacked with just severity by Warburton and Hurd. After enjoying one or two offices of honor and profit, he retired to his native country in 1769,.and died in 1776. As an author, Hume is to be viewed in the three characters of Historian, Political Economist, and Philosopher. "4 In History he was the first to divert attention from wars, treaties, and successions, to the living progress of the people, in all that increases their civilization and their happiness;" and notwithstanding his "History of England" is disfigured by evident partiality, and lacks in many places that accuracy which is the first requisite in historical compositions, yet, with all the faults of its matter, its purely literary merits are so great, that, as a classical and popular work, it has hitherto encountered no rival. As a Political Economist, "c his triumphs are those which, in the present day, stand forth with the greatest prominence and lustre. In no long time, a hundred years will have elapsed from the day when Hume told the world, what the legislature of England is now declaring, that national exclusiveness in trade was as foolish as it was wicked; that no nation could profit by stopping the natural flood of commerce between itself and the rest of the world; that commercial restrictions deprive the nations of the earth'of that free communication and exchange, which the Author of the world has intended by giving them soils, climates, and geniuses, so different from each other;' and that, like the healthy circulation of the blood in living bodies, FREE TRAI)E is the vital principle by which the nations of the earth are to become united in one harmonious whole." 1 As a Philosopher, though acute and ingenious, he is not profound. He was the first to make Utility the foundation of moral obligation, which, as a theory 1 Read-the " Life and Correspondence of David Hume," by John Hill Burton, Esq., 2 vols. 8v0 Edinburgh, 1846-a very valuable contribution to the biographicen literature of the present century. 636 HUME. [GEORGE III. is absurd, and can never be a guide to general duty; for none but Omniscience can know what will conduce to general utility; and, therefore, though in many cases it may be a motive, it can never be the ultimate motive for human action. The Will of God is, and ever must be, the only true foundation of all moral obligation, for the Creator alone can know what is best for his creatures. It is, therefore, from his most defective theory in morals, but more especially fromn his infidelity, that, in my estimation, Hume hardly deserves the name of a Philosopher, inasmuch as he neglected all search after the highest wisdom-the " wisdom from above;" and exhibited none of that docility upon the subject of religion, which he himself would be the first to require of any one who wished to make attainments in any other science: and most deeply is it to be lamented, that a man of such a mind should not have had, upon his death-bed, the consolations of the Christian religion.' ON DELICACY OF TASTE. Nothing is so improving to the temper as the study of the beauties either of poetry, eloquence, music, or painting. They give a certain elegance of sentiment to which the rest of mankind are strangers. The emotions which they excite are soft and tender. They draw off the mind from the hurry of business and interest; cherish reflection; dispose to tranquillity; and produce an agreeable melancholy, which, of all dispositions of the mind, is the best suited to love and friendship. In the second place, a delicacy of taste is favorable to love and friendship, by confining our choice to few people, and making us indifferent to the company and conversation of the greater part of men. You will seldom find that mere men of the world, whatever strong sense they may be endowed with, are very nice in distinguishing characters, or in marking those insensible differences and gradations which make one man preferable to another. Any one that has competent sense is sufficient for their entertainment: they talk to him of their pleasure and affairs with the same frankness that they would to another; and finding many who are fit to supply his place, they never feel any vacancy or want in his absence. But, to make use of the allusion of a celebrated French author, the judgment may be compared to a clock or watch where the most ordinary machine is sufficient to tell the hours, but the most elaborate alone can point out the minutes and seconds, and distinguish the smallest differences of time. One that has well digested his knowledge, both of books and men, has little enjoyment but in the company of a few select companions. 1 "I mentioned to Dr. Johnson that David Hume's persisting in his infidelity when he was dying shocked me much." JOHNSON. " Why should it shock you, sir? Hume owned he had never read the New Testament with attention. Here, then, was a man who had been at no pains to inquire into the truth of religion, and had continually turned his mind the other way. It was not to be expected the prospect of death would alter his way of thinking, unless God should send an angel to set him right. He had a vanity in being thought easy." Croker's Boswell, 8vo, p. 545. See also, remarks upon Hume's deisa. at pp q8, 151, and 174 of the same book. 1760-1820.] HyUME. 637 He feels too sensibly how much all the rest of mankind fall short of the notions which he has entertained; and his affections being thus confined within a narrow circle, no wonder he carries them further than if they were more general and undistinguished. The gayety and frolic of a bottle companion improves with him into a solid friendship; and the ardors of a youthful appetite become an elegant passion. ON SIMPLICITY AND REFINEMENT. It is a certain rule that wit and passion are entirely incompatible. When the affections are moved, there is no place for the imagination. The mind of man being naturally limited, it is impossible that all its faculties can operate at once; and the more any one predominates, the less room is there for the others to exert their vigor. For this reason a greater degree of simplicity is required in all compositions where men, and actions, and passions are painted, than in such as consist of reflections and observations. And, as the former species of writing is the more engaging and beautiful, one may safely, upon this account, give the preference to the extreme of simplicity above that of refinement. We may also observe, that those compositions which M e read the oftenest, and which every man of taste has got by heart, have the recommendation of simplicity, and have nothing surprising in the thought when divested of that elegance of expression and harmony of numbers with which it is clothed. If the merit of the composition lie in a point of wit, it may strike at first; but the mind anticipates the thought in the second perusal, and is no longer affected by it. When I read an epigram of Martial, the first line recalls the whole; and I have no pleasure in repeating to myself what I know already. But each line, each word in Catullus, has its merit; and I am never tired with the perusal of him. It is sufficient to run over Cowley once; but Parnell, after the fiftieth reading, is as fresh as the first. Besides, it is with books as with women, where a certain plainness of manner and of dress is more engaging than that glare of paint, and airs, and apparel, which may dazzle the eye, but reaches not the affections. Terence is a modest and bashful beauty, to whom we grant every thing, because he assumes nothing; and whose purity and nature make a durable though not a violent impression on us. ON THE MIDDLE STATION OF LIFE. The moral of the following fable will easily discover itself without my explaining it. One rivulet meeting another, with whom he had been long united in strictest amity, with noisy haughtiness and disdain thus bespoke him: —." What, brother! still in the 54 638 HUME. [GEORGE III. same state! Still low and creeping! Are you not ashamed when you behold me, who, though lately in a like condition with you, am now become a great river, and shall shortly be able to rival the Danube or the Rhine, provided those friendly rains continue which have favored my banks, but neglected yours?" s" Very true," replies the humble rivulet,'" you are now, indeed, swollen to a great size; but methinks you are become withal somewhat turbulent and muddy. I am contented with my low condition and my purity." Instead of commenting upon this fable, I shall take occasion from it to compare the different stations of life, and to persuade such of my readers as are placed in the middle station to be satisfied with it, as the most eligible of all others. These form the most numerous rank of men that can be supposed susceptible of philosophy, and therefore all discourses of morality ought principally to be addressed to them. The great are too much immersed in pleasure, and the poor too much occupied in providing for the necessities of life, to hearken to the calm voice of reason. The middle station, as it is most happy in many respects, so particularly in this, that a man placed in it can, with the greatest leisure, consider his own happiness, and reap a new enjoyment, from comparing his situation with that of persons above or below him. Agur's prayer is sufficiently noted —" Two things have I required of thee; deny me them not before I die: Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me, lest I be full and deny thee, and say, who is the Lord? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God in vain." T''he middle station is here justly recommended, as affording the fullest security for virtue; and I may also add, that it gives opportunity for the most ample exercise of it, and furnishes employment for every good quality which we can possibly be possessed of. Those who are placed among the lower ranks of men have little opportunity of exerting any other virtue besides those of patience, resignation, industry, and integrity. Those who are advanced into the higher stations, have full employment for their generosity, humanity, affability, and charity. When a man lies betwixt these two extremes, he can exert the former virtues towards his superiors, and the latter towards his inferiors. Every moral quality which the human soul is susceptible of, may have its turn, and be called up to action; and a man may, after this manner, be much more certain of his progress in virtue, than where his good qualities lie dormant and without employment. But there is another virtue that seems principally to lie among equals; and is, for that reason, chiefly calculated for the middle station of life. This virtue is friendship. I believe most men of 1760-1820.] EARL OF CHATHAM. 639 generous tempers are apt to envy the great, when they consider the large opportunities such persons have of doing good to their fellow-creatures, and of acquiring the friendship and esteem of men of merit. They make no advances in vain, and are not obliged to associate with those whom they have little kindness for, like people of inferior stations, who are subject to have their proffers of friendship rejected even where they would be most fond of placing their affections. But though the great have more facility in acquiring friendships, they cannot be so certain of the sincerity of them as men of a lower rank, since the favors they bestow may acquire them flattery, instead of good-will and kindness. It has been very judiciously remarked, that we attach ourselves more by the services we perform than by those we receive, and that a man is in danger of losing his friends by obliging them too far. I should therefore choose to lie in the middle way, and to have my commerce with my friend varied both by obligations given and received. I have too much pride to be willing that all the obligations should lie on my side, and should be afraid that, if they all lay on his, he would also have too much pride to be entirely easy under them, or have a perfect complacency in my company. WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM. 1708 —1778. OF the event-al life of this illustrious statesman, it would be impossible here to give any adequate view. From the time that he delivered his maiden speech in parliament, on the 29th of April, 1736, to the day when he fell senseless in the House of Lords, April 7, 1778, while, in his own fervid eloquence, he was addressing that body on the state of the nation, his whole life is inseparably connected with every great event in his country's history. No single individual for forty years filled so large a space in the public eye. It is deeply to be regretted that we have so few of his writings, and that no correct reports of his speeches in parliament have come down to us. Thoe art of reporting with rapidity and accuracy, so familiar to us,-of this day, was then not known. But from the encomiums which his speeches received from his contemporaries, without distinction of party, they must have been of the highest order of eloquence. Americans may well remember him with grati tude, for they had no abler defender of their rights in revolutionary times, orf either side of the Atlantic. With that "abominable sentiment," ouv COUNTRY RIGHT on wRoNG, this great man had no sympathy; for he never hesitated to rebuke, in the severest terms, his own country, when he saw she was in the way of wrong-doing. The most interesting relic that we have of this greatest of statesmen, is his "Letters to his Nephew, Thomas Pitt, (afterwards Lord Camnelford,) then at Cambridge." No volume of equal size contains more valuable instructions fr a young student than these letters. They exhibit " a great orator, states, -nan, and patriot, in one of the most interesting relations of private society Not, as in the cabinet or the senate, enforcing by a vigorous ana cotnmanling 640 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. eloquence, tho0e counsels to which his country owed her pre-eminence and glory; but implanting, with parental kindness into the mind of an ingenuous youth, seeds of wisdom and virtue, which ripened into full maturity in the character of a most accomplished rman: directing him to the acquisition of Knoxvledge, as the best instrument of action; teaching him, by the cultivation of his reason, to strengthen and establish in his heart those principles of moral rectitude which were congenial to it; and, above all, exhorting him to regulate the whole conduct of his life by the predominant influence of gratitude and obedience to God, as the only sure groundwork of every hurran duty." "What parent, anxious for the' character and success of a son, would not, in all that related to his education, gladly have resorted to the advice of such a man? What youthful spirit, animated by any desire of future excellence, and looking for the gratification of that desire, in the pursuits of honorable ambition, or in the consciousness of an upright, active, and useful life, would not embrace with transport any opportunity of listening on such a subject to the lessons of Lord Chatham? They are here before him: not delivered with the authority of a preceptor, or a parent, but tempered by the affection of a friend towards a disposition and character well entitled to such regard." STUDY OF TIlE CLASSICS RECOOMMENDED. BATH, October 12, 1751. MY DEAR NEPHEW: As I have been moving about from place to place, your letter reached me here, at Bath, but very lately, after making a considerable circuit to find me. I should have otherwise, my dear child, returned you thanks for the very great pleasure you have given me, long before now. The very good account you give me of your studies, and that delivered in very good Latin, for youI time, has filled me with the highest expectation of your future improvements: I see the foundations so well laid, that I do not make the least doubt but you will become a perfect good scholar; and have the pleasure and applause that will attend the several advantages hereafter, in the future course of your life, that you can only acquire now by your emulation and noble labors in the pursuit of learning, and of every acquirement that is to make you superior to 6ther gentlemen. I rejoice to hear that you have begun Homer's Iliad; and have made so great a progress in Virgil. I hope you taste and love those authors particularly. You cannot read them too much: they are not only the two greatest poets, but they contain the finest lessons for your age to imbibe: lessons of honor, courage, disinterestedness, love of truth, command of temper, gentleness of behavior, humanity, and, in one word. virtue in its true signification. Go on, my dear nephew. ana drink as deep as you can of these divine springs: the pleasure of the draught is equal at least to the prodigious advantages of it to the heart and morals. I Lord Grenville's Preface to the Letters. Read also, Rev. Francis Thackeray's "History of the Rt. Hor Williamn Pitt," 2 vols. 4to. 1760-1VOE. EARL OF CIATHAAM. 641. I shall be highly pleased to heal from you, and to know what authors give you most pleasure. I desire my service to Mr. Leech: pray tell him I will write to him soon about your studies. I am, with the greatest affection, My dear child, Your loving uncle. GENERAL ADVICE TO THE YOUTHFUL STUDENT. BATH, Jdanuary 14, 1754. MY DEARi NErHErJW: You will hardly have read over one very long letter from me before you are troubled with a second. I intended to have writ soon, but I do it the sooner on account of your letter to your aunt, which she transmitted to me here. If any thing, my dear boy, could have happened to raise you higher in my esteem, and to endear you more to me, it is the amiable abhorrence you feel for the scene of vice and folly, (and of real misery and perdition, under the false notion of pleasure and spirit,) which has opened to you at your college, and at the same time, the manly, brave, generous, and wise resolution and true spirit, with which you resisted and repulsed the first attempts upon a mind and heart, I thank God, infinitely too firm and noble, as well as too elegant and enlightened, to be in any danger of yielding to such contemptible and wretched corruptions. You charm me with the description of Mr. Wheler,1 and while you say you could adore him, I could adore you for the natural, genuine love of virtue, which speaks in all you feel, say, or do. As to your companions, let this be your rule. Cultivate the acquaintance with Mr. Wheler which you have so fortunately begun: and, in general, be sure to associate with men much older than yourself: scholars whenever you can: but always with men of decent and honorable lives. As their age and learning, superior both to your own, must necessarily, in good sense, and in the view of acquiring knowledge from them, entitle them to all deference, and submission of your own lights to theirs, you will particularly practise that first and greatest rule for pleasing in conversation, as well as for drawing instruction and improvement from the company of one's superiors in age and knowledge, namely, to be a patient, attentive, and well-bred hearer, and to answer with modesty: to deliver your own opinions sparingly and with proper diffidence; and if you are forced to desire farther information or explanation upon a point, to do it with proper apologies for the trouble you give: or if obliged to differ, to do it with all possible candor, and an unprejudiced desire to find and 1 The Rev. John Wheler, prebendary of Westminster. The friendship formed between this gentleman and Lord Camelford at so early a period of their lives, was founded in mutual esteem, and "oa. tinued uninterrupted till Lord Camelford'i death. 2 54* 642 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. ascertain truth, with an entire indifference to the side on which that truth is to be found. There is likewise a particular attention required to contradict with good manners; such as, begging pardon, begging leave to doubt, and suchlike phrases. Pythagoras enjoined his scholars an absolute silence for a long novitiate. I am far from approving such a taciturnity: but I highly recommend the end and intent of Pythagoras's injunction; which is to dedicate the first parts of life more to hear and learn, in order to collect materials, out of which to form opinions founded on proper lights and well-examined sound principles, than to be presuming, prompt, and flippant in hazarding one's own slight, crude notions of things; and thereby exposing the nakedness and emptiness of the mind, like a house opened to company before it is fitted either with necessaries, or any ornaments for their reception and entertainment. And not only will this disgrace follow from such temerity and presumption, but a more serious danger is sure to ensue, that is, the embracing errors for truths, prejudices for principles; and when that is once done, (no matter how vainly and weakly,) the adhering perhaps to false and dangerous notions, only because one has declared for them, and submitting, for life, the understanding and conscience to a yoke of base and servile prejudices, vainly taken up and obstinately retained. This will never be your danger; but I thought it not amiss to offer these reflections to your thoughts. As to your manner of behaving towards these unhappy young gentlemen you describe, let it be manly and easy; decline their parties with civility; retort their raillery with raillery, always tempered with good breeding: if they banter your regularity, order, decency, and love of study, banter in return their neglect of them; and venture to own frankly, that you came to Cambridge to learn what you can, not to follow what they are pleased to call pleasure. In short, let your external behavior to them be as full of politeness and ease as youi -inward estimation of them is full of pity, mixed with contempt. I come now to the part of the advice I have to offer to you, which most nearly concerns your welfare, and upon which every good and honorable purpose of your life will assuredly turn; I mean the keeping up in your heart the true sentiments of religion. If you are not right towards God, you can never be so towards man: the noblest sentiment of the human breast is here brought to the test. Is gratitude in the number of a man's virtues? If it be, the highest benefactor demands the warmest returns of gratitude, love, and praise: Ingratum qui dixerit, omnia dixit.1 If a man wants this virtue where there are infinite obligations to excite and quicken it, he wvill be likely to Mwant all others towards his fellow-creatures, 1 He who pronounces one ungrateful, has said every thing. 1760-1820.] EARL OF CTIATTIAM. 604 whose utmost gifts are poor compared to those he daily ieceives at the hands of his never-failing Almighty Friend. "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth," is big with the deepest wisdom: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; and, an upright heart, that is understanding. This is eternally true, whether the wits and rakes of Cambridge allow it or not: nay, I must add of this religious wisdom, "Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace," whatever your young gentlemen of pleasure think of a tainted health and battered constitution. Hold fast therefore by this sheet-anchor of happiness, Religion; you will often want it in the times of most dangerthe storms and tempests of life. Cherish true religion. Remember the essence of religion is, a heart void of offence towards God and man; not subtle speculative opinions, but an active vital principle of faith. Go on, my dear child, in the admirable dispositions you have towards all that is right and good, and make yourself the love and admiration of the world! I have neither paper nor words to tell you how tenderly I am yours. OUR OWN REASON AND OTHERS' EXPERIENCE, TO BE USED. BATH, February 3, 17 5-1. Nothing can, or ought to give me a higher satisfaction, than the obliging manner in which my dear nephew receives my most sincere and affectionate endeavors to be of use to him. You mnuch overrate the obligation, whatever it be, which youth has to those who have trod the paths of the world before them, for their friendly advice how to avoid the inconveniences, dangers, and evils, which they themselves may have run upon, for want of such timely warnings, and to seize, cultivate, and carry forward towards perfection, those advantages, graces, virtues, and felicities, which they may have totally missed, or stopped short in the generous pursuit. To lend this helping hand to those who are beginning to tread the slippery way, seems, at best, but an office of common humanity to all; but to withhold it from one we truly love, and whose heart and mind bear every genuine mark of the very soil proper for all the amiable, manly, and generous virtues to take root, and bear their heavenly fruit; inward, conscious peace, fame among men, public love, temporal, and eternal happiness; to withhold it, I say, in such an instance, would deserve the worst of names. I am greatly pleased, my dear young friend, that you do me the justice to believe I do not mean to impose any yoke of authority upon your understanding and conviction. I 644 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. wish to warn, admonish, instruct, enlighten, and convince your reason; and so determine your judgment to right things, when you shall be made to see that they are right; not to overbear, and impel you to adopt any thing before you perceive it to be right or wrong, by the force of authority. I hear with great pleasure, that Locke lay before you, when you writ last to me; and I like the observation that you make from him, that we must use our own reason, not that of another, if we would deal fairly by ourselves, and hope to enjoy a peaceful and contented conscience. This precept is truly worthy of the dignity of rational natures. But here, my dear child, let me offer one distinction to you, and it is of much moment; it is this: Mr. Locke's precept is applicable only to such opinions as regard moral or religious obligations, and which, as such, our own consciences alone can judge and determine for ourselves. Matters of mere expediency, that affect neither honor, morality, or religion, were not in that great and wise man's view: such are the usages, forms, manners, modes, proprieties, decorums, and all those numberless ornamental little acquirements, anfd genteel well-bred attentions, which constitute a proper, graceful, amiable, and noble behavior. In matters of this kind, I am sure, your own reason, to which I shall always refer you, will at once tell you, that you must, at first, make use of the experience of others: in effect, see with their eyes, or not be able to see at all; for the ways of the world, as to its usages and exterior manners, as well as to all things of expediency and prudential considerations, a moment's reflection will convince a mind as right as yours, must necessarily be to inexperienced youth, with ever so fine natural parts, a terra incognita.l As you would net therefore attempt to form notions of China or Persia but from those who have travelled those countries, and the fidelity and sagacity of whose relations you can trust; so will you, as little, I trust, prematurely form notions of your own, concerning that usage of the world (as it is called) into which you have not yet travelled, and which must be long studied and practised, before it can be tolerably well known. I can repeat nothing to you of so infinite consequence to your future welfare, as to conjure you not to be hasty in taking up notions and opinions: guard your honest and ingenu.. ous mind agai:,st this main danger of youth. With regard to all things that appear not to your reason, after due examination, evident duties of honor, morality, or religion, (and in all such as do, let your conscience and reason determine your notions and conduct,) in all other matters, I say, be slow to form opinions, keep your mind in a candid state of suspense, and open to full conviction when you shall procure it, using in the mean time the expe1 An unknown land. 1760-1820.] BLACKSTONE. 645 rience of a friend you can trust, the sincerity of whose advice you will try and prove by your own experience hereafter, when more years shall have given it to you. I have been longer upon this head, than I hope there was any occasion for: but the. great importance of the matter, and my warm wishes for yo-lr welfare, figure, and happiness, have drawn it from me. My dear Nephew, Ever affectionately. Yol rs. SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 1723-1780. THts eminent civilian was born in London, in July, 1723. His -kther was a silk-mercer, and the fortune he had acquired in the honorable ursuits of trade, was sufficient to enable him to afford his son every advanta"e of education and scholarship. On leaving the University of Oxford, havirng selected the law as his profession, he entered the Middle Temple, on which occasion he wrote the sprightly and beautiful lines entitled' The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse." In due time he was called to the bar, but after sever years of patient and vain expectance, meeting with but little success, he ret rned to Oxfold, with the intention of living on his fellowship. Having,..owever, obtained an appointment to the law professorship in the university, hb so distinguished himself by the lectures he delivered, that he resumed the practice of his profession with a success proportioned to his great abilities an 1 learning. In 1765 he published his celebrated " Commentaries on the 1 iws of England," than which few books have exerted a wider influence, it be:.ng one bf the first works read by eyery student of tlle law, and the one to which, perhaps, he' makes the most frequent reference th;li'rough the whole cc,rse of his professional life. In 1770, Blackstone was made one of the judges if the Court of Common Pleas, which situation he held till his death, in 178C THE LAWYER S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. As by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemnud to roam An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; Till on some neighboring maountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; Then, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear. and bids adieu; So I, thus doom'd fiom thee to part, Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind. Companion of imy tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, 646 ]BLACOKSTONE. [GEORGE IIT How blithesome were we wont to rove By verdant hill or shady grove, Where fervent bees, with humming voice, Around the honey'd oak rejoice, And aged elms with awful bend In long cathedral walks extend! Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods, How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded roll'd along: But now the pleasing dream is o'er, Those scenes must charm me now no more; Lost to the fields, and torn from you,Farewell!-a long, a last adieu. Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities, draw: There selfish faction rules the day, And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry and riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold; Or, where in silence all is drown'd, Fell Murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you, Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,.Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: Instead of thee, a formal band In furs and coifs acound me stand; With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony: Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze. There, in a winding close retreat, Is justice doom'd to fix her seat; There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is more admired. O let me pierce the secret shade Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark, with reverend awe. The guardian of Britannia's law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, Th' united boast of many an age; Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years. In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true; 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 647 And other doctrines thence imbibe Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend By various laws to one great end: While mighty Alfred's piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole. Then welcome business, welcome st:ife Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the purblind sight, The toil by day, the lamp at night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall,For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! Thus though my noon of life be past, Yet let my setting sun, at last, Find out the still, the rural cell, Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the homefelt bliss Of innocence and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe, Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan's cry to wound my ear; My honor and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 1709-1784. SAMUEL JoaNSON, the Corypheus of English Literature of the elgiateenth century, was born at Litchfield,l in Staffordshire, September 7, 1709, and was educated at Pembroke College, Oxford. He gave early proof of a vigorous understanding and of a great fondness for knowledge; but poverty compelled him to leave the university, after being there three years, without taking a degree, and he returned to Litchfield in the autumn of 1731, destitute, and wholly undetermined what plan of life to pursue. His father, who had been a bookseller, and who had become insolvent, died in December, and in the July following, Johnson accepted the situation of usher of the grammar-school at Market-Bosworth, in Leicestershire. For this situation, however, he soon felt himself utterly unqualified by means of his natural disposition. Though his scholarship was ample, he wanted that patience to bear with dulness and waywardness, those kind and urbane manners to win love and respect, that tact in controlling and governing youth, and that happy manner of illustrating difficulties and imparting knowledge, which are as essential as high literary attainments to fobrm the perfect schoolmaster. No wonder, therefore, that heo quitted the higt vocation in disgust. His scholars. doubtless, were quite as glad to get rid 6f him as he was of them. Non monaes omnibus. 1 Hecne he has been frequently termed "The Sage o' Litchfleld." 648 JOHINSON, [GEORGE Hf. The next year he obtained temporary employment from a bookseller at Birnmingham, and soon after, entered into an engagement with Mr. Cave, the editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, to write for that periodical. This, however, was not sufficient to support him, but Cupid happily came to his assistacef,; -h. he fell in love with a lMrs. Porter, a widow of little more than d.ouble her ldovers age, andSpossessed of eight hundred pounds. They were married on the 9th of July, 1736, and soon after, Johnson took a large house near Litchfield, and opened an academy for classical education. But the plan failed, and he went to London, and engaged himself as a regular contributor to the Gentleman's Magazine. Here he shortly produced his admirable poem entitled " London," in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal. For it, he received from Dodsley ten guineas; it immediately attracted great attention, and Pope, as soon as he read it, said, " The author, whoever he is, will not be long concealed." His tragedy of " Irene," produced about the same tilme, was, as regards stage success, a total failure, though, like the Cato of Addison, it is full of noble sentiments. His pen.was at this time continually employed in writing pamphlets, prefaces, epitaphs, essays, and biographical memoirs for the magazine; but the compensation he received was small, very small; and it is distressing to reflect that, at this period, the poverty of this most distinguished scholar was so great, that le was sometimes obliged to pass the day without food. In 1744 he published the "' Life of Richard Savage," one of the best written and most instructive pieces of biography extant, and which was at once the theme of general admiration.] In 1747 he issued his plan for his " English Dictionary," addressed, in an admirably written pamphlet, to the Earl of (chesterfield, who, however, concerned himself very little about its success. The time he could spare from this Herculean labor, he gave to various litelary subjects. In 1749 appeared his "Vanity of Human Wishes," an adlmi-,able poem, in imitation of the tenth satire of Juvenal; and in the next year he commenced his periodical paper " The Rambler," which deservedly raised the reputation of the author still higher, and which, from the peculiar strength of its style, exerted a powerful influence on English Prose Literature.2 In 1755, appeared the great work which has made his name known wherever the English language is spoken-his long-promised "e Dictionary." Eight long years was he in bringing it to a completion; and considering the little aid he could receive from previous lexicographers, it was a gigantic undertaking; and most stuccessfully and nobly did he accomplish it.s But just before it was 1 One of the best proofs of its attractive power was given by Sir Joshua Reynolds, who said that, on his return from Italy, he met with it in Devonshire, knowing nothing of its author, and began to read it while he was standing with his arm leaning against a chimney-piece. It seized his attention so strongly, that, not being able to lay down the book till he had finished it, when he attempted to move, he found his arm totally benumbed. 2 "The Rambler," was commenced on the 20th of March, 1750, and continued every Tuesday and Saturday to March 14, 1752. Of the energy and fertility of resource with which this work was conducted, there can be no greater proof than that during the whole time, though afflicted with disease, and harassed with the toils of lexicography, he wrote the whole himself, with the exception of four or five numbers. 3 The French Academy of FORTY members were all engaged upon their boasted Dictionary, which, after all, Sas not equal to Johnson's single-handed labor. This gave rise to the following spirited lines from Garrick:Talk of war with a Briton, he'll boldly advance, That one English soldier will beat ten of France; Would we alter the boast from the sword to the pen, Our odds are still greater, still greater our men; 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 649 published, Lord Chesterfield endeavored to influence Johnson to dedicate it t himself, and for this purpose he wrote two numbers, in a periodical papet,'" The World," highly complimentary of Johnson's learning and labors. Johnson was of course highly indignant,' and addressed to him the following letter, which, for the polish of its style, the elegance of its language, the keenness of its sarcasm, its manly disdain, and the condensed vigor of its thought, is, perhaps, unequalled in English literature. TO TIIE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. MY LORD: I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of The World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished, is an honor, which, being very little, accustomed to favors from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre; 2 that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. In the deep mines of science, though Frenchmen may toil, Can their strength be compared to Locke, Newton, and Boyle I Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their powers, Their verse-men and prose-men; then match them with ours: First Shakspeare and Milton, like gods in the fight, Have put their whole drama and epic to flight; In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope, Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope; And JoHNsoN, well arm'd like a hero of yore, Has beat FORTY French, and will beat forty more I" 1 In his anger he exclaimed to his friend Garrick, "I have sailed a long and painful voyage round the world of the English language; and does he now send out two cock boats to tow me into harbor?" 2 The conqueror of the conqueror of the world. 55 650 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached the ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it;, till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though 1 should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble, Most obedient servant, SAMUEL JOHNSON.1 In the few years succeeding the publication of his "Dictionary," he employed himself in an edition of Shakspeare, and gave to the world another periodical paper entitled 4"The Idler." In the former, when it appeared in 1765, the public were very much disappointed; for though the preface was written in a style unsurpassed for its beauty and strength, and showed that he well knew the duties and requirements of a commentator upon the great dramatic poet, his annotations showed that he had not that critical knowledge of the writers of the times of Shakspeare and antecedent thereto, which is requisite properly to elucidate the bard. In 1759 he appeared in a new character, that of a Novelist, in the publication of his " Rasselas," which was written to defray the expenses of his mother's funeral. In 1762 he was relieved from pecuniary anxiety by a pension of ~300 a year, granted to hinl in consideration of the happy influence of his writings; for Lord Bute expressly told him, on his accepting the bounty, that it was given him not for any thing he was to do, buh for what he had done. In the next year, 1763, he was introduced to his biographer, James Bos well, and we have, from this date, a fuller account of him, perhaps, than was uver written of any other individual.2 From this time we are made as fa1 There is pretty good evidence that Johnson, after the first ebullition of temper had subsided, felt that he had been unreasonably violent in addressing this letter to Chesterfield; and that his lordship was not to blame for not sooner noticing Johnson's great work. Indeed the "notice," for any useful purpose, could not have been earlier. Consult-Croker's "new and revised" edition of Boswell's Johnson, 1 vol. 8vo., pp. 85, 86-a most admirable book, and one which probably contains more interestmg and valuable literary information than any other volume of equal size in the language. 2 "The most triumphant record of the talents and character of Johnson is to be found in Boswell's life of him. The man was superior to the author. When he threw aside his pen, which he regarded as an encumbrance, he became not onlylearned and thoughtfuil, but acute, witty, humorous, natusal, honest; hearty and determined,'the king of good fellows and wale of old men.' There are as many 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 651 nsiliar, as it is in the power of writing to make us, with the character, the habits, and the appearance of Johnson, and the persons and things with which he is connected. ": Every thing about him," says an able critic,1 " his coat, his wig, his figure, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly marked the approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for fish sauce, and veal pie with plunls, his inextinguishable thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walkied, his mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence; his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, his queer inmates-old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and the negro Frankr —all are as familiar to us as the objects by which we have been surrounded." In 1773, in company with Mr. Boswell, lie made a tour to the Western Islands of Scotland, of which he published art interesting and instructive account. In it he pronounces decidedly against the authenticity of the poems called " Ossian's." The last of his literary labors was his r"Lives of the Poets," which were completed in 1781.2 Though it is a work that, on the whole, is justly considered as one of the ablest contributions to English biography, it must be read with great caution; for the criticisms of Johnson are too often biased by his strong political, religious, and even personal antipathies, as is clearly evinced in the gross injustice lie has done to the two greatest poets of the series-Milton3 and Gray. "cHis indiscriminate hatred of Whig principles; his detestation of blank verse; his dislike of pastoral, lyric, and descriptive poetry; his total want of enthusiasm; and his perpetual efforts to veil the splendor of genius, are frequently lost in the admiration which the blaze and vigor of his intellectual powers so strongly excite. This is, in fact, the work in which the excellencies and defects of Johnson are placed before the reader with their full prominence; in which the lovers of philology and biography, the friends of moral and ethic wisdom, will find smart repartees, profound remarks, and keen invectives to be found in Boswell's'inventory of all he said,' as are recorded of any celebrated man. The life and dramatic play of his conversation form a contrast to his written works. His natural powers and undisguised opinions were called out in convivial intercourse. In public, he practised with the foils: in private, he unsheathed the sword of controversy, and it was'the Ebro's temper.' The eagerness of opposition roused him from his natural sluggishness and acquired timidity; he returned blow for blow; and whether the trial were of argument or wit, none of his rivals could boast much of the encounter. Burke seems to have been the only person who had a chance with him; and it is the unpardonable sin of Bosw-ell's vork, that he has purposely omitted their combats of strength and skill. Goldsmith asked,' Does he wind into a subject like a serpent, as Burke does?' And when exhausted with sickness, he himself said,'If that fellow Burke were here now, he would kill me.' "-Hazllitt's Evglish Comic Writers. 1 Read-the article in the 53d vol. of the Edinburgh Review, or in Macaulay's Miscellanies, vol. ii. p. 11: also an article, "Johnson and his Biographers," in the 46th vol. of the Quarterly: also, par ticularly, the new edition of Croker's Boswell, in one large octavo-an invaluable work; Murphy's Life, in the Preface to his Works; a " Memoir" by Sir Walter Scott, in the third volume of his Prose Works; and the " Literary Life of Dr. Johnson," in the 4th vol. of Drake's Essays. 2 " No man can entertain a higher idea of Johnson's intellectual powers as a lexicographer, a teacher, and a moralist, than myself; but poetical criticism was not his province; and though ill point of style his' Lives' be superior, perhaps, to any of his preceding compositions, they are infinitely more disgraced by the inexorable partialities of the man."-Drake's "Literary Hours," i. 22i Read, also, a fine article on Johnson in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative Biography," ii. 251. 8 What greater contrast can we conceive than that exhibited in the characters of Miltqn and Johnson; in the former of whom so predominated the imaginative and the spiritual; in the latter, the sensuous and the animal. 652 JOHNSON. [GEORGE IIT. much to applaud; but in which also the disciples of candor and impartiality, the votaries of creative fancy and of genuine poetry, will have much to regret and much to condemn." Scarcely had he finished his ", Lives of the Poets," when in May, 1781, he lost his long-tried friend Mr. Thrale, in whose house he had been a constant resident for fifteen years: and the next year deprived him of his old and faithful friend Dr. Robert Levett,l upon whose character he wrote the beautiful and touching verses which do so much honor to his heart. But his own end was drawing near. In June, 1783, he had a paralytic stroke, which for some hours deprived him of the power of speech. From this, however, he recovered, but towards the end of the year he was seized with a violent fit of asthma, accompanied with dropsical swellings of the legs. These affections subsided by the beginning of the next year; but towards the autumn they so increased, that all hopes of his recovery were at an end. He had always entertained a great dread of death, and his hours of health were imbittered by his apprehensions of dissolution. But when he saw his end actually approaching, he became entirely resigned, strong in his faith in Christ, joyful in the hope of his own salvation, and anxious for the salvation of his friends.2 "IOn the evening of the 13th of December, 1784, and in the 75th year of his age, he expired so calmly, that the persons who were sitting in the room only knew that he had ceased to breathe, by the sudden failure of the sound which had for some days accompanied his respiration." The great characteristic of Dr. Johnson was uncommon vigor and logical precision of intellect. His reasoning was sound, dexterous, and acute; his thoughts striking and original; and his imagination vivid. In conversation his style was keen and pointed, and his language appropriate; and he displayed such a comprehensive view of his subject, such accuracy of perception, such lucidity of discrimination, and such facility of illustration, as to throw light upon every question, however intricate, and to prove the best of all practical guides in the customary occurrences of life. Besides these great qualities, he possessed others of a most humiliating littleness. In many respects he seemed a different person at different times. He was intolerant of particular principles, which he would not allow to be discussed within his hearing; of particular nations, and particular individuals He was superstitious; and his mind was at an early period narrowed upon many questions, religious and political. He was open to flattery, hard to please, easy to offend, impetuous and irritable. ", The characteristic peculiarity of Johnson's intellect," says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, " was the union of great powers with low prejudices. If we judged of him by the best parts of his mind, we should place him almost as high as he was placed by the idolatry of Boswell; if by the worst parts of his mind, we should place him even below Boswell himself." This short and imperfect view of his character would convey a wrong impression, did we not add, that he was steady and inflexible in maintaining the obligations of religion, a sincere and zealous Christian, and possessed of a most kind and benevolent heart.3 1 This Dr. Levett "was the constant companion of Johnson at his morning's meal for near forty years. He was a practitioner of physic amlong the lower orders of people in London: his fees were small, but his business was extensive, and he always walked. This good man lived in great obscurity, though continually and most conscientiously employed in mitigating the sorrows of poverty and disease." 2 On nis dying bed, he particularly exhorted Sir Joshua Reynolds " to read the Bible, and to keep holy the Sabbath-day;" that is, not to paint on that day. t The Earl of Eglintoune, of remarkable elegance of manners, once remarked at a supper party 1760-1820.] J 01NSON. 653 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.'Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which we are perpetually changing our scenes; we first leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better and more pleasing part of old age." The perusal of this passage having incited in me a train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amidst my meditations; and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with the tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters. My astonishment for a time repressed my curiosity; but soon recovering myself so far as to inquire whither we were going, and what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, I was told that they were launching out into the ocean of life; that we had already passed the straits of infancy, in which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and fragility of their vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of those who undertook to steer them; and that we were now on the main sea, abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to choose among great numbers that offered their direction and assistance. I then looked round with anxious eagerness; and first turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery islands, which every one that sailed along seemed to behold with pleasure; but no sooner touched, than the current, which, though not noisy or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him away. Beyond these islands all was darkness, nor could any of the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked. Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most perspicacious eye could see but a little way. It appeared to ihe full of rocks and whirlpools, for many sunk unexpectedly while they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer security. Yet there were many, who, by false intelligence, be-.at Boswell's, that he regretted that Johnson had not been educated with more refinement and lived more in polished society. "No, no, my lord," said Baretti, "do with him wliat you would, he would always have been a bear." "True," answered the Earl with a smile, "but then he would have been a dancing bear." "To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world to Johnson's prejudice, by applying to him the epithet of a bear, let me impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of m}. friend Goldsmith, who knew him well: —'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner; but no man alive Ias a more tender heart. HIE IAS NOTIIING OP THE BEANR BU HIS SKIN.' "-B wel'. 654 JOHINSON. [GEORGE III, trayed their followers into whirlpools, or by violence pushed those whom they found in their way against the rocks. The current was invariable and insurmountable; but though it was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place that was once passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage, since, though none could retreat back from danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique direction. It was, however, not very common to steer with much care or prudence; for by some universal infatuation, every man appeared to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts every moment sinking round him; and no sooner had the waves closed ovei them, than their fate and misconduct were forgotten; the voyage was pursued with the same jocund confidence; every man congratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed: nor was it often observed that the sight of a wreck made any man change his course: if he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and left himself again to the disposal of chance. This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from weariness of their present condition; for not one of those who thus rushed upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his associates for that help which could not now be given him; and many spent their last moments in cautioning others against the folly by which they were intercepted in the midst of their course. Their benevolence was sometimes praised, but their admonitions were unregarded. The vessels in which we had embarked, being confessedly unequal to the turbulence of the stream of life, were visibly impaired in the course of the voyage; so that every passenger was certain, that how long soever he might, by favorable accidents, or by incessant vigilance, be preserved, he must sink at last. This necessity of perishing might have been expected to sadden the gay, and intimidate the daring, at least to keep the melan choly and timorous in perpetual torments, and hinder them from any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifications which nature offered them as the solace of their labor; yet in effect none seemed less to expect destruction than those to whom it was most dreadful; they all had the art of concealing their dangers from themselves; and those who knew their inability to bear the sight of the terrors that embarrassed their way, took care never to look forward, but found some amusement for the present moment, and generally entertained themselves by playing with Hope, who was thps constant associate of the voyage of life. Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even to those whom she favored most, was, not that they should escape, but that they 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 655 should sink last; and with this promise every aoe was satisfled, though he laughed at the rest for seeming to believe it. Hope, indeed, apparently mocked the credulity of her companions; for in proportion as their vessels grew lealky, she redoubled her assurances of safety; and none were more busy in making provisions for a long voyage, than they whom all but themselves saw likely to perish soon by irreparable decay. In the midst of the current of life was the gulf of Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered with herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose, and with shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within sight of these rocks all who sailed on the ocean of life must necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet by which they might escape; but very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be induced to put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she should approach so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always determined to pursue their course without any other deviation. Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulf of Intemperance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, towards the centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavored to retreat; but the draught of the gulf was generally too strong to be overcome; and the passenger, having danced in circles with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason was able to extricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon the points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were unable to continue their course with the same strength and facility as before, but floated along timorously and feebly, endangered by every breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of the water, till they sunk, by slow degrees, after long struggles and innumerable expedients, always repining at their own folly, and warning others against the first approach to the gulf of Intemperance. There were artists who professed to repair the breaches and stop the leaks of the vessels which had been shattered on the rocks of Pleasure. Many appeared to have great confidence in their skill, and some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, who had received only a single blow; but I remarked that few vessels lasted long which had been much repaired, nor was it found that the artists themselves continued afloat longer than those who had least of their assistance. 656 JOIHNSON. [GEORGE III. The only advantage which, in the voyage of life, the cautious had above the negligent, was that they sunk later, and more sudden]y; for they passed forward till they had sometimes seen all those in whose company they had issued from the straits of infancy, perish in the way, and at last were overset by a cross breeze, without the toil of resistance, or the anguish of expectation. But such as had often fallen against the rocks of Pleasure, commonly subsided by sensible degrees, contended long with the encroaching waters, and harassed themselves by labors that scarce Hope herself could flatter with success. As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some unknown Power, " Gaze not idly upon others when thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and they are equally endangered?" I looked, and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me, started and awaked. Ralmbler, No. 102. KNOWVLEDGE TO BE ACCOMMODATED TO THE PURPOSES OF LIFE. It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastic professions, and passed much of their time in academies where nothing but learning confers honors, to disregard every other qualification, and to imagine that they shall find mankind ready to pay homage to their knowledge, and to crowd about them f6r instruction. They therefore step out from their cells into the open world, with all the confidence of authority and dignity of importance; they look round about them, at once with ignorance and scorn, on a race of beings to whom they are equally unknown and equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate, and with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass their time happily among them. To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they condescend to learn what is not to be found inl any system of philosophy, it may be necessary to consider that though admiration is excited by abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse upon questions aoout which only a small part of mankind has knowledge sufficient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be useful in great occasions, may die without exerting his abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 657 remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients. No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond endearments and tender officiousness; and, therefore, no one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed as others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted as others are qualified to enjoy. By this descent from the pinnacles of art, no honor will be lost; for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination; he remits his splendor but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles less. Rambler, No. 137. THE RIGHT IMPROVEMENT OF TIME. It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires; efforts which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of reason, and range capriciously from one object to another. The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds gt nerally from a false estimate of the human power. If we except those gigantic and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound forward from one series of conclusions to ano. ther, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time is sufficient, and it is only necessary, that, whenever that time is afforded, it be well employed. Few minds will be long confined, to severe and Jaborious medi2 T 658 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. tation; and when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears another incursion till the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent in company or in solitude, in necessary business or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object of inquiry; but, perhaps, if it be detained by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited with intemperance of application. I-e that will not suffer himself to be discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel. From some cause like this it has probably proceeded, that, among those who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means, by unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, which, in the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently discovers, by informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy, lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback should be tattled away without regard to literature. An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that TIME WAS HIS ESTATE; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labors of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with noxious plants, )r laid out for show rather than for use. Rambler, No. 108. 1760-41820.] JOHNSON. 659 THE DUTY OF FORGIVENESS. A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value of time, and will itot suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, a combination of a passion which all endeavor to avoid with a passion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that "all pride is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which rea. son condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives. The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a con 660 JOIIHNSON. [GEORGE III. stant and determined pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or advantages; a continual reference of every action to' the divine will; an habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is, therefore, of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own conscience. He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of his innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind: whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly. Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he forgive. It is, therefore, superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended; and to him that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been born in vain. Rambler, No. 185. SOLITUDE NOT DESIRABLE. Though learning may be conferred by solitude, its application must be attained by general converse. He has learned to no purpose that is not able to teach; and he will always teach unsuccessfully, who cannot recommend his sentiments by his diction or address. Even the acquisition of knowledge is often much facilitated by the advantages of society: he that never compares his notions with those of others, readily acquiesces in his first thoughts, and very seldom discovers the objections which may be raised against his opiniorns; he, therefore, often thinks himself in possession of truth, when he is only fondling an error long since exploded. He that has neither companions nor rivals in his studies, will always applaud his own progress, and think highly of his performances, because he knows not that others have equalled or excelled him. And I am afraid it may be added, that the student who withdraws hiimself from the world, will soon feel that ardor extinguished which praise or emulation had enkindled, and take the advantage of secrecy to sleep, rather than to labor. 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 661 There is a set of recluses, whose intenticn entitles them to respect, and whose motives deserve a serious consideration. These retire from the world, not merely to bask in ease or gratify curiosity; but that, being disengaged from common cares, they may employ more time in the duties of religion; that they may regulate their actions with stricter vigilance, and purify their thoughts by more frequent meditation. To men thus elevated above the mists of mortality, I am far from presuming myself qualified to give directions. On him that appears 1" to pass through things temporal," with no other care than "not to lose finally the things eternal," I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts; yet I could never forbear to wish, that while vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened efifrontery, virtue would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendor of beneficence. Adventurer, No. 126. GAYETY AND GOOD-HUMOR. It is imagined by many that whenever they aspire to please, they are required to be merry, and to show the gladness of their souls by flights of pleasantry and bursts of laughter. But though these men may be for a time heard with applause and admiration, they seldom delight us long. We enjoy them a little, and then retire to easiness and good-humor, as the eye gazes a while on eminences glittering with the sun, but soon turns aching away to verdure and to flowers. Gayety is to good-humor, as animal perfumes to vegetable fragrance. The one overpowers weak spirits, and the other recreates and revives them. THE CONVERSATION OF AUTHORS. A transition from an author's book to his conversation, is too often like an e trance into a large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendor, grandeur, and magnificence; but when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke. 50 662 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. BOOKS AND TRADITION, Rooks are faithful repositories, which may be a while neglected or forgotten; but when they are opened again, will again impart their instruction: memory once interrupted is not to be recalled. Written learning is a fixed luminary, which, after the cloud that has hidden it has passed away, is again bright in its proper station. Tradition is but a meteor, which, if once it falls, cannot be ret kindled. PREVENTION OF EVIL HABITS. Those who are in the power of evil habits must conquer them as they can; and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness can be attained; but those who are not yet subject to their influence, may, by timely caution, preserve their freedom; they may effectually resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they will very vainly resolve to conquer. FROM THE PREFACE TO HIS DICTIONARY. In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labor of years, to the honor of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authors: whether I shall add any thing by my own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to time; much of my life has been lost under the pressures of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has always been spent in provision for the day that was passing over me; but I shall not think my employment useless or ignoble, if, by my assistance, foreign nations and distant ages gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand the teachers of truth; if my labors afford light to the repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, antd to Boyle. When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has endeavored well. That it will immediately become popular, I have not promised to myself; a few wild blunders and risible absurdities, from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance into contempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there can never be wanting some who distinguish desert, who will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to publication, some words are budding and some falling away; that a whole life cannot be spent upoIn syntax and etymology, and that even a whole 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 663 life would not be sufficient; that he whose design includes whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does not understand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under a task which Scaliger compares to the labors of the anvil and the mine; that what is obvious is not always known, and what is known is not always present; that sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment of need for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow. In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let.t not be forgotten that much likewise is performed; and though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author, and the world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns, yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the aggregated knowledge and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians did not secure them from the censure of Beni; if the embodied critics of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second edition another form, I may surely be contented without the praise of perfection, which, if I could obtain in this gloom of solitude, what would it avail me? I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds. I therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise. REFLECTIONS ON LANDING AT IONA.1 We were now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion 1 One of the Western Isles. 664 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. owould be impossible itf it were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force on the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona. PICTURE OF THE MISERIES OF WVAR. It is wonderful with what coolness and indifference the greater part of mankind see war commenced. Those that hear of it at a distance or read of it in books, but have never presented its evils to their minds, consider it as little more than a splendid game, a proclamation, an army, a battle, and a triumph. Some, indeed, must perish in the successful field, but they die upon the bed of honor, resign their lives amidst the joys of conquest, and, filled with England's glory, smile in death! The life of a modern soldier is ill represented by heroic fiction. War has means of destruction more formidable than the cannon and the sword. Of the thousands and ten thousands that perished in our late contests with France and Spain, a very small part ever felt the stroke of an enemy; the rest languished in tents and ships, amidst damps and putrefaction; pale, torpid, spiritless, and helpless; gasping and groaning, unpitied among men, made obdurate by long continuance of hopeless misery; and were at last whelmed in pits, or heaved into the ocean, without notice and without remembrance. By incommodious encampments and unwholesome stations, where courage is useless and enterprise impracticable, fleets are silently dispeopled, and armies sluggishly melted away. Thus is a people gradually exhausted, for the most part, with little effect. The wars of civilized nations make very slow changes in the system of empire. The public perceives scarcely any alteration but an increase of debt; and the few individuals who are benefited are not supposed to have the clearest right to their advantages. If he that shared the danger enjoyed the profit, and after bleeding in the battle, grew rich by the victory, he might show his gains without envy. But at the conclusion of a ten years' war, how are we recompensed for the death of multitudes and the expense of millions, but by contemplating the sudden glories of paymasters and agents, contractors and commissaries, whose equipages shine like meteors, and whose palaces rise like exhalations! 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 665 PARALLEL BETWEEN DRYDEN AND POPE. Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment were nut allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope-. The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people; and when he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration; when occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude. Pope was not content to satisfy; he desired to excel, and therefore always endeavored to do his best: he did not court the candor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and, expecting no indulgence from others, he showed none to himself. He examined lines and words with minute and punctilious observation, and retouched every part with inldefatigable diligence till he had left nothing to be forgiven. For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands, while he considered and reconsidered them. The only poems which can be supposed to have been written with such regard to the times as might hasten their publication, were the two satires of' "Thirty-eight;" of which Dodsley told me, that they were brought to him by the author, that they might be fairly copied. "Almost every line," he said, "was then written twice over; I gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards to me for the press, with almost every line written twice over a second time." His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their publication, was not strictly true. His parental attention never abandoned them; what he found amiss in the first edition, he silently corrected in those that followed. He appears to have revised the "Iliad," and freed it from some of its imperfections; and the ~ Essay on Criticism" received many improvements after its first appearance. It will seldom be found that he altered without adding clearness, elegance,,or vigor. Pope had perhaps the judgment of Dryden; but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of Pope. In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before he 56,* 666 JOHNSON, [GEORGE III. became an author, had been allowed more time for study, with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation; and those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. Poetry was not the sole praise of either; for both excelled likewise in prose; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied; that of Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden observes the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by the roller. Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet; that quality without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates; the superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more; for every other writer since Milton must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden it must be said, that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate all that study might produce, or chance might supply. If the flights of Dryden therefore are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls below It. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with perpetual delight. Life of Pope. SHAKSPEARE. Shakspeare is, above all writers,-at least above all modern writers,-the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or profes 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 667 sions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by the acci dents of transient fashions or temporary opinions, they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find. His persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual: in those of Shakspeare it is commonly a species. It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakspeare with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; and it may be said of Shakspeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendor of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and the tenor of his dialogue: and he that tries to recommend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen. It will not easily be imagined how much Shakspeare excels in accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him with other authors. It was observed of the ancient schools of declamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the more was the student disqualified for the world, because he found nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of Shakspeare. The theatre, when it is under any other direction, is peopled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in a language which was never heard, upon topics which will never arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this author is often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned by diligent selection out of common conversa ion and common occurrences. Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable; to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and harass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rapture, and part in agony; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed; to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered: is the business of a modern dramatist. For this, probability is 668 JOHNSO:N. [GEORGE III. violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions; and as it has no great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas of a poet, who caught his ideas fromn the living world, and exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or c.alamity. This, therefore, is the praise of Shakspeare, that his drama is the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies, by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions. Shakspeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of proportion, and innumerable modes of combination; and expressing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolic of another; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without design. Shakspeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than either to the appearance of life, by showing how great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. The force of his comic scenes has suffered.little diminution from the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words. As his personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and therefore durable. The adventitious pecu 1760-1820.] JOHNSON. 669 liarities of personal habits are only superficial dyes, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discriminations of true passion are the colors of nature; they pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance which combined them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another; but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakspeare. Preface to Shakspeare, THE FATE OF POVERTY. By numbers here from shame or censure free, All crimes are safe but hated poverty. This, only this, the rigid law pursues, This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. Tlhe sober trader at a tatter'cl cloak Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke; With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? No secret island in the boundless main? No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? 1 Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is every whe'e confess'd, SLOW IriSES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D. London. CARDINAL WOLSEY. In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their powers consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine. Turn'd by his nod, the stream of honor flows, His smile alone security bestows; Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please, And rights submitted left him none to seize. I The Spaniards had at this time laid claim to several of the English provinces in America. 670 JOHNSON. [GEORGE ITr. At length his sovereign frowns-the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turins, lie meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liveried army, and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest: Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Vanity of Human Wishes. CHARLES XII.1 On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and. no labors tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain. Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field: Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;': Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till naught remail, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mrine beneath the polar sky." The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, And Winter barricades the realms of Frost; He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; — Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd, a needy suppliant, to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not Chance at length her error mend 2 Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left a name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale. Vanity of Human Wishes. I Charles XMI., King of Sweden, having invaded Russia, was totally defeated at the battle of Pul. towa, and forced to seek refuge in Turkey. He was afterwards killed at the siege of a little fort in Norway, IT60-1820.] JOHNSON. 671 OBJECTS OF PETITION. Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? MIJst dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Mlust helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise; No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, eease; petitions yet remainl, Which Heaven may hear, nor deemn religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious prayer; Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; With these celestial Wisdom calmls the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. Vanity of Hman Wishes THE FOLLY OF PROCRASTINATION. To-morrow's action! can that hoary wisdom, Borne down with years, still dote upon to-morrow! That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, The coward, and the fool, condenmn'd to lose A useless life in waiting for to-morrow; To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow; Till interposing death destroys the prospect: Strange I that this general fraud from day to day Should fill the world with wretches undetected. The soldier, laboring through a winter's mnarch, Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumnph; Still to the lover's long-expecting arms, To-morrow brings the visionary bride, But thou, too old to bear another cheat, Learn, that the present hour alone is man's. l'lo.aedy of trene. 72i GIREVILLE. [GEORGE BU. MRS. GREVILLE. OF Mrs. Greville, whose "c Prayer for Indifference" has been so much admired, I cannot, after the greatest search, give the least account. PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. Oft I've implored the gods in vain, And pray'd till I've been weary: For once I'll seek my wish to gain Of Oberon the fairy. Sweet airy being, wanton sprite Who lurk'st in woods unseen, And oft by Cynthia's silver light, Trip'st gayly o'er the green; If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, As ancient stories tell, And for th' Athenian maid I who loved, Thou sought'st a wondrous spell; O deign once more t' exert thy power I Haply some herb or tree, Sovereign as juice of western flower, Conceals a balm for me. I ask no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please; Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease: Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know. That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too. Far as distress the soul can wound,'Tis pain in each degree''Tis bliss but to a certain bound; Beyond, is agony. Then take this treacherous sense of mine Which dooms me still to suart; Which pleasure can to pain refine, To pain new pangs impart. 0 haste to shed the sovereign balm, My shatter'd nerves new string; And for my guest serenely calm, The nymph Indifference bring! At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, See Expectation fly! And Disappointment in the rear, That blasts the promised joy I 1 See Midsummer Night's Dream. 17 I30-1820.] LOWTHt. 673 The tear which Pity taught to flow, The eye shall then disown; The heart that melts for others' woe, Shall then scarce feel its own: The wounds which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close; And tranquil days shall still succeed To nights of calm repose. 0 Fairy Elf! but grant me this, This one kind comfort send, And so may never-fading bliss Thy flowery paths attend! So may the glow-worm's glimmering light Thy tiny footsteps lead To some new region of delight, Unknown to mortal tread! And be thy acorn goblet fill'd With heaven's ambrosial dew, From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, That shed fresh sweets for you! And what of life remains for me, I'll pass in sober ease; Half-pleased, contented will I be, Content but half to please. ROBERT LOWTH. 1710-1787. RoBERT LowTH, a distinguished prelate in the English charch, was born in the year 1710. He was educated at Winchester School, and at Oxford,' arid after leaving the university he entered into the church, in which he rose by regular gradations, till he became, in 1777, Bishop of London. He died in 1787, in the seventy-seventh year of his age. The writings by which Bishop Lowth is most known, are, "c A Short Introduction to English Grammar," for many years a text-book in the schools and colleges in England and in this country; his 4"Translation of the Prophet Isaiah," with a large body of valuable notes; and his " Lectures on the Poe1 "I was educated," says Bishop Lowth, "in the University of Oxford. I enjoyed all the advantages, both public and private, which that famous seat of learning so largely affords. I spent many years in that illustrious society, in a well-regulated course of useful discipline and studies, and in the agreeable and improving commerce of gentlemen and of scholars; in a society where emulation without envy, ambition without jealousy, contention without animosity, incited industry and awakened genius; where a liberal pursuit of knowledge, and a genuine freedom of thought, were raised, encouraged, and pushed forward by example, by commendation, and by authority. I breathed the same atmosphere that the HOOKERS, the CHILLINGWOTHS, and the LOCeES had breathed before vwhose benevolence and humanity were as extensive as their vast genius and comprehensive know ledge." With reference to this encomium of Lowth upon his Alma Mater, Gibbon, the historian, makes the following beautiful remark: "The expression of gratitude is a virtue and a pleasure: a liberal mind will delight to cherish and celebrate the memory of its parents; and THE TEACHERS Or SCE.NCE ABR THB; PARENTS OF THE MIN]D." 2 U 57 t' 14 LOWTH. [GEORGE III. try of the Hebrews." The latter is a work which unites a depth of learning to a discriminating criticism and a refined taste, in a very unusual degree; and while it is of inestimable value to the professed Biblical student, it affords equal pleasure and instruction to the general reader. From the first Lecture we extract the followving just and tasteful remarks, upon PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY COMPARED AS SOURCES OF PLEASURE AND INSTRUCTION. Poetry is commonly understood to have two objects in view, namely, advantage and pleasure, or rather a union of both. I wish those who have furnished us with this definition had rather proposed utility as its ultimate object, and pleasure as the means by which that end may be effectually accomplished. The philosopher and the poet, indeed, seem principally to differ in the means by which they pursue the same end. Each sustains the character of a preceptor, which the one is thought best to support, if he teach with accuracy, with subtlety, and with perspicuity; the other with splendor, harmony, and elegance. The one makes his appeal to reason only, independent of the passions; the other addresses the reason in such a manner as even to engage the passions on his side. The one proceeds to virtue and truth by the nearest and most compendious ways; the other leads to the same point through certain deflections and deviations, by a winding but pleasanter path. It is the part of the former so to describe and explain these objects, that we must necessarily become acquainted with them; it is the part of the latter so to dress and adorn them, that of our own accord we must love and embrace them. I therefore lay it down as a fundamental maxim, that Poetry isuseful,' chiefly because it is agreeable; and should I, as we are apt to do, attribute too much to my favorite occupation, I trust Philosophy will forgive me when I add, that the writings of the poet are more useful than those of the philosopher, inasmuch as they are more agreeable. To illustrate this position by a wellknown example: —Who can believe that even the most tasteless could peruse the writings on agriculture, either of the learned Varro or of Columella, an author by no means deficient in ele1 I cannot but insert here the following very fine remarks of Leigh Hunt, on the Utility of Poetry. "No man recognises the worth of utility more than the poet; he only desires that the meaning of the term may not come short of its greatness, and exclude the noblest necessities of his fellow-creatures. He is quite as much pleased, for instance, with the facilities for rapid conveyance afforded him by the railroad, as the dullest confiner of its advantages to that single idea, or as the greatest two-idead man who varies that single idea with hugging himself on his' buttons' or his good dinner. But he sees also the beauty of the country through which he passes, of the towns, of the heavens, of the steamn-engine itself, thundering and fuming along like a magic horse; of the affections that are carrying. perhaps, half the passengers on their journey, nay, of those of the great two-idead man; and, oeyond all this, he discerns the incalculable amount of good, and knowledge, and refinement, and mutual consideration, which this wonderful invention is fitted to circulate over the globe, perhaps to the disDlacenent of war itself, and certainly to the diffusion of millions of enjoymeritu." 1760-1820.] LOWVTH. 675 gance, with the same pleasure and attention as that most delightful and most perfect work, the Georgics of Virgil? a work in which he has equalled the most respectable writers in the solidity of his matter, and has greatly excelled the most elegant in the incredible harmony of his numbers. But if it be manifest, even in authors who directly profess improvement and advantage, that those will most efficaciously instruct who afford most entertainment; the same will be still more apparent in those who, dissembling the intention of instruction, exhibit only the blandishments of pleasure; and while they treat of the most important things, of all the principles of moral action, all the offices of life, yet laying aside the severity of the preceptor, adduce at once all the decorations of elegance, and all the attractions of amusement: who display, as in a picture, the actions, the manners, the pursuits and passions of men; and by the force of imitation and fancy, by the harmony of numbers, by the taste and variety of imagery, captivate the affections of the reader, and imperceptibly, or perhaps reluctantly, impel him to the pursuit of virtue. Such is the real purpose of heroic poetry; such is the noble effect produced by the perusal of Homer And who so thoughtless, or so callous, as not to feel incredible pleasure in that most agreeable occupation? Who is not moved, astonished, enraptured, by the inspiration of that most sublime genius? Who so inanimate as not to see, not to feel inscribed, or as it wc re imprinted upon his heart, his most excellent maxims concerning human life and manners? From philosophy a few cold precepts may be deduced; in history, some dull and spiritless examples of manners may be found: here we have the energetic voice of Virtue herself, here we behold her animated fbrm. Poetry addresses her precepts not to the reason alone; she calls the passions to her aid: she not only exhibits examples, but infixes them in the mind. She softens the wax with her peculiar ardor, and renders it more plastic to the artist's hand. Thus does HGrace most truly and most justly apply this commendation to the poets What's fair, and false, and right, these bards describe, Better and plainer than the Stoic tribePlainer, or more completely, because they do not perplex their disciples with the dry detail of parts and definitions, but so per fectly and so accurately delineate, by examples of every kind, the forms of the human passions and habits, the principles of social and civilized life, that he who from the schools of philosophy should turn to the representations of Homer, would feel himself transported from a narrow and intricate path to an extensive and flourishing field:-Better,- because the poet teaches not by maxims and precepts, and in the dull sententious form; but by the har 676 LOWTH. [GEORGE III. mony of verse, by the beauty of imagery, by the ingenuity of the fable, by the exactness of imitation, he allures and interests the mind of the reader, he fashions it to habits of virtue, and in a manner informs it with the spirit of integrity itself. But if from the Heroic we turn to the Tragic Muse, to which Aristotle indeed assigns the preference, because of the true and perfect imitation, we shall yet more clearly evince the superiority of poetry over philosophy, on the principle of its being more agree. able. Tragedy is, in truth, no other than philosophy introduced upon the stage, retaining all its natural properties, remitting nothing of its native gravity, but assisted and embellished by other favoring circumstances. What point, for instance, of moral discipline have the tragic writers of Greece left untouched or unadorned? What duty of life, what principle of political economy, what motive or precept for the government of the passions, what commendation of virtue is there, which they have not treated of with fulness, variety, and learning? The moral of iEschylus (not only a poet, but a Pythagorean) will ever be admired. Nor were Sophocles and Euripides less illustrious for the reputation of wisdom; the latter of whom was the disciple of Socrates and Anaxagoras, and was known among his friends by the title of the dramatic philosopher. In these authors, surely, the allurements of poetry afforded some accession to the empire of philosophy: nor indeed has any man arrived at the summit of poetic fame, who did not previously lay the foundation of his art in true philosophy. But there are other species of poetry which also deserve to partake in the commendation; and first the Ode, " With thoughts that breathe, and words that burn;" which, though in some respects inferior to what are called the higher species of poetry, yields to none in force, ardor, and sometimes even in dignity and solemnity. Its amazing power in directing the passions, in forming the manners, in maintaining civil life, and particularly in exciting and cherishing that generous elevation of sentiment on which the very existence of public virtue seems to depend, will be sufficiently apparent by only contemplating those monuments of genius which Greece has bequeathed to posterity. If we examine the poems of Pindar, how exquisite must have been the pleasure, how vivid the sensation to the Greek, whose ordinary amusement it was to sing, or hear them sung! For, this kind of entertainment was not confined to persons of taste and learning, but had grown into general use.'When he heard his gods, his heroes, his ancestors received into the num bher of the gods, celebrated in a manner so glorious, so divine, would not his bosom glow with the desire of fame, with the most fervid emulation,of virtue, with a patriotism, immoderate perhaps, 1760-1820.] LOWTrH. 677 but honorable and useful in the highest degree? Is it wonderful, that he should be so elevated with this greatness of mind, (shall I call it?) or rather insolence and pride, as to esteem every other people mean, barbarous, and contemptible, in comparison with himself and his own countrymen? It is certainly unnecessary to remind the scholar, that in the sacred games which afforded so much support to the warlike virtue of Greece, no inconsiderable share of dignity and esteem resulted from the verses of the poets; nor did the Olympic crown exhibit a more ample reward to the candidates for victory, than the encomium of Pindar or Stesichorus. What a spirited defender of the laws and constitution of his country is Alcaeus! what a vigorous opposer of tyrants! who consecrated equally his sword and his lyre on the altar of freedom! whose prophetic muse, ranging through every region, acted as the sacred guardian, not for the present moment only, but for future ages; not of his own city alone, but of the whole commonwealth of Greece. Poetry such as this, so vehement, so animated,- is certainly to be esteemed highly efficacious, as well in exciting the human mind to virtue, as in purifying it from every mean and vicious propensity; but still more especially does it conduce to cherish and support that vigor of soul, that generous temper and spirit, which is both the offspring and guardian of liberty. Thus far poetry must be allowed to stand eminent among the other liberal arts; inasmuch as it refreshes the mind when it is fatigued, soothes it when it is agitated, relieves and invigorates it when it is depressed; as it elevates the thoughts to the admiration of what is beautiful, what is becoming, what is great and noble: nor is it enough to say, that it delivers the precepts of virtue in the most agreeable manner; it insinuates or instils into the soul the very principles of morality itself. Moreover, since the desire of glory, innate in man, appears to be the most powerful incentive to great and heroic actions, it is the peculiar function of poetry to improve this bias of our nature, and thus to cherish and enliven the embers of virtue: and since one of the principal employments of poetry consists in the celebration of great and virtuous actions, in transmitting to posterity the examples of the bravest and most excellent men, and in consecrating their names to immortality; this praise is certainly its due, that while it forms the mind to habits of rectitude by its precepts, directs it by examples, excites and animates it by its peculiar force, it has also the distinguished honor of distributing to virtue the most ample and desirable rewards of its labors. But, after all, we shall think more humbly of poetry than it deserves, unless we direct our attention to that quarter where its importance is most eminently conspicuous; unless we contemplate it as employed on sacred subjects, and in subservience to religion. 5)7* 678 LOWTI. [GEORGE III. This indeed appears to have been the original office and destination of poetry; and this it still so happily performs, that in all other cases it seems out of character, as if intended for this purpose alone. In other instances poetry appears to want the assistance of art, but in this to shine forth with all its natural splendor, or rather to be animated by that inspiration, which, on other occasions, is spoken of without being felt. These observations are remarkably exemplified in the Hebrew poetry, than which the human mind can conceive nothing more elevated, more beautiful, or more elegant; in which the almost ineffable sublimity of the subject is fully equalled by the energy of the language and the dignity of the style. And it is worthy observation, that as some of these writings exceed in antiquity the fabulous ages of Greece, in sublimity they are superior to the most finished productions of that polished people. Thus, if the actual origin of poetry be inquired after, it must of necessity be referred to religion. Of this origin poetry even yet exhibits no obscure indications, since she ever embraces a divine and sacred subject with a hind of filial tenderness and affection. To the sacred haunts of religion she delights to resort as to her native soil: there she most willingly inhabits, and there she flourishes in all her pristine beauty and vigor. SUBLIMITY OF THE PROPHET ISAIAH. Whoever wishes to understand the full force and excellence ot the figure of Personification, as well as the elegant use of it in the Hebrew ode, must apply to Isaiah, whom I do not scruple to pronounce the sublimest of poets. He will there find, in one short poem, examples of almost every form of the Prosopopceia, and indeed of all that constitutes the sublime in composition. I trust it will not be thought unseasonable to refer immediately to the passage itself, and to remark a few of the principal excellencies.' The prophet, after predicting the liberation of the Jews from their severe captivity in Babylon, and their restoration to their own country, introduces them as reciting a kind of triumphal song upon the fall of the Babylonish monarch, replete with imagery, and with the most elegant and animated personifications. A sudden exclamation, expressive of their joy and admiration on the unexpected revolution in their affairs, and the destruction of their tyrants, forms the exordium of the poem. The earth itself triumphs with the inhabitants thereof; the fir-trees and the cedars,f Lebanon (under which images the parabolic style frequently,delineates the kings and princes of the Gentiles) exult with joy, end persecute with contemptuous reproaches the humbled power of a ferocious enemy -- 1 Isa. xiv. 4-27. 1760-1820.] LOWTI. 679 The whole earth is at rest, is quiet; they burst forth into a joyful shout Even the fir-trees rejoice over thee, the cedars of Lebanon: Since thou art fallen, no feller hath come up against us. This is followed by a bold and animated personification of Hades, or the infernal regions. Hades excites his inhabitants, the ghosts of princes, and the departed spirits of kings: they rise immediately from their seats, and proceed to meet the monarch of Babylon; they insult and deride him, and comfort themselves with the view of his calamity:Art thou, even thou too, become weak as we? Art thou made like unto us? Is then thy pride brought down to the grave? the sound of thy sprightly instruments? Is the vermin become thy couch, and the earth-worm thy covering? Again, the Jewish people are the speakers, in an exclamation after the manner of a funeral lamentation, which indeed the whole, form of this composition exactly imitates. The remarkable fall of this powerful monarch is thus beautifully illustrated:How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! Art cut clown from earth, thou that didst subdue the nations! He himself is at length brought upon the stage, boasting in the most pompous terms of his own power, which furnishes the poet with an excellent opportunity of displaying the unparalleled misery of his downfall. Some persons are introduced, who find the dead carcass of the king of Babylon cast out and exposed: they attentively contemplate it, and at last scarcely know it to oe his:Is this the man that made the earth to trenblle; that shook tli kingdoms? That made the world like a desert; that destroyed the cities? They reproach him with being denied the common rites tf sepulture, on account of the cruelty and atrocity of his conduct; they execrate his name, his offspring, and their posterity. A solemn address, as of the Deity himself, closes the scene; and he denounces against the king of Babylon, his posterity, and even against the city which was the seat of their cruelty, perpetual destruction; and confirms the immutability of his own counsels by the solemnity of an oath. How forcible is this imagery, how diversified, how sublime! how elevated the diction, the figures, the sentiments! The Jewish nation, the cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of departed kings, the Babylonish monarch, the travellers who find his corpse, and 1 This is, I think, the most sublime image I have ever seen conveyed in so few words. The aptness of the allegory to express the ruin of a powerful monarch by the fall of a bright star from hea ven, strikes the mind in the most forcible manner; and the poetical beauty of the passage is greatl. heightened by the personification, "Son of the morning." Whoever does not relish such paintingau this is not only destitute of poetical taste, but of the comlinon feelings of hmralanity. 680 WARTON. [GEORGE III. last of all JEHOVAH himself, are the characters which support this beautiful lyric drama. One continued action is kept up, or rather a series of interesting actions are connected together in an incomparable whole. This, indeed, is the principal and distinguished excellence of the sublimer ode, and is displayed in its utmost perfection in this poem of Isaiah, which may be considered as one of the most ancient, and certainly the most finished specimen of that species of composition which has been transmitted to us. The personifications here are frequent, yet not confused; bold, yet not improbable: a free, elevated, and truly divine spirit pervades the whole; nor is there any thing wanting in this ode to defeat its claim to the character of perfect beauty and sublimity. If, indeed, I may be indulged in the free declaration of my own sentiments on this occasion, I do not know a single instance in the whole compass of Greek and Roman poetry, which, in every excellence of composition, can be said to equal, or even to approach it. THOMAS WARTON. 1728-1790. THOMXA WARTON, the learned author of the i" History of English Poetry," was born at Basingstolke in 1728, of a family remarkable for its talent. His father, Rev. Thomas Warton, was professor of poetry at Oxford, and died in 1745: and his brother Joseph was the author of the " Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope." Thomas was educated at Carmbridge, and early acquired distinction by the superiority of his poetical productions. In 1754 lihe published his 1" Observations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser," which at, once established his reputation for true poetic taste, and for extensive and varied learning. In 1757 he was elected to the professorship of poetry in Pembroke College, the duties of which office he discharged with remarkable ability and success. In 1774 he published his first volume of A" The History of English Poetry:" a second volume appeared in 1778, and a third in 1781. Into this very elaborate performance Warton poured the accumulated stores of a lifetime of reading and reflection: the survey he has given us of his subject is, accordingly, both eminently comprehensive in its scope, and rich and varied in its details: and as respects early English literature, it is a repository of information altogether unapproached in extent and abundance by any other single work of the same kind in the language. The work is, how. ever, brought down to but very little beyond the commencement of the reign of Elizabeth, as he died while engaged in it, in May, 1790. It is deeply to!.e regretted that he had not carried the history of our literature through the reign of Elizabeth, as no one has presumed to continue the work; for to contmnue it with like success, would require the union of like powers-a combination rarely given to man.2 i fn Southamncon county, about 45 miles W. S. W. of London. 2'a His consummate taste and discriminating judgment may on all occasions be implicitly trusted " Lr EqertoP BJdgxPS. 17'60 —1820.] WARTON. b81 THE HAMLET.-AN ODE. The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild, Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care, and guilty gain! When morning's twilight-tinctured beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell. Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue: In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds; And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charnm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store. For them the moon with cloudless ray Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary spirits to relieve, The mneadow's incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare, That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfew's measured roar Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, Has echoed from the distant toxwn, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose. Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primrosed coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, To rob the raven's ancient nest. Their humble porch with honey'd flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers: From the small garden's thyrny mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime: 682 WARTON. [GEORGE II. But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar, As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. THE CRUSADE.-AN ODE. Bound for holy Palestine, Nimbly we brush'd the level brine, All in azure steel array'd: O'er the wave our weapons play'd, And made the dancing billows glow; High upon the trophied prow, Many a warrior-minstrel swung His sounding harp, and boldly sung: " Syrian virgins, wail and weep, English Richard' ploughs the deep! Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy From distant towers, with anxious eye, The radiant range of shield and lance Down Damascus' hills advance: From Sion's turrets, as afar Ye ken the march of Europe's war! Saladin,2 thou paynim3 king, From Albion's isle revenge we bring! On Acon's4 spiry citadel, Though to the gale thy banners swell, Pictured with the silver moon, England shall end thy glory soon! In vain to break our firm array, Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray: Those sounds our rising fury fan: English Richard in the van, On to victory we go,A vaunting infidel the foe!" B!ondel5 led the tuneful band, And swept the lyre with glowing hand. Cypress, from her rocky mound, And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd, Far along the smiling main Echoed the prophetic strain. Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth That gave a murder'd Saviour birth! Then with ardor fresh endued, Thus the solemn song renew'd: "Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favor'd hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow, We tread the Tyrian valleys now. 1 Richst i I., surnamed, from his valor, Coeur de Lion. 2 The chief of the Mohammedans that defended Palestine against the Crusaders. 8 Pagae.; it means here the professor of a false religion. 4 Anciently called Ptolemais; now St. Jean d'Acre. b The Aflthful minstrel of King RIichard. 1760-1820.] WARTON. 683 From Carmel's almond-shaded steep We feel the cheering fragrance creep: O'er Engaddi's ] shrulbs of balmn Waves the date-empurpled palm; See Lebanon's aspiring head Wide his immortal umbrage spread! Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar, Wet with our Redeemer's gore! Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn, Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn; Your ravish'd honors to restore Fearless we climb this hostile shore! And, thou, the sepulchre of God, By mocking pagans rudely trod, Bereft of every awful rite, And quench'd thy lamj s that beam'd so baight For thee, from Britain's distant coast, Lo, Richard leads his faithful host! Aloft in his heroic hand, Blazing like the beacon's brand, O'er the far-affrighted fields, Resistless Kaliburn2 he wields. Proud Saracen, pollute no more The shrines by martyrs built of yore! From each wild mountain's tra, lless crown In vain thy gloomy castles frown: Thy battering-engines, huge and high, In vain our steel-clad steeds defy; Asnd, rolling in terrific state, On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp, Amid the moonlight vapors damp, Thy necromantic forms, in vain, Haunt us on the tented plain: We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt, Ashtaroth3 and Termagaunt!4 With many a demon, pale of hue, Doom'd to drink the bitter dew That drops from Macon's5 sooty tree,'Mid the dread grove of ebony. Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell, The Christian's holy courage qluel. "Salem, in ancient majesty Arise, and lift thee to the sky! Soon on the battlements divine Shall wave the badge of Constantine. Ye barons, to the sun unfold Our cross, with crimson wove and gold!" 1 A mountain of Palestine. 2 The celebrated sword of the British king, Arthur, said to have come into the possession of King Richard, and to have been given by him, as a present of inestimable value, to Tancned, King oft Sicily. 3 A Syrian goddess. 4 The Ignorant old chroniclers believed that the Mohammedans were idolaters, and that they worshipped some deity named Ternagaunt. 6 This alludes to an oriental superstition respecting a poisonous tree, 684 ROBERTSON. [GEORGE ITT. WILLIAM ROBERTSON. 1721 —1793. WILLIAx ROBERTSON-, the celebrated historian, was born at Bosthwick, in the county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland, on the 8th of September, 1721. At the early age of twelve he obtained adcllission into the university, where his subsequent progress in learning was rapid, in proportion to the astonishing acquirements of his childhood. On entering the ministry of the established church of Scotland. he performed the duties of his station with exemplary diligence; and in 1759, by the publication of the "History of Scotland," he commenced that series of admirable histories, which have justly placed lim among the very first historical writers of his country. In 1769 he published his " History of Charles V.," which raised his then increasing reputation still higher, and which, fiom the general interest belonging to the subject, was very popular. The introductory part consists of an able sketch of the political and social state of Europe at the time of the accession of Charles V.,' a most important period, which forms the connection between the middle ages and the history of modern European society and politics. In 1777 he published his " History of America," and in 1791, "' An Historical Disquisition concerning the Knowledge which the Ancients had of India." After spending a life of equal piety, usefulness, and honor, he died on the 11th of June, 1793. Most of the works of Dr. Robertson relate to that important period, when the countries of Europe were beginning to form constitutions, and act upon the political systems which were for centuries preserved. His style is easy and flowing, his language correct, his opinions enlightened, his investigation diligent, and his expressions temperate. Hume, notwithstanding the difference of their religious opinions, greatly extolled his History of Scotland; and Gibbon has borne ample testimony both to his accuracy and his style.2 RESIGNATION OF CHARLES V. Charles resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction; and to perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp, as might leave an indelible impression on the minds, not only of his subjects, but of his successor. With this view, he called Philip out of England, where the peevish temper of his queen, which increased with her despair of having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy; and the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having assembled the.states of the Low Countries, at Brussels, on the 25th of October, 1555, Charles seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of 1 Charles V., Emperor of Germany, (1519-1555,) and King of Spain, (1516-1555,) was the most influential and prominent monarch of the period in which he flourished. Some of the sovereigns contemporary with him were, Henry VIII. of England, (1509-1547,) Francis I. of France, (15151547,) Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, (1523-1560,) and Soliman the Magnifiecent, of the Ottoman Emplire, (1520-1566,) under whom the Turkish power attained its highest pitch. 2 L"The perfect composition, the nervous language, the well-turned periods of Dr. Robertson, in, Plamed me to the ambitious hope that I might one day tread in his footsteps: the calm philosophy, the careless, inimitable beauties of his friend and rival, Hume, often forced me to close the volume with a mixed sensation of delight and despair." —Gibbon's fnemoirs, Chap. v 1760-1820.] ROBERTSON. 685 state; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his sister, the Queen of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands; with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the empire, standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip, his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. Charles then rose from his seat, and, leaning on the shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience, and, from a paper which he held in hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed since the commencement of his administration. He observed, that, from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects; reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure: that, either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea: that while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigor of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labor, nor repined under fatigue: that now, when his health was broken, and his vigor exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admnonished him to retire; nor was he so fond of reigning as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy: that, instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigor of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years: that if, during the course of a long administration he had committed any material error in government; or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects; he now implored their forgiveness: that for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his 58 686 ROBERTSON. EGEORGE III. sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services; and, in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, "If," says he, "I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions some regard would have been justly due to my memory, on that account: but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might still have retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions ol thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I this day give of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes; en croach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and, if thf time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted, and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some, from admiration of his magnanimity; others, softened by the expression of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. A few weeks afterwards, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the Old and in the New World. Of all these vast possessions he reserved nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monastery of St. Justus, in the province of Estramadura. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months before his resignation he had sent an architect thither to add a new 1760-1820.] ROBERTSON. 687 apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation; but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suited his present situation rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms; four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other twvo, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground, with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. COLUMBUS DISCOVERING AMERICA. The presages of discovering land were now so numerous and promising, that he deemed them infallible. For some days the sounding line reached the bottom, and the soil which it brought up indicated land to be at no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such land-birds as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of timber artificially carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a tree with red berries perfectly fresh. The clouds around the setting sun assumed a new appearance; the air was more mild and warm, and during night the wind became unequal and variable. From all these symptoms Columbus was so confident of being near land, that on the evening of the eleventh of October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the ships to lie to, keeping strict watch lest they should be driven ashore in the night. During this interval of suspense and expectation, no man shut his eyes; all kept upon deck, gazing intently towards that quarter where they expected to discover the land, which had so long been the object of their wishes. About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately pointed it out to Pedro Guttierez, a page of the queen's wardrobe. Guttierez perceived it, and calling to Salcedo, comptroller of the fleet, all three saw it in motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little after midnight, the joyful sound of land! land! was heard from the Pinta, which kept always ahead of the other ships. But having been so often deceived by fallacious appearances, every man was now become slow of belief, and waited in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience for the return of day. As soon as morning dawned, all doubts and fears were dispelled. Front every ship an island was seen about two leagues to the north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, and watered with many 688 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. rivulets, presented the aspect of a delightful country. The crew of the Pinta instantly began the Te Deum, as a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were joined by those of the other ships, with tears of joy and transports of congratulation. This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their commander. They threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation, mingled. with reverence. They implored him to pardon their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had created him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan; and passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme to another, they now pronounced the man whom they had so lately reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conception of all former ages. As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned and armed. They rowed towards the island with their colors displayed,-with warlike music, and other martial pomp. As they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a multitude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had drawn together, whose attitudes and gestures expressed wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which presented themselves to their view. Columbus was the first European who set foot on the new world which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, and with a naked sword in his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down they all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession of' the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all the formalities which the Portuguese were accustomed to observe in acts of this kind in their new discoveries. EDWARD GIBBON. 1737-1794. OF the life of Edward Gibbon, the learned author of " The History of the.Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," it will not be necessary for us to give any sketch of our own, as he himself has given us such an admirable one, in his work entitled, c"IMemloirs of My Life and Writings."l From it, we make the following extracts, which, meagre as they are, will but serve, we trust, to excite in those of our readers who have not seen it, sufficient curi osity to desire to make themselves familiar with the work itself.' I The writer of a very able criticism on Gibbon's Miscellaneous Wgrks, in the Quarterly Review, (vol xii, p. 375,) thus felicitously and justly characterizes the life of Gibbon:-" It is, perhaps, the best specimen of Autobiography in the English language. Descending from the lofty level of his 1760-1820.] GIBBON. 689 HIS BIRTH. I was born at Putney, in the county of Surrey, the 27th of April, in the year one thousand seven hundred and thirtyseven; the first child of the marriage of Edward Gibbon, Esq., and of Judith Porten. My lot might have been that of a slave, a savage, or a peasant; nor can I reflect without pleasure on the bounty of Nature, which cast my birth in a free and civilized country, in an age of science and philosophy, in a family of honorable rank, and decently endowed with the gifts of fortune. * * So feeble was my constitution, so precarious my life, that, in the baptism of my brothers, my father's prudence successively repeated my Christian name of Edward, that, in case of the departure of the eldest son, this patronymic appellation might be still perpetuated in the family. To preserve and rear so frail a being, the most tender assiduity was scarcely sufficient; the care of my mind was too frequently neglected for the care of my health: compassion always suggested an excuse for the indulgence of the master, or the idleness of the pupil; and the chain of my education was broken, as often as I was recalled from the school of learning to the bed of sickness. HIS EDUCATION.-DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. As soon as the use of speech had prepared my infant reason for the admission of knowledge, I was taught the arts of reading, writing, and arithmetic. In my childhood I was praised for the readiness with which I could multiply and divide, by memory alone, two sums of several figures: such praise encou-;aged my youthful talent. At the age of seven I was delivered into the hands of Mr. John Kirkly, who exercised, about eighteen months, the office of domestic tutor. In my ninth year I was sent to Kingston-uponThames, to a school of about seventy boys, which was kept by Dr. Wooddeson. My studies were too frequently interrupted by sickness; and after a residence here of nearly two years, I was recalled, December, 1747, by my mother's death. I was too young to feel the importance of my loss; and the image of her person and conversation is faintly imprinted in my memory. My poor father was inconsolable. I can never forget the scene of our History, and relaxing the stately march which he maintains throughout that work, into a more nattu ral and easy pace, this enchanting writer, with an ease, spirit, and vigor peculiar to himself, eon.l ducts his readers through a sickly childhood, a neglected and desultory education, and a youth svastel in the unpromising and unscholarlike occupation of a militia officer, to the period when he resolutely applied the energies of his genius to a severe course of voluntary study, w'hich ill the space of a few years rendered him a consummnate master of Roman antiquity, and lastly produced the I listory of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.'" 2 kX 5S 690 GIBBON. [GEORGE IIIr. first intervlew, some weeks after the fatal event; the awful silence, the room hung with black, the mid-day tapers, his sighs and tears; his praises of my mother, a saint in heaven; his solemn adjuration that I would cherish her memory and imitate her virtues; and the fervor with which he kissed and blessed me as the sole surviving pledge of their loves. In his twelfth year he went to Westminster School, where he resided for three years, and then went to Oxford. His reading while here was very mnultifarious and extensive, but, turning Papist, his father removed him at the age of sixteen and sent him to Lausanne, in Switzerland, and placed him under the tuition of a Calvinistic minister, by the name of Pavilliard. Here he spent five years, during which time he made astonishing proficiency in his studies, and he ever spoke of his excellent instructor in terms of the highest affection and respect. He thus speaks of HIS FIRST LOVE. I hesitate, from the apprehension of ridicule, when I approach the delicate subject of my early love. By this word I do not mean the polite attention, the gallantry, without hope or design, which has originated in the spirit of chivalry, and is interwoven with the texture of French manners. I understand by this passion the union of desire, friendship, and tenderness, which is inflamed by a single female, which prefers her to the rest ot her sex, and which seeks her possession as the supreme or the sole happiness of our being. I need not blush at recollecting the object of my choice; and though my love was disappointed of success, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a pure and exalted sentiment. The personal attractions of Mademoiselle Susan Curchod were embellished by the virtues and talents of the mind. Her fortune was humble, but her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred her religion to her country. The profession of her father did not extinguish the moderation and philosophy of his temper, and he lived content, with a small salary and laborious duty, in the obscure lot of minister of Crassy, in the mountains that separate the Pays de Vaud from the county of Burgundy. In the solitude of a sequestered village he bestowed a liberal and even learned education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her proficiency in the sciences and languages; and in her short visits to some relations at Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and erudition of Mademoisele Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and ioved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first sudden emotion was fortified by the habits and knowledge of a 1760-1820.j GIBBON. 691 more familiar acquaintance. She permitted me to make her two or three visits at her father's house. I passed some happy days there, in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honorably encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of youth no longer fluttered in her bosom; she listened to the voice of truth and passion; and I might presume to hope that I had made some impression on a virtuous heart. At Crassy and Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity: but on my return to England, I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this strange alliance, and that without his consent I was myself destitute and helpless. After a painful struggle, I yielded to my fate: I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son; my wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself; and my love subsided in friendship and esteem. The minister of Crassy soon afterwards died; his stipend died with him; his daughter retired to Geneva, where, by teaching young ladies, she earned a hard subsistence for herself and her mother; but in her lowest distress she maintained a spotless reputation and a dignified behavior. A rich banker of Paris, a citizen of Geneva, had the good fortune and good sense to discovlr and possess this inestimable treasure; and in the capital of taste and luxury she resisted the temptations of wealth, as she had sustained the hardships of indigence. The genius of her husband has exalted him to the most conspicuous station in Europe. In every change of prosperity and disgrace he has reclined on the bosom of a faithful friend; and Mademoiselle Curchod is now the wife of M. Necker, the minister, and perhaps the legislator, of the French monarchy.' After spending nearly five years at Lausanne, he returned to England in May, 1758. The following is his account of HIS INTERVIEW WITH HIS FATHER. It was not without some awe and apprehension that I approached the presence of my father. My infancy, to speak the truth, had been neglected at home; the severity of his look and language at our last parting still dwelt on my memory; nor could I form any notion of his character or my probable reception They were both more agreeable than I could expect. The (Io mestic discipline of our ancestors has been relaxed by the philosophy and softness of the age; and if my father remembered that he had trembled before a stern parent, it was only to adopt witth his own son aft opposite mode of behavior. He received me as 1 It is curious to speculate on the effect which a union with a female of such pure dignity of cta ranter and calm religious principle, might have had on the character and opinions of Gibbon. 692 GIBBON. EGEORGE III. a man and a friend; all constraint was banished at our first interview, and we ever afterwards continued on the same terms of easy and equal politeness. He applauded the success of my education; every word and action were expressive of the most cordial affection; and our lives would have passed without a cloud, if his economy had been equal to his fortune, or if his fortune had been equal to his desires. The time spent at his father's Gibbon devoted to study, except about two years and a half, in which he was doing duty in a situation which bore no affinity to any other period of his studious and social life-as a militia officer. Parliament had resolved to raise a national militia, and he and his father offered their names as major and captain in the Hampshire regiment. A short time before this he had published his first work, "An Essay upon the Study of Literature," which was well received. After the militia was disbanded, (December, 1762,) lie resumed his studies, and determined to write upon some historical subject. He went to Paris, where he passed some time -visited Lausanne again, and there studied, preparatory to his Italian journey-travelled into Italy, and returned to England in 1765. In 1770 he lost his father; and as soon as he could, after this event, he arranged his circumstances so as to settle in London. The following is his account of HIS PUBLICATION OF HIS HISTORY. No sooner was I settled in my house and library, than I undertook the composition of the first volume of my history. At the outset all was dark and doubtful —even the title of the work, the true era of the Decline and Fall of the Empire, the limits of the introduction, the division of the chapters, and the order of the narrative; and I was often tempted to cast away the labor of seven years. The style of an author should be the image of his mind, but the choice and command of language is the fruit of exercise. Many experiments were made before I could hit the middle tone between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation: three times did I compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I was tolerably satisfied with their effect. In the remainder of the way I advanced with a more equal and easy pace; but the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters have been reduced, by three successive revisals, from a large volume to their present size; and they might still be compressed without any loss of facts or sentiments. An opposite fault may be imputed to the concise and superficial narrative of the first reigns, from Comlnodus to Alexander; a fault of which I have never heard, except from Mr. fHume in his last journey to London. Such an oracle might have been consulted and obeyed with rational devotion; but I was soon disgusted with the modest practice of reading the manuscript to my friends. Of such fiiends, some will praise from politeness, atnd sortie ill criticise from vanity. The author himself is the 1760 —1820.] GIBBON. 693 best judge of his own performance; no one has so deeply meditated on the subject; no one is so sincerely interested in the event. The volume of my history, which had been somewhat delayed by the novelty and tumult of a first session, was now ready for the press. After the perilous adventure had been declined by my friend Mr. Elmsly, I agreed upon easy terms with Mr. Thomas Cadell, a respectable bookseller, and Mr. William Strahan, an eminent printer; and they undertook the care and risk of the publication, which derived more credit from the name of the shop than from that of the author. The last revisal of the proofs was submitted to my vigilance; and many blemishes of style, which had been invisible in the manuscript, were discovered and corrected in the printed sheet. So moderate were our hopes, that the original impression had been stinted to five hundred, till the number was doubled by the prophetic taste of Mr. Strahan. During this awful interval I was neither elated by the ambition of fame, nor depressed by the apprehension of contempt. My diligence and accuracy were attested by my own conscience. History is the most popular species of writing, since it can adapt itself to the highest or the lowest capacity. I had chosen an illustrious subject. Rome is familiar to the schoolboy and the statesman; and my narrative was deduced from the last period of classical reading. I had likewise flattered myself that an age of light and liberty would receive, without scandal, an inquiry into the human causes of the progress and establishment of Christianity.l After publishing two more volumes of his History, he went tc Lausanne, the place endeared to him by early recollections, there to settle for the rest of his life, and complete his great work. The following are his remarks on THE COMPLETION OF HIS HISTORY. I have presumed to mark the moment of conception: I shall now commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, 1 Gibbon's attack on Christianity in his otherwise great work is as mean as it is unjust. It was most triumphantly answered by the Rev. Dr. Watson, in his " Apology for Christianity, in a series ot Letters to Edward Gibbon, author of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." Mr. Whitaker, also the historian of Manchester, thus rebuled him in a letter: " You never speak feebly except when you come upon British ground, and never weakly xcepl when you attack Christianity. In the former case you seem to me to want information: and in the latter, you plainly want the common candor of a citizen of the world for the religious system of youa country. Pardon me, sir, but, as much as I admire your abilities, I cannot bear without indignation, your sarcastic slyness upon Christianity, and cannot see, without pity your determmned hos tility to the Gospel." 694 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was.spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future date of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious. I will add two facts which have seldom occurred in the composition of six, or at least of five, quartos. 1. My first rough manuscript, without any intermediate copy, has been sent to the press. 2. Not a sheet has been seen by any human eyes excepting those of the author and the printer: the faults and the merits are exclusively my own. INVENTION AND USE OF GUNPOWDER. The only hope of salvation for the Greek empire and the adjagent kingdoms, would have been some more powerful weapon, some discovery in the art of war, that should give them a decisive superiority over their Turkish foes. Such a weapon was in their hands; such a discovery had been made in the critical moment of their fate. The chemists of China or Europe had found, by casual or elaborate experiments, that a mixture of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, produces, with a spark of fire, a tremendous explosion. It was soon observed, that if. the expansive force were compressed in a strong tube, a ball of stone or iron might be expelled with irresistible and destructive velocity. The precise era of the invention and application of gunpowder is involved in doubtful traditions and equivocal language; yet we may clearly discern that it was known before the middle of the fourteenth century; and that before the end of the same, the use of artillery in battles and sieges, by sea and land, was familiar to the states of Germany, Italy, Spain, France, and England. The priority of nations is of small account; none could derive any exclusive benefit from their previous or superior knowledge; and in the common improvement, they stood on the same level of relative power and military science. Nor was it possible to circumscribe the secret within the pale of the church; it was disclosed to the Turks by the treachery of apostates and the selfish policy of rivals; and the sultans had sense to adopt, and wealth to reward, the talents of a Christian engineer. The Genoese, who transported Amurath into Europe, must be accused as his preceptors; and it was probably by their hands that his cannon was cast and directed at the siege of Constantinople. The first attempt was 1760-1820.] JONES. 695 indeed unsuccessful; but in the general warfare of the age, the advantage was on their side who were most commonly the assailants; for a while the proportion of the attack and defence was suspended; and this thundering artillery was pointed against the walls and towers which had been erected only to resist the less potent engines of antiquity. By the Venetians, the use of gunpowder was communicated without reproach to the sultans of Egypt and Persia, their allies against the Ottoman power; the secret was soon propagated to the extremities of Asia; and the advantage of the European was confined to his easy victories over the savages of the New World. If we contrast the rapid progress of this mischievous discovery with the slow and laborious advances of reason, science, and the arts of peace, a philosopher, according to his temper, will laugh or weep at the folly of mankind. SIR WILLIAM JONES. 1746 —1794. FEw names in English literature recall such associations of worth, intellect, and accomplishments, as that of Sir William Jones. HIe was born in London in 1746. He lost his father when only three years old, and the care of his education devolved upon his mother. " She was a person," says Campbell, "Gof superior endowments, and cultivated his dawning powers with a sagacious assiduity, which undoubtedly contributed to their quick and su rprising growth, We may judge of what a pupil she had, when we are told that, at five years of age, one morning, in turning over the leaves of a Bible, he fixed his attention with the strongest admiration on a sublime passage in the Revelations. Human nature, perhaps, presents no authentic picture of its felicity more pure or satisfactory, than that of such a pupil superintended by a mother capable of directing him." At the age of seven he went to Harrow school, where he made the most astonishing progress in his studies; and at the age of seventeen he went to Oxford, his mother going with him, and taking up her residence in the town. Here he pursued the study of the Oriental languages, which he had conmmenced at Harrow, and on leaving the university, he was, perhaps, possessed of as much varied learning as any one who ever took his degree at that re. nowned seat of literature. The same year (1765) he accepted the invitation of the Earl of Spencer to become the tutor to his son; at the same time he was constantly adding to his own stores of knowledge. He journeyed with the family twice upon the Continent, and on his return after his second tour, in 1771, he resolved to devote himself to the study of the law. He had already published a small volume of poems, and two dissertations on Oriental literature, and after he was called to the bar, he gave to the world a translation of the Greek Orations of Ismeus. He was at this time a member of the. Royal Society, and maintained an epistolary correspondence with several eminent foreign scholars. During the progress of our Revolutionary war, Sir William Jones expressedl his decided disapprobation of the measures of his own government, having 696 JONES. [GEORGE III. no sympathy with that infamous sentiment, "Our country right or wrong." Like Lord Chatham, and Burke, and Pitt, and Fox, he did not hesitate to rebuke, and rebuke severely, his country, or rather the ruling administration, when he deemed its measures to be wrong. But his inflexible adherence to correct principles, and to a just line of action, together with an "Ode to Liberty," which he had published, caused him to lose favor with those who had offices in their gift, and he did not obtain the situation of the judgeship at Fort William, in Bengal, which became vacant in 1780, though he was doubtless the most competent person at that time in England to fill it. But on a change of administration in 1782, he was appointed to this responsible station, and received the honor of knighthood. In April, 1783, he married Anna Maria Shipley, the daughter of the Bishop of St. Asaph, to whom he had been engaged for sixteen years. He immediately set sail for India, having secured, as his friend Lord Ashburton congratulated him, the two first objects of human pursuit, those of love and ambition. In December, 1783, he commenced the discharge of his duties as an Indian judge, with his characteristic ardor; but it is impossible, in this short space, to do any justice to his great labors. He early formed a society of which he was the president, for " Inquiring into the History and Antiquities, the Arts, Sciences, and Literature of Asia;" and to the "Asiatic Researches," which this society published, he himself was the chief contributor. The following are some of his papers: "Eleven Anniversary Discourses on the different nations of Asia, &c.;" " A Dissertation on the Orthography of Asiatic Words in Roman Letters;" "rOn the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India;" ",On the Chronology of the Hindoos;" "4 On the Antiquity of the Indian Zodiac;" (" On the Mystical Poetry of the Persians and Hindoos;" with very many other treatises of less importance. All these literary labors he performed when not attending to his official duties, which, for the greater part of the year, occupied him seven hours a day. But such labors, enough to try the strongest constitution anywhere, were too much for him in the debilitating climate of Bengal; his health gave way, and he died at Calcutta, on the 27th of April, 1794.1 " In the coerse of a short life," says Campbell, " Sir William Jones acquired a degree of knowledge which the ordinary faculties of mnen, if they were blessed with antediluvian longevity, could scarcely hope to surpass. His learning threw light on the laws of Greece and India, on the general literature of Asia, and on the history of the family of nations. He carried philosophy, eloquence, and philanthropy, into the character of a lawyer and a judge. Amidst the driest toils of erudition, he retained a sensibility to the beauties of poetry, and a talent for transfusing them into his own language, which has seldom been united with the same degree of industry. When he went abroad, it was not to enrich himself with the spoils of avarice or ambition; but to search, amidst the ruins of oriental literature, for treasures which he would not have exchanged'For all Bocara's vaunted gold, Or all the gems of Sanarcand."' "Sir William Jones," says his biographer, "seems to have acted on this.maxim, that whatever had been attained was attainable by him; and he was never observed to overlook or neglect any opportunity of adding to his ao-: The best edition of his works is that by Lord Teignmouth, in 13 vols. 8vo.; to which Is prefixed a well-written life of this illustrious scholar. l[760-1820.] JONES. 697 complishments or to his knowledge. When in India, his studies began with the dawn; and, in seasons of intermission from professional duty, continued through the day; while meditation retraced and confirmed what reading had collected or investigation discovered. By a regular application of time to particular occupations, he pursued various objects without confusion; and in undertakings which depended on his individual perseverance, he was never deterred by difficulties from proceeding to a successful termination." With respect to the division of his time, he had written in India, on a small piece of paper, the following lines:Sir Edward Coke. Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six, Four spend in prayer-the rest on nature fix. Rather. Six hours to law, to soothing slumber seven, Ten to the world allot, and'all to heaven. But we cannot conclude this short sketch of the life of this eminently great and good man, without adding his beautiful encomium on the Bible. Let it be borne in mind that those peculiar attainments which rendered him so fully competent to utter it, were scarcely ever possessed by any other man; for he was not only critically acquainted with the original languages of the Bible, but with all the various cognate languages and dialects of the East, a knowledge of which imparts new beauty and lustre to that wonderful book THE BIBLE. I have regularly and attentively read the Holy Scriptures, and am of opinion that this volume, independent of its Divine origin contains more sublimity and beauty, more pure morality, more important history, and finer strains of poetry and eloquence, than can be collected from all other books, in whatever language or age they may have been composed.2 AN ODE. in Imitation of Jlcceus. What constitutes a State? Not high-raised battlement, or labor'd mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd; Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; / Not starr'd and spangled courts, Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:-MEN, high-minded MEN, With powers as far above dull brutes endued 1," ONE" is naturally expected, to make up the twenty-four: instead of that, by an unexpected turn, he says "ALL to heaven," intending one to be reserved for purposes of devotion. See remarks on the same in Macaulay's Review of Croker's Boswell. 2,"I am confident," says Sir Richard Steele, "that whoever reads the Gospels, with a heart as much prepared in favor of them, as when he sits down to Virgil or Homer, will find no passage there which is not told with more natural force than any episode in either of those wits, who were the chief of mere mankind." 59 698 JONES. [GEORGE f [I. In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men. who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aim'd blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a State, And sovereign LAW, that State's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill; Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Discretion like a vapor sinks, And e'en th' all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish and be MEN no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. Among the most instructive and pleasing of Sir William Jones's Frose compositions, are his Letters; from which we take the following charmiing DESCRIPTION OF MILTON'S RESIDENCE, To LADY SPENCER:1 September 7, 1769. The necessary trouble of correcting the first printed sheets of my History, prevented me to-day fromnt paying a proper respect to the memory of Shakspeare, by attending his jubilee. But I was resolved to do all the honor in my power to as great a poet, and set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all probability, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a small village, situated on a pleasant bill, about three miles from Oxford, and called Forest-Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet chose this place of retirement after his first marriage, and he describes the beauty of his retreat in that fine passage of his L'Vdllegro: Sometimes walking not unseen, By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. S # 5 + * While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 1 In the summer of 1768 the Earl of Spencer's son went to Harrow school, (ten miles N. W. of London,) and Sir William (then Mr.) Jones accompanied him thither. During the autumnal vacation of the next year, our author visited his friends at Oxford, and during his residence among them, he made the exculslon to Forest-Htill, which is related with so much animation and true poetic feeling in thi~ most interesting letter to Lady Spencer. 1760-1820.] JONES. 699 And the milkmaid singethl blithe, And the mower whets his scythe; And every shepherd tells his tale, Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasure i, While the landscape round it measures: Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees, Bosom'd high in tufted trees. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, &c. It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the day, to hear all the rural sounds and see all the objects mentioned in this description; but by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, with the music of the mower and his scythe; we saw the ploughman intent upon his labor, and the milkmaid returning from her country employment. As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images: it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides; the distant mountains that seemed to support the clouds, the villages and turrets, partly shaded by trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that surrounded them, the dark plains and meadows, of a grayish color, where the sheep were feeding at large; in short, the view of the streams and rivers, convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word In the above-mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to the village. The poet's house was close to the church; the greatest part of it has been pulled down, and what remains, belongs to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers in Milton's own hand were found by the gentleman who was last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current among the villagers: one of them showed us a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber; and I was much pleased with another, who 700 BURNS. [GEORGE IIl. had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him ty the title of the poet. It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the Penseroso. Most of the cottage-windows are overgrown with sweetbriers, vines, and honeysuckles; and that Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good-morrow: Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the eglantine, though that word is commonly used for the sweetbrier, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford, in the summer, I shall be inclined to hire and repair this venerable mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends, in honor of Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an honor will be less splendid, but more sincere and respectful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon. I have, &c. ROBERT BURNS. 1759-1796. ROBERT BURNS, the celebrated Scottish poet, was born in Ayrshire,' one of the western counties of Scotland, January 25, 1759. His father was a small farmer, and Robert had no advantages of early education beyond whiat the parish schools afforded. But he made the most of what he had; and in the possession of discreet, virtuous, and most pious parents, he had the best of all education, the education of the heart; and in the 4" Cotter's Saturday Night," we see what was the foundation of the whole —TE BIBLE. He early showed a strong taste for reading; and to the common rudiments of education he added some knowledge of mensuration, and a smattering of Latin and French. But poetry was his first delight, as it was his chief solace through life. A little before his sixteenth year, as he tells us himself, he had c" first committed the sin of rhyme." His verses soon acquired him considerable village fame, to which, as he made acquaintances in Ayr and other neighboring towns with young men of his own age, he greatly added by the remarkable fluency of his expression, and the vigor of his conversational powers. The charms of these social meetings, at which he shone with so much distinction, gradually introduced him to new habits, some of which were most destructive to his happiness and his virtue. About this time, to escape the ills of poverty, and to break away from some of the associations by which he was surrounded, he resolved to leave his native country, and to try his fortune in Jamaica. In order to raise funds for this purpose, he resolved to publish a volume of his poems. They were received with great favor, and Burns cleared, thereby, twenty pounds. He 1 He was born in a clay-built cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr. 1760-1820.] BURTS. 701 engaged his passage, his chest was on the road to Greenock, from which port he was to sail, and he had taken leave of his friends, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to one of the friends of the poet completely altered his resolution. "His opinion," says Burns himself, i that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition of my poems, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a eIngle letter of introduction." The result was, the introduction of the poet to all who were emin-,nt in literature, in rank, or in fashion, in the Scottish metropolis. The brilliant conversational powers of the unlettered ploughman seem to have struck all with whom he came in contact, with as much wonder as his poetry. Under the patronage of Dr. Robertson, Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Henry Mackenzie, and other persons of note, a new edition of his poems was published, which yielded him nearly five hundred pounds. With this he returned, in 1788, to Ayrshire-advanced two hundred pounds to relieve his aged mother and brother, who were struggling with many difficulties on their flarm-and with the rest prepared to stock another farmn for himself in Dumfrieshire, where he took up his abode in June of that year, having before publicly solemnized his union with Jean Armour, to whom he had long been attached. But the farm did not prosper well, and he obtained the office of exciseman or guager, in the district in which he lived. In 1791 he abandoned the farm entirely, and took a small house in the town of Dumfries. By this time, his habits of conviviality had settled down to confirmed intemperance,," and almost every drunken fellow, who was willing to spend his money lavishly in the ale-house, could easily command the company of Burns. His Jean still behaved with a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made him feel more bitterly the evil of his misconduct, although they could not reclaim him. At last, crippled, emaciated, having the very power of animation wasted by disease, quite broken-hearted by the sense of his errors, and of the hopeless miseries to which he saw himself and his family depressed, he died at Dumfries on the 2ist of July, 1796, when only thirtyseven years of age."2 ~'Burns," says Professor Wilson,'"is by far the greatest poet that ever sprung from the bosom of the people, and lived and died in an humble condition. Indeed, no country in the world but Scotland could have produced such a man; and lie will be for ever regarded as the glorious representative of the genius of his country. He was born a poet, if ever man was, and to his native genius alone is owing the perpetuity of his fame. For he manlfestly had never very deeply studied poetry as an art, nor reasonled rmuc about its principles, nor looked abroad with the wide ken of intellect for objects and subjects on which to pour out his inspiration. The condition of the peasantry of Scotland, the happiest, perhaps, that Providence evet allowed to the children of labor, was not surveyed and speculated upon by him as the field of poetry, but as the field of his own existence; and lie chronicled the events that passed there, not merely as food for his imagina1 This was in 1786, when he was twenty-seven years old. 2 Read —an interesting sketch of his life in Chambers's Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scoc-. men;" also, " Currie's Life," "Lockhart's Life," and " Cunningham's Life," prefixed to his edition of the poet's works. This is now the most complete and best edition of Burns, containing 150 pieces more than Dr. Currie's edition. Read, also, the " Genius and Character of Burns," by Professor Wilson, No. XXI. of Wiley and Putnam's Library of Choice Reading. Also, two articles in the Edinl b..r',, Review, vol. 13, and vol. 48, and one in the first volume of the Londor. Quarterly, PQV: 702 BURNS. [GEORGE III. tion as a poet, but as food for his heart as a man. Hence, when inspired to compose poetry, poetry came gushing up from the well of his human affections, and he had nothing more to do than to pour it, like streams irrigating a meadow, in many a cheerful tide over the drooping flowers and fading verdure of life. Imbued with vivid perceptions, warm feelings, and strolg passions, he sent his own existence 1nto that of all tliings, animate and inanimate, around him; and not an occurrence in hamlet, village, or town, affecting in any way the happiness of the human heart, but roused as keen an interest in the soul of Burns, and as genial a sympathy, as if it had immediately concerned himself and his own individual welfare. Most other poets of rural life have looked on it through the aerial veil of imagination-often beautified, no doubt, by such partial concealment, and beaming with misty softness more delicate than the truth. But Burns would not thus indulge his fancy where he had felt-felt so poignantly, all the agonies and all the transports of life. He looked around him, and when he saw the smoke of the cottage rising up quietly and unbroken to heaven, he knew, for he had seen and blessed it, the quiet joy and unbroken contentment that slept below,; and when he saw it driven and dispersed by the winds, he knew also but too well, for too sorely had he felt them, those agitations and disturbances which had shook him till he wept on his chaff bed.. In reading his poetry, therefore, we know what unsubstantial dreams are all those of the golden age. But bliss beamns upon us with a more subduing brightness through the dimn melancholy that shrouds lowly life; and when the peasant Burns rises up in his might as Burns the poet, and is seen to derive all that might from the life which at this hour the peasantry of Scotland are leading, our hearts leap within us, because that such is our country, and such the nobility of her children. There is no delusion, no affectation, no exaggeration, no falsehood, in the spirit of Burns's poetry. j He rejoices like an untamed enthusiast, and he weeps like a pros trate penitent. In joy and in grief the whole man appears:Lsome of his finest effusions were poured out before he left the fields of his childhood, and when he scarcely hoped for other auditors than his own heart, and the simple dwellers of the hamlet. He wrote not to please or surprise others-we speak of those first effusions-but in his own creative delight; and even after he had discovered his power to kindle the sparks of nature wherever they slumbered, the effect to be produced seldom seems to have been considered by him, assured that his poetry could not fail to produce the same passion in the hearts of other men from which it boiled over in his own. Ont of himself, and beyond his own nearest and dearest concerns, lie well could, but he did not much love often or long to go. His imagination wanted not wings broad and strong for highest flights. But he was most at home when walkling on this earth, through this world, even along the banks and braes of the streams of Coila. It seems as if his muse were loath to admit almost any thought, feeling, or image, drawn from any other region than his native district-the hearth-stone of his father's hut-the still or troubled chamber of his own generous and passionate bosom. Dear to him the jocund laughter of the reapers on the corn-field, the tears and sighs which his own strains had won from the children of nature enjoying the mid-day hour of rest beneath the shadow of the hedgerow tree. With what pathetic personal power, fromn all the circumstances of his character and condition, do many of his humblest lines affect us! Often, too often, as we hear him singing, we think that we see him suffering!'. Most musical, most melancholy' he often is, even in his merriment! In him, alas! the transports of inspiration are but 1760-1820.] BURNS. 703 too closely allied with reality's kindred agonies!'Ile strings of his lyre sometimes yield their finest music to the sighs of remorse or repentance. Whatever, therefore, be the faults or defects of the poetry of Burns-and no doubt it has many-it has, beyond all that was ever written, this greatest of all merits, intense, life-pervading, and life-breathing truth." TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the plough in Apri?, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour: For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth: Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade I By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudlnt lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er-! 704 BURNS. [GEORGE Int Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink! E'en thou who Iourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thiite —no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO MARY IN HEAVEN.1 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. 0 Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thylover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace! Ah, little thought we'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green, The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. 1 This was the first object of his early, pure, impassioned love-Mary Campbell, or hla "Highland Mary." In his poem, t" Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgonerie," ne describes, in the most beautiful language, their tender and final parting on the banks of tile Ayr. He intended to marry her, but she died at Greenock on her return from a visit to her relations in Argyleshire. At a later period of life, on the anniversary of that hallowed day when they parted, he devoted a night to a poetic vigil in the open air. As evening came, " he appeared to grow very sal! about something," and wandered out of doors into the barn-yard, where his Jean found him lying on some straw with his eyes fixed on a shining star "like another moon." Thus did he write downl as It now is, in its immortal beauty, this deeply pathetic elegy to the nemory of his " Highland Mary.' 1.60-1820.] BURNS. 705 My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? LESSONS FOR LIFE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole,'Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lower. As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning-star advance, Pleasure, with her siren air, May delude the thoughtless pair: Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, Then raptured sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of evening close, Beckoning thee to long repose; As Life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not-Art thou high or low? Did thy fortune ebb or flow? Wast thou cottager or king? Peer or peasant — No such thing! Did many talents gild thy span i Or frugal nature grudge thee one? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heaven, To Virtue or to Vice is given. Say, "To be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self:enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, Lead to the wretched, vile, and base." 2Y 706 BURNS. LGEORGE ILL Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before. Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide Quoth the beadsman of Nithside.' THE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT. Inscribed to Robert Aliken, Esq. My loved, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end; My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae2 the pleugh; The blackening trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil3 is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee4 things, toddlin,5 stacher6 through To meet their dad, wi' flicterin'7 noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle,8 blinkinS bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a'10 his weary carking I" cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve 2 the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out, amnang the farmers roun'; Some ca'13 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie14 rin A cannie 15 errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw 16 new gown, Or deposit her sair-won17 penny-fee,18 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. t These beautiful lines were written in " Friars-Carse" Hermitage, on the banks of the Nith. 2 From. 8 Labor. 4 Little. 5 Tottering in their walk. 6 Stagger. 7 Fluttering. 8 Fire. 0 Shining at intervals. 10 All. 11 Consuming. 12 By-and-by. 13 Drive. 14 Cautious. ~5 Kindly dexterous. 16 Fine, handsome. 17 Sorely won. 18 Wages. 1760-1820.] BURNS. 707 Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters rleet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos2 that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view: The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars3 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent4 hand, An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: "An', O! be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord tright! But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins5 is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless,&re. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;6 A strappan7 youth, he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en; The father cracks8 of horses, pleughs, and kye.9 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate' an' laithfu',l1 scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What maks the youth sae bashfi' an' sae grave, Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.'2 O, happy loVe! where love like this is found! O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare, — "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale,'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? I Asks. 2 News. 3 Makes. 4 Diligent. 5 Partly. 6 Into the parlor 7 Tall and handsome. 8 Converses. 9 Kine, cows. 0o Bashful. 11 Reluctant. 12 The rest, the others. 708 BURNS. CGEORGE III. Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,1 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild But now the supper crowns their simple board! The healsome parritch,2 chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe3 their only hawkie4 does afford, That'yont5 tile hallan6 snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd7 kebbuck,s fell,9 An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How'twas a townmond lO auld,"l sin 12 lint was i' thle bell13 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They round the ingle form a circle wide; The sire 14 turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big Ha'-Bible,15 ance his father's pride; His bonnet reverently is laid aside, His lyart 16 haffets 17 wearin' thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales 18 a portion with judicious care; And " Let us worship God," he says, wi' solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps Dundee's19 wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs,19 worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin 19 beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. I Mercy, kind feeling 2 Oatmeal-pudding. 3 Sauce, milk. 4 A pet-name for a cow 5 Beyond. 6 A partition wall in a cottage. 7 Carefully preserved. 8 A cheese 9 Biting to the taste. 10 Twelve months. 11 Old. 12 Since. 13 Flax was in blossom. 14 This picture, as all the world knows, he drew from his father. He was himself, in imagination, egain one of the "wee things" that ran to meet him; and "the priest-like father" had long worn that aspect before the poet's eyes, though he died before he was threescore. "I have always considered William Burns," (the father,) says Murdoch, "as by far the best of the human race that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and many a worthy character I have known. He was a tender and affectionate father, and took pleasure in leading his children in the paths of virtue. I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the venerable Burns. I shall only add, that he practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal." The following is the "Epitaph" which the son wrote for him: O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near, with pious reverence, and attend I Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the generous friend: The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, "For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 16 The great Bible kept in the hall. 16 Gray. 17 The temples, the sides of the bead 1S Chooses 19 The names of Scottish psalm-tunes. 1760-1820.] BURNS. 709 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or, how the Royal Bard ] did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tmne the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he,2 who lone in Patmos3 banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays:'Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days; There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;4 But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" I David. 2 Saint John. 3 An island in the Archipelago, where John is supposed to have written the book of Revelation. i pelestly vestment. 60 710 BURNS. [GEORGIE Il. And certes,' in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple. lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's2 undaunted heart Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seenm'd weary, worn with care; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? (Began the reverend sage;) Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man! The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride; I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return; And every time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. 1 Certainly.' Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot. 1760-1820.] BURNS. 711 O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of tine! Mis-spending all thy precious hours Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force give Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might: Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right. But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, iThen age and want, oh! ill-matched pair Show man was made to mourn. A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh! what crowds, in every land, Are wretched and forlorn; Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. Many and sharp the numerous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth, To give him leave to toil: And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.:If I'm design'd yon lordling's slaveBy Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn? Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! 712 BURKE. [GEORGE Iml'The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense, To comfort those that mourn! O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn! EDMUND BURKE. 1730-1797. THIs most distinguished writer and statesman was born at Dublin on the 1st of January, 1730. On his mother's side he was connected with the poet Spenser, from whom, it is said, he received his Christian name. He was educated at Ballitore in the county of Kildare, at a classical academy under the management of Abraham Shackleton, a Quaker of superior talents and learning. Here, according to his own testimony, Burke acquired the most valuable of his mental habits; he ever felt the deepest gratitude for his early instructor, and with his only son, Richard, the successor in the school, he preserved an intimate friendship to the end of his life. In 1744 he entered Trinity College, Dublin, and in 1750 he was entered as a law-student at the Middle Temple, London: but his thoughts were soon entirely turned to literature and politics, to which, henceforth, all his time, and talents, and energies were devoted. His first publication was anonymous, entitled, 4" A Vindication of Natural Society, in a Letter to Lord, by a Noble Lord." It was such an admirable imitation of the style of Lord Bolingbroke, that many were deceived by it, and deemed it a posthumous publication of that nobleman, who had been dead but five years. It was ironical throughout, endeavoring to prove that the same arguments with which that nobleman had attacked revealed religion, might be applied with equal force against all civil and political institutions whatever. In the next year, Burke published his " Essay on tlhe Sublime and Beautiful," which, by the elegance of its language, and the spirit of philosophical investigation displayed in it, placed him at once in the very first class of writers on taste and criticism. His object is to show that terror is the principal source of the sublime, and that beauty is the quality in objects which excites love or affection. The fame acquired by this work introduced the author to the best literary acquaintances, among whom were Sir Joshua Rey. nolds and Dr. Johnson. In 1758 he suggested to Dodsley the plan of the Annual Register, and engaged, himself, to furnish the chief historical matter, which he continued to do for very many years, and which has made that work the most valuable repository of historical knowledge of the times. In 1765, on the accession to power of the Marquis of Rockingham, he was appointed by that minister his private secretary, and was brought into parliament for the borough of Wendover. It would be impossible, in the limited space assigned to these biographical sketches, to give an outline of his subse 1760-1820.] EURKE. 713 quent parliamentary and political career, or to enumerate all his various pub. lications. His life is a history of those eventful times, —for in them he acted a part more conspicuous than any other man. His able and eloquent opposition to those infatuated measures of the ministry which led to and prolonged the contest between England and our own country-his advocacy of the fieedom of the press-of an improved libel law —of Catholic emancipation-of economical reform —of the abolition of the slave-trade — his giant efforts.in the impeachment of Warren Hastings-and his most eloquent and uncompromising hostility to the French Revolution, in his speeches in parliament and in his well-known "Reflections on the Revolution in France,"-all these will ever cause him to be viewed as one of the warmest and ablest friends of man. In 1794, his son, who had just been elected to parliament, took ill and died; —a blow so severe to the father, that he never recovered from it; and it doubtless hastened his own end, which took place on the 9th of July, 1797. As an eloquent and philosophic political character, Burke stands alone.2 His intellect was at once exact, minute, and comprehensive, and his imagination rich and vigorous. As to his style, he is remarkable for the copiousness and freedom of his diction, the splendor and great variety of his imagery, his astonishing command of general truths, and the ease with which he seems to wield those fine weapons of language, which most writers are able to Ynanage only by the most anxious care. The following remarks of an able critics are as beautiful as they are just: "'There can be no hesitation in according to Mr. Burke a station among the most extraordinary men that have ever appeared; and we think there is now but little diversity of opinion as to the kind of place which it is fit to assign him. He was a writer of the first class, and excelled in almost every kind of prose composition. Possessed of most extensive knowledge, and of the most various description; acquainted alike with what different classes of men knew, each in his own province, and with much that hardly any one ever thought of learning; he could either bring his masses of information to bear directly upon the subjects to which they severally belonged —or he could avail himself of them generally to strengthen his faculties and enlarge his views-or he could turn any portion of them to account for the purpose of illustrating his theme, or enriching his diction. Hence, when he is handling anly one matter, we perceive that we are conversing with a reasoner or a teacher, to whom almost every other branch of knowledge is familiar: his 1 Those who are not well read in the history of those times can hardly have an idea of the deep, bitter, malignant hostility, which the early English abolitionists, Sharp, Clarkson, Wilberforce, and others, had to encounter. Even Lord Chancellor Thurlow said, in his place in the Hol-se of Lords, on the 18th of June, 1788, that "it was unjust that this sudden fit of philanthropy, which was but a few days old, should be allowed to disturb the public mind, and to become the occasion of bringing men to the metropolis, who were engaged in the trade, with tears in their eyes and horror in their countenances, to deprecate the ruin of their property, which they had embarked on the faith of parliament;" and the Earl of Westmoreland considered that "as much attention was due to our property and manufactures as to afalse humanity." The devotion of Burke to the best interests of man caused Abraham Shackleton to write of him thus: "The memory of Edmund Burke's philanthropic virtues will outlive the period when his shining political talents will cease to act. New fashions of political sentiment will exist: but Philanthropy-IMoaOsaTALE MANET." 2 "The immortality of Burke," says Grattan, "is that which is common to Cicero or to Bacon,that which can never be interrupted while there exists the beauty of order or the love of virtue, and which can fear no death except what barbarity may impose on the globe." Read the articly in vol. xlvi. of the Edinburgh Review: also, his Life by James Prior. 6t)S 714 BURKE. [GEORGE III. views range over all the cogyrate subjects; his reasonings are derived from principles applicable to other theories as well as the one in hand: arguments pour in from all sides, as well as those which start up under our feet, the natural growth of the path he is leading us over; while to throw light round our steps, and either explore its darker places, or serve for our recreation, illustrations are fetched from a thousand quarters; and an imagination mar vellously quick to descry unthought-of resemblances, points to our use the stores, which a lore yet more marvellous has gathered from all ages, and nations, and arts, and tongues. We are, in respect of the argument, reminded of Bacon's multifarious knowledge and the exuberance of his learned fancy; while the many-lettered diction recalls to mind the first of English poets, and his immortal verse, rich with the spoils of all sciences and all times."1 I The following comparison between Burke and Johnson is taken from C;lmberland's "Retro. spection." Nature gave to each Powers that in some respects may be compared, For both were Orators-and could we now Canvass the social circles where they mix'd, The palm for eloquence, by general vote, Would rest with him whose thunder never shook The senate or the bar. When Burke harangued The nation's representatives, methought The fine machinery that his fancy wrought, Rich but fantastic, sometimes would obscure That symmetry which ever should uphold The dignity and order of debate.'Gainst orator like this had Johnson rose, So clear was his perception of the truth, So grave his judgment, and so high the swell Of his full period, I must think his speech Had charm'd as many and enlighten'd more. Johnson, if right I judge, in classic lore Was more diffuse than deep: he did not dig So many fathoms down as Bentley dug In Grecian soil, but far enough to find Truth ever at the bottom of his shaft. Burke, borne by genius on a lighter wing, Skimm'd o'er the flowery plains of Greece and Rome, And, like the bee returning to its hive, Brought nothing home but sweets: Johnson would dash Through sophist or grammarian ankle-keep, And rummage in their mud to trace a date, Or hunt a dogma down, that gave offence To his philosophy.Both had a taste For contradiction, but in mode unlike: Johnson at once would doggedly pronounce Opinions false, and after prove them such. Burke, not less critical, but more polite, With ceaseless volubility of tongue Play'd round and round his subject, till at length, Content to find you willing to admire, He ceased to urge, or win you to assent. Splendor of style, fertility of thought, And the bold use of metaphor in both, Strike us with rival beauty: Burke display'd A copious period, that with curious skill 1760-1820.] BURKE. 715 TERROR A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear; for fear being an apprehension of pain or death, it operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. Whatever therefore is terrible with regard to sight, is sublime too, whether this cause of terror be endued with greatness of dimensions or not; for it is impossible to look on any thing as trifling or contemptible, that may be dangerous. There are many animals, who, though far from being large, are yet capable of raising ideas of the sublime, because they are considered as objects of terror; as serpents and poisonous animals of almost all kinds. Even to things of great dimensions, if we annex any adventitious idea of terror, they become without comparison greater. An even plain of a vast extent of land, is certainly no mean idea: the prospect of such a plain may be as extensive as a prospect of the ocean; but can it ever fill the mind with any thing so great as the ocean itself? This is owing to several causes, but it is owing to none more than to this, that the ocean is an object of no small terror. SYMPATHY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. It is by the passion of sympathy that we enter into the con. cerns of others; that we are moved as they are moved, and are never suffered to be indifferent spectators of almost any thing which men can do or suffer. For sympathy must be considered as a sort of substitution, by which we are put into the place of another man, and affected in a good measure as he is affected; so that this passion may either partake of the nature of those which regard self-preservation, and turning upon pain may be a source of the sublime; or it may turn upon ideas of pleasure, and then. And ornamental epithet drawn out, Was, like the singer's cadence, sometimes apt, Although melodious, to fatigue the ear: Johnson, with terms unnaturalized and rude, And Latinisms forced into his line, Like raw, undrill'd recruits, would load his text High sounding and uncouth: yet if you cull His happier pages, you will find a style Quintilian might have praised. Still I perceive Nearer approach to purity in Burke, Though not the full accession to that grace, That chaste simplicity, which is the last And best attainment author can possess. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was on the most intimate terms with both, thought that Dr. Johnson possessed a wonderful strength of mind, but that Mr. Burke had a more comprehensive capacity, a more exact judgment, and also that his knowledge was more extensive: with the most profound respect for the talents of both, he therefore decided that Mr. Burke was the superior character. 716 BURKE. [GEORGE III. whatever has been said of the social affections, whether they regard society in general, or only some particular modes of it, may be applicable here. It is by this principle chiefly that poetry, painting, and other affecting arts, transfuse their passions from one breast to another, and are often capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness, misery, and death itself. It is a common observation, that objects, which in the reality would shock, are, in tragical and such like representations, the source of a very high species of pleasure. This, taken as a fact, has been the cause of much reasoning. This satisfaction has been commonly attributed, first, to the comfort we receive in considering that so melancholy a story is no more than a fiction; and next, to the contemplation of our own freedom from the evils we see represented. I am afraid it is a practice much too common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of feelings which merely arise from the mechanical structure of our bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us; for I have some reason to apprehend, that the influence of reason in producing our passions is nothing near so extensive as is commonly believed. UNCERTAINTY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. A low, tremulous, intermitting sound is productive of the sublime. It is worth while to examine this a little. The fact itself must be determined by every man's own experience and reflection. I have always observed that night increases our terror, more perhaps than any thing else; it is our nature, when we do not know what may happen to us, to fear the worst that can happen; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible, that we often seek to be rid of it, at the hazard of a certain mischief. Now some low, confused, uncertain sounds leave us in the same fearful anxiety concerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain light, does concerning the objects that surround us. "A faint shadow of uncertain light, Like as a lamp, whose life doth fade away; Or as the moon, clothed with cloudy night, Doth show to him who walks in fear and great affright." But lighi now appearing, and now leaving us, and so off and on, is ever. more terrible than total darkness; and sorts of uncertain sounds are, when the necessary dispositions concur, more alarming than a total silence. 1760-1.820.] BURKE. 717 DIFFICULTY ADVANTAGEOUS. Difficulty is a severe instructor, set over us by the Supreme ordinance of a parental Guardian and Legislator, who knows us better than we know ourselves, as he loves us better too. He that wrestles with us, strengthens our nerves, and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper. This amicable conflict with difficulty obliges us to an intimate acquaintance with our object, and compels us to consider it in all its relations. It will not suffer us to be superficial. REVOLUTIONS OF NATIONAL GRANDEUR. I doubt whether the history of mankind is yet complete enough, if ever it can be so, to furnish grounds for a sure theory on the internal causes which necessarily affect the fortune of a state. I am far from denying the operation of such causes; but they are infinitely uncertain, and much more obscure, and much more difficult to trace, than the foreign causes that tend to raise, to depress, and sometimes to overwhelm a community. It is often impossible in these political inquiries, to find any proportion between the apparent force of any moral causes we may assign, and their known operation. We are therefore obliged to deliver up that operation to mere chance, or, more piously, (perhaps more rationally,) to the occasional interposition and irresistible hand of the Great Disposer. We have seen states of considerable duration, which for ages have remained nearly as they have begun, and would hardly be said to ebb or flow. Some appear to have spent their vigor at their commencement. Some have blazed out in their glory a little before their extinction. The meridian of others has been the most splendid. Others, and they are the greatest number, have fluctuated, and experienced at different periods of their existence a great variety of fortune. At the very moment when some of them seemed plunged in unfathomable abysses of disgrace and disaster, they have suddenly emerged. They have begun a new course, and opened a new reckoning; and even in the depths of their calamity, and on the very ruins of their country, have laid the foundations of a towering and durable greatness. All this has happened without any apparent previous change in the general circumstances which had brought on their distress. the death of a man at a critical juncture, his disgust, his retreat, his disgrace, have brought innumerable calamities on a whole nation. A common soldier, a child, a girl at the door of an inn. have changed the face of fortune, and almost of nature. 718 BURKE. [GEORGE IIt. CHARACTER OF JUNIUS. Where, Mr. Speaker, shall we look for the origin of this relaxation of the laws, and of all government? How comes this Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law, and to range uncontrolled, unpunished, through the land? The myrmidons of the court have been long, and are still, pursuing him in vain. They will not spend their time upon me, or you: no; they disdain such vermin, when the mighty boar of the forest, that has broken through all their toils, is before them. But, what will all their efforts avail? No sooner has he wounded one, than he lays down another dead at his feet. For my part, when I saw his attack upon the king, I own my blood ran cold. I thought he had ventured too far, and that there was an end of his triumphs: not that he had not asserted many truths. Yes, sir, there are in that composition many bold truths by which a wise prince might profit. But while I expected from this daring flight his final ruin and fall, behold him rising still higher, and coming down souse upon both houses of parliament. Yes, he. did make you his quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You crouched, and still crouch beneath his rage. Nor has he dreaded the terror of your brow, sir; he has attacked even you-he hasand I believe you have no reason to triumph in the encounter. In short, after carrying away our royal eagle in his pounces, and dashing him against a rock, he has laid you prostrate. Kings, Lords, and Commons, are but the sport of his fury. Were he a member of this house, what might not be expected from his knowledge, his firmness, and integrity! He would be easily known by -his contempt of all danger, by his penetration, by his vigor. Nothing would escape his vigilance and activity; bad ministers could conceal nothing from his sagacity; nor could promises or threats induce him to conceal any thing from the public. JOHN HOWARt. I cannot name this gentleman without remarking that his labors and writings have done much to open the eyes and hearts of mankind. He has visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosity of modern art; not to collect medals, or collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons; to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and collate the 1760-1820.1 BURKE. 719 distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original; and it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery; a circumnavigation of charity. Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every country; I hope he will anticipate his final reward, by seeing all its effects fully realized in his own. He will receive, not by detail but in gross, the reward of those who visit the prisoner; and he has so forestalled and monopolized this branch of charity, that there will be, I trust, little room to merit by -such acts of benevolence hereafter. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, His illness was long, but borne with a mild and cheerful fortitude, without the least mixture of any thing irritable or querulous, agreeably to the placid and even tenor of his whole life. He had, from the beginning of his malady, a distinct view of his dissolution; and he contemplated it with that entire composure, which nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness of his life, and an unaffected submission to the will of Providence, could bestow. In this situation he had every consolation from family tenderness, which his own kindness to his family had indeed well deserved. Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on very many accounts, one of the most memorable men of his time. He was the first Englishman who added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country. In taste, in grace, in facility, in happy invention, and in the richness and harmony of coloring, he was equal to the great masters of the renowned ages. In portrait he went beyond them; for he communicated to that department of the art in which English artists are the most engaged, a variety, a fancy, and a dignity derived from the higher branches, which even those who professed them in a superior manner did not always preserve when they delineated individual nature. His portraits remind the spectator of the invention of history and of the amenity of landscape. In painting portraits, he appears not to be raised upon that platform, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His paintings illustrate his lessons, and his lessons seem to have been derived from his paintings. He possessed the theory as perfectly as the practice of his art. To be such a painter, he was a profound and penetrating philosopher. In full happiness of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the expert in art and by the learned in science, courted by the great, caressed by sovereign powers, and celebrated by distingulbhed poets, his native humility, modesty, and candor never torsook him, even on surprise or provocation; nor was the least degree of arro 720 BURKE. [GEORGE III. gance or assumption visible to the most scrutinizing eye in any part of his conduct or discourse. His talents of every kind-powerful from nature, and not meanly cultivated by letters-his social virtues in all the relations and in all the habitudes of life, rendered him the centre of a very great and unparalleled variety of agreeable societies, which will be dissipated by his death. He had too much merit not to provoke some jealousy, too much innocence to provoke any enmity. The loss of no man of his time can be felt with more sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow. "Hail! and farewell!" CLOSE OF HIS SPEECH TO THE ELECTORS OF BRISTOL. Gentlemen, I have had my day. I can never sufficiently express my gratitude to you, for having set me in a place, wherein I could lend the slightest help to great and laudable designs. If I have had my share, in any measure giving quiet to private property and private conscience; if by my vote I have aided in securing to families the best possession, peace; if I have joined in reconciling kings to their subjects, and subjects to their prince; if I have assisted to loosen the foreign holdings of the citizen, and taught him to look for his protection to the laws of his country, and for his comfort to the good-will of his countrymen; —if I have thus taken my part with the best of men in the best of their actions, I can shut the book; —I might wish to read a page or two more-but this is enough for my measure.-I have not lived in vain. And now, gentlemen, on this serious day, when I come, as it were, to make up my account with you, let me take to myself some degree of honest pride on the nature of the charges that are against me. i do not here stand before you accused of venality, or of neglect of duty. It is not said, that, in the long period of my service, I have, in a single instance, sacrificed the slightest of your interests to my ambition, or to my fortune. It is not alleged, that, to gratify any anger, or revenge of my own, or of my party, I have had a share in wronging or oppressing any description of men, or any one man in any description. No! the charges against me are all of one kind, that I have pushed the principles of general justice and benevolence too far; further than a cautious policy would warrant; and further than the opinions of many would go along with me. In every accident which may happen through life —in pain, in sorrow, in depression, and distress-I will call to mind this accusation; and be comforted. 1760-1820.] BURKE. 721 THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy! Oh! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to con template without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. —But the age of chivalry is gone.' RIGHTS OF MAN. If civil society be made for the advantage of man, all the advantages for which it is made become his right. It is an institution of beneficence; and law itself is only beneficence acting by a rule. Men have a right to live by that rule; they have a right to justice. They have a right to the fruits of their industry; and-to the means of making their industry fruitful. They have a right to the acquisitions of their parents; to the nourishment and improvement of their offspring; to instruction in life, and to consolation in death. Whatever each man can separately do, without trespassing upon others, he has a right to do for himself; and he has a right to a fair portion of all which society, with all its combinations of skill and force, can do in his favor. NOISY POLITICIANS. I have often been astonished, considering that we are divided from you (the French) but by a slender dyke of about twenty-four miles, and that the mutual intercourse between the two countries has lately been very great, to find how little you seem to know of us. I suspect that this is owing to your forming a judgment of this nation from certain publications, which do, ~ery erro1 And well is it that "the age of chivalry is gone," for it was an age of brute force, sanctioned by an institution as silly as it was revengeful, bloody, and barbarous. How justly the late accomplished Christian scholar, Dr. Arnold, speaks of it: "I confess that if I were called upon to name wvnat spirit of evil predominantly deserved the name of Antichrist, I should name the spirit of chivalry — the more detestable for the very guise of'archangel ruined,' which has made it so seductive to the most generous spirits, but to me so hateful, because it is in direct opposition to the impartial justice of the gospel and its comprehensive feeling of equal brotherhood, and because it so fostered a sense of honzor rather than a sense of DUTY." 2Z 61 722 BURKE. [GEORGE III. neously, if they do at all, represent the opinions and dispositions generally prevalent in England. The vanity, restlessness, petulance, and spirit of intrigue of several petty cabals, who attempt to hide their total want of consequences in bustle and noise, and puffing, and mutual quotation of each other, make you imagine that our contemptuous neglect of their abilities is a general mark of acquiescence in their opinions. No such thing, I assure you. Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that, of course, they are many in number; or that, after all, they are other than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome, insects of the hour. BURKE S LAMENTATION OVER HIS SON. Had it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family; I should have left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those to whom he traces in his line. His grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient, living spring, of generous and manly action. Every day he lived he would have repurchased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he had received. He was made a public creature; and had no enjoyment whatever, but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment, the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. But a Disposer whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wisodom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, and (whatever my querulous weakness might suggest) a far better. The storm has gone over me; and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane hath scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors: I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth! There, and prostrate there, I most unfeignedly recognise the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not 1.760-1820.3 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 723 know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a considerable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his, who visited his dunghill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. Indeed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if, in this hard season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury; it is a privilege; it is an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and disease. It is an instinct; and, under the direction of reason, instinct is always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me. They who should have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation (which ever must subsist in memory) that act of piety, which he would have performed to me; I owe it to him to show that he was not descended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from an unworthy parent. Letter to a Noble Lord. THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. IN presenting a series of choice extracts from the whole range of English prose literature, it would be almost unpardonable to pass over in silence the celebrated " Letters of Junius." That they may be the better understood and more keenly relished, especially by the younger portion of our readers, a few words upon the state of the times in which they appeared, as explanatory of' their object, may, if not absolutely necessary, at least be somewhat interesting. George the Third ascended the throne of Great Britain at a very eventful period of its history. A war of unexampled extent, and embracing a vast variety of interests, was then raging-the " Seven Years' War," (1756-63,) between Prussia and Austria, in which Great Britain, as well as many of the other European powers, unhappily became entangled. Fortunately for Eng. land, a ministry of great talents and energy directed the affairs of the nation, of which the elder Pitt was the most conspicuous member and the main support. But soon after the king's accession it seemed to many that his prin. ciples were far more despotic-more inclined to extend the rights of the, crown, and to abridge the rights of the people, than those which had actuated any of his predecessors of the same family. The great Whig families of tl!i kingdom, by the aid of whose ancestors the Revolution had chietlyv -aer brought about, thought that their services were slighted and set at naught oy a prince who was but a little way removed from that very sovereign whom their fathers had placed upon the throne, to the exclusion of a family of arbi. trary principles. 724 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. These feelings and fears were increased by the resignation of William Pitt, in 1761, and by the formation of a new ministry under the Earl of Bute, the king's especial favorite. He had the honor, however, of bringing to a close that terrible war which brought so much of "glory" to Mr. Pitt and the nation, along with an overwhelming national debt. To meet the great expenses of the nation, additional taxes were proposed, both upon the people at home, and upon the then American colonies. This produced great discontent on both sides of the Atlantic. The Earl of Bute resigned in 1763, and a new ministry was appointed, at the head of which was Lord Grenville, 1763-65..At this time very free, and in many cases virulent discussions were carried on in the newspapers of the day, relative to the course of public events. Of these, a paper called the "4North Briton" was the most violent. It was edited by John Wilkes, a member of parliament, who, in consequence of some very severe remarks in his paper upon the speech of the king to the parliament, was expelled that body. At once he became the idol of the people-offered himself as a candidate to the electors of Westminster-and was returned to parliament by a large majority. Parliament, however, declared him incapable of resuming his seat; and hence arose throughout the kingdom that remarkable discussion which shook the pillars of the state. While the cause of Wilkes was agitating the nation, the question of taxing America, and the consequences that might result therefrom, were becoming every day more alarming. To add to the general discontent, there was a constant change in the administration. Lord Bute was succeeded by the Grenville ministry in 1763; Lord Rockingham was appointed prime minister in 1765; Lord Chatham formed a new arrangement in 1766; the Duke of Grafton another in 1767; and Lord North completed the series in 1770. Thus the people saw that there was little harmony of views in those who were at the helm of state, and who should, in their counsels, especially at such a time, be united. On the 22d of February, 1770, the Marquis of Rockingham, in his place in the House of Lords, moved "s that a day be appointed to take into consideration the STATE OF THE NATION. In supporting this motion, he urged, that the present unhappy condition of affairs, and the universal discontent of the people, arose from no temporary cause, but had grown by degrees from the first -moment of his majesty's accession to the throne; that the persons in whom nis majesty then confided had introduced a system subversive of the old principles of English government; their maxim being, that the royal prerogative alone was sufficient to support government, to whatever hand the administration might be committed. The operation of this principle was observable in every act over which the influence of these persons had been exerted; and by a tyrannical exercise of power, they had removed from their places, not the great and dignified only, but numberless innocent families, who had subsisted on small salaries, and were now turned out to misery and ruin. By this injustice-by the taxes which had been imposed at home-by the indecent management of the civil list-by the mode of taxing and treating America-by the recent invasion of the freedom of election —in short, by every procedure at home and abroad, the constitution had been wounded, and the worst effects had resulted to the nation. He therefore recommended it strongly to their lordships, to fix an early day for taking into consideration the state of the country, in all its relations, foreign, provincial, and domestic; for it had been injured in them all.. That consideration, he hoped, would lead them to advise the crown to correct past errors, and to establish a system of 1760-1820.2 THE LETTESnS OF JUNIUS. 725 government more suited to the people, and more consistent with the constitution." It was at this period, when the public mind was thus intensely agitated, that the celebrated "Letters of Junius' appeared. They were published in the "' Public Advertiser" of London, a paper printed by Mr. Woodfall; one of the highest respectability, and which had the most extensive circulation in the kingdom. The first of these letters was dated January 21, 1769, and the last, January 21, 1772. No sooner did they appear, than they attracted universal attention. The author,2 whoever he was, was evidently no common man. To a minute, exact, as well as comprehensive knowledge of public affairs, he added a moral courage and dignity, a fearlessness in exposing the corruptions and the blunders of the government, a just and manly sense of the rights and interests of the people, and a scholarship that showed itself in a style of such unrivalled clearness, grace, and elegance, united to a condensation, energy, precision, and strength, that at once commanded the attention and admiration of the nation. Even his adversaries, at the very moment when his satire and invective were producing their most powerful effect, never failed to compliment him on the classical correctness, the attic wit, the figurative beauty, and the manly power of his language. The first quality of style that will strike the reader of Junius, is the studied energy and great compression of his language. There is not only no superfluous sentence, but there is no superfluous word in any of his sentences. He seems to have aimed at this quality with the greatest care, as best suited to the style and character of his mode of thinking, and best accommodated to the high attitude which he assumed, as the satirist and judge, not of ordinary men or common authors, but of the most elevated and distinguished personages and institutions of his country; of a person who seemed to feel himself called on to treat majesty itself with perfect freedom; and before whom the supreme wisdom and might of the great councils of the state stood rebuked and in fear. But of all the varied powers that Junius has displayed, none is so peculiarly and entirely his own, as his power of sarcasm. Other authsrs deal occasionally in it, but with Junius it is more general; and whenever lie rises to his highest sphere, he assumes the air of a being who delights to taunt and to mock his adversary. He refuses to treat him as a person who should be seriously dealt with, and pours out his contempt or indlignation under an imposing affectation of deference and respect. His talent for sarcasm, too, is of the finest kind: it is so carefully but so poignantly exerted, that it is necessary to watch his words to perceive all the satire which they contain. Thus we may have an impression that the author is only speaking in his naturat style, when he is employing a mode of annoyance which it requires the utmost address anld skill to manage. But when his irony is perceived, it strikies like a poniarcl, and the wound which it makes is such as cannot be closed(. Indeed, there is, perhaps, no author who possesses this quality in the same pel fection, or who has exerted it with the same effect. But the style of Junius, admirable as it is, cannot be propesed as a model for general imitation. "It is too epigramlntatic-too much clharacterlzed bly the tone of invective-and too strongly compressed, to be usedl by any nlLutd 1 Woodfall was afterwards-tried for these alleged "libellous publicationas," before Lord Iansfieldc and though his lordship did all he could that he might be convicted, the jury acquitted him, and thus established, on an immovable foundation, THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. See Burke's admirable deseription of him, on p. 718. 61* '726 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [G-EORGE IIIo but one similar to that of its author, and, it may be atiled, but for purposes resembling those for which he employed it. Few authors, accordingly, have attempted to imitate the style of Junius, and the few that have attempted it have not succeeded. His style was exquisitely fitted for the purpose to which he destined it, and should be studied, carefully and repeatedly, by those who would see the English language in one of its happiest forms. But the nerve of Junius must belong to the man who can hope to use, successfully, the instrument which he used; for that instrument was fitted to his grasp, -and among ordinary men there are none who can pretend to wield it." I FROM THE DEDICATION TO THE ENGLISH NATION. I dedicate to you a collection of Letters, written by one of yourselves for the common benefit of us- all. They would never have grown to this size, without your continued encouragement and applause. To me they originally owe nothing, but a healthy, sanguine constitution. Under your care they have thriven. To you they are indebted for whatever strength or beauty they possess. When kings and ministers are forgotten, when the force and direction of personal satire is no longer understood, and when measures are only felt in their remotest consequences, this book will, I believe, be found to contain principles worthy to be transmitted to posterity. When you leave the unimpaired, hereditary freehold to your children, you do but half your duty.2 Both liberty and property are precarious, unless the possessors have sense and spirit enough to defend them. This is not the language of vanity. If I am a vain man, my gratification lies within a narrow circle. I am the sole depositary of my own secret, and it shall perish with me.3 I cannot doubt that you will unanimously assert the freedom of election, and vindicate your exclusive right to choose your representatives. But other questions have been started, on which your determination should be equally clear and unanimous. Let it be impressed upon your minds, let it be instilled into your children, that the liberty of the press is the palladium of all the civil, political, and religious rights of an Englishman, and that the right of juries to return a general verdict, in all cases whatsoever, is an essential part of our constitution, not to be controlled or limited by the judges, nor in any shape questionable by the legislature. The power of king, lords, and commons, is not an arbitrary power. They are the trustees, not the owners of the estate. The feo1 Woodfall's is generally considered the best edition of Junius; but an admirable one is that pubuished by Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1822, with notes and preliminary dissertations, and to which I am indebted for a portion of the above remarks. 2 By hereditary freehold he evidently means the constitution in its original purity. 8 The author of the "Letters of Jurlius" is now clearly ascertained to be Sir Philip Francis. See a very interesting letter from Lady Francis, in Lord Campbell's " Lives of the Chancellors," vol vi. p. 282, American edition. 1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 727 simple is in us. They cannot alienate, they cannot waste. When we say that the legislature is supreme, we mean that it is the highest power known to the constitution:-that it is the highest in comparison with the other subordinate powers established by the laws. In this sense, the word supreme is relative, not absolute. The power of the legislature is limited, not only by the general rules of natural justice, and the welfare of the community, but by the forms and principles of our particular constitution. If this doctrine be not true, we must admit that king, lords, and commons have no rule to direct their resolutions, but merely their own will and pleasure. They might unite the legislative and executive power in the same hands, and dissolve the constitution by an act of parliament. But I am persuaded you will not leave it to the choice of seven hundred persons, notoriously corrupted by the crown, whether seven millions of their equals shall be freemen or slaves. These are truths unquestionable. —If they make no impression, it is because they are too vulgar and notorious. But the inattention or indifference of the nation has continued too long. You are roused at last to a sense of your danger.-The remedy will soon be in your power. If Junius lives, you shall often be reminded of it. If, when the opportunity presents itself, you neglect to do your duty to yourselves and to posterity,-to God and to your country, I shall have one consolation left, in common with the meanest and basest of mankind —civil liberty may still last the life of JUNIUs. TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD.1 MY LORD: —YOU are so little accustomed to receive any marks of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following line-, a compliment or expression of applause should escape me, I fear you would consider it as a mockery of your established character, and, perhaps, an insult to your understanding. You have nice feelings, my lord, if we may judge from your resentments. Cautious, therefore, of giving offence, where you have so little deserved it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues to other hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the easiness of your temper, or possibly they are better acquainted with your good qualities than I am. You have done good by stealth. The rest is upon record. You have still left ample room for speculation, when panegyric is exhausted. You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest rank; a splendid fortune; and a name, glorious till it was yours, were sufficient to have supported you with meaner abilities than I think 1 This is one of the most labored of or aunthor's letters: and perhaps there is none of them which displays, in so striking a manner, his unrelenting spirit. 728 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. you possess. From the first you derived a constitutional claim to respect; from the second, a natural extensive authority;-the last created a partial expectation of hereditary virtues. The use you have made of these uncommon advantages might have been more honorable to yourself, but could not be more instructive to mankind. We may trace it in the veneration of your country, the choice of your friends, and in the accomplishment of every sanguine hope, which the public might have conceived from the illustrious name of Russell. The eminence of your station gave you a commanding prospect of your duty. The road, which led to honor, was open to your view. You could not lose it by mistake, and you had no temptation to depart from it by design. Compare the natural dignity and importance of the richest peer of England;-the noble independence, which he might have maintained in parliament, and the real interest and respect, which he might have acquired, not only in parliament, but through the whole kingdom; compare these glorious distinctions with the ambition of holding a share in government, the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough, or the purchase of a corporation; and though you may not regret the virtues which create respect, you may see, with anguish, how much real importance and authority you have lost. Consider the character of an independent, virtuous Duke of Bedford; imagine what he might be in this country, then reflect one moment upon what you are. If it be possible for me to withdraw my attention from the fact, I will tell you in theory what such a man might be. Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct in parliament would be directed by nothing but the constitutional duty of a peer. He would consider himself as a guardian of the laws. Willing to support the just measures of government, but determined to observe the conduct of the minister with suspicion, he would oppose the violence of faction with as much firmness as the encroachments of prerogative. He would be as little capable of bargaining with the minister for places for himself, or his dependants, as of descending to mix himself in the intrigues of opposition. Whenever an important question called for his opinion in parliament, he would be heard, by the most profligate minister, with deference and respect. His authority would either sanctify or disgrace the measures of government. The people would look up to him as to their protector, and a virtuous prince would have one honest man in his domlinions, in whose integrity and judgment he mioht safely confide. If it should be the will of Providence to afflict him with a domestic misfortune,' he would submit to the stroke, with feeling, but not without dignity. He would 1 The duke lately lost his only son by a fall from his horse 1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 729 consider the people as his children, and receive a generous heartfelt consolation, in the sympathizing tears and blessings of his country. Your grace may probably discover something more intelligible in the negative part of this illustrious character. The man I have described would never prostitute his dignity in parliament by an indecent violence either in opposing or defending a minister. HIe would not at one moment rancorously persecute, at another basely cringe to the favorite of his sovereign After outraging the royal dignity with peremptory conditions, little short of menace and hostility, he would never descend to the humility of soliciting an interview with the favorite, and of offering to recover, at any price, the honor of his friendship. Though deceived perhaps in his youth, he would not, through the course of a long life, have invariably chosen his friends from among the most profligate of mankind. His own honor would have forbidden him from mixing his private pleasures or conversation with jockeys, gamesters, blasphemers, gladiators, or buffoons. He would then have never felt, much less would he have submitted to the humiliating, dishonest necessity of engaging in the interest and intrigues of his dependants, of supplying their vices, or relieving their beggary, at the expense of his country. He would not have betrayed such ignorance, or such contempt of the constitution, as openly to avow, in a court of justice, the purchase and sale of a borough. He would not have thought it consistent with his rank in the state, or even with his personal importance, to be the little tyrant of a little corporation. He would never have been insulted with virtues which he had labored to extinguish, nor suffered the disgrace of a mortifying defeat, which has made him ridiculous and contemptible, even to the few by whom he was not detested. I reverence the afflictions of a good man,-his sorrows are sacred. But how can we take part in the distresses of a man whom we can neither love nor esteem; or feel for a calamity of which he himself is insensible? Where was the father's heart, when he could look for, or find an immediate consolation for the loss of an only son, in consultations and bargains for a place at court, and even in the misery of balloting at the India House! FROM HIS LETTER TO THE KING.1 To the Printer of the ", Public A.dvertiser." When the complaints of a brave and powerful people are observed to increase in proportion to the wrongs they have suffered; 1 This celebrated letter to the king is, perhaps, the most remarkable political address ever puolished in England. At the time of its appearance it made a very great impression upon the public mind; and the importance which the author himself attached to it, is evinced by the following note which he addressed to his printer, announcing it: " I am now meditating a capital, and I hope a final piece." 730 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. when, instead of sinking into submission, they are roused to resistance, the time will soon arrive at which every inferior consideration must yield to the security of the sovereign, and to the general safety of the state. There is a moment of difficulty and danger, at which flattery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and simplicity itself can no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived. Let us suppose a gracious, well-intentioned prince, made sensible at last of the great duty he owes to his people, and of his own disgraceful situation; that he looks round him for assistance, and asks for no advice, but how to gratify the wishes, and secure the happiness of his subjects. In these circumstances, it may be matter of curious speculation to consider, if an honest man were permitted to approach a king, in what terms he would address himself to his sovereign. Let it be imagined, no matter how improbable, that the first prejudice against his character is removed; that the ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted; that he feels himself animated by the purest and most honorable affections to his king and country; and that the great person, whom he addresses, has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understanding enough to listen to him with attention. Unacquainted with the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his sentiments with dignity and firmness, but not without respect. SIR: —It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the cause of every reproach and distress which has attended your government, that you should never have been acquainted with the language of truth, until you heard it in the complaints of your people. It is not, however, too late to correct the error of your education. WTe are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of your disposition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, deliberate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects, on which all their civil and political liberties depend. Had it been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonorable to your character, we should long since have adopted a style of remonstrance very distant from the humility of complaint. The doctrine inculcated by our laws, That the king can do no wrong, is admitted without reluctance. We separate the amiable, good-natured prince, from the folly and treachery of his servants, and the private virtues of the man, from the vices of his government. Were it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your majesty's condition, or that of the English nation, would deserve most to be lamented. I would prepare your mind for a favorable reception of truth, by removing every painful offensive idea of personal reproach. Your subjects, sir, wish for nothing but that, as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from 1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 731 your government, so you, in your turn, should distinguish between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a king, and that which serves only to promote the temporary interest and miserable ambition of a minister. You ascended the throne with a declared, and, I doubt not, a sincere resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects. You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince, whose countenance promised even more than his words, and loyal to you, not only from principle, but passion. It was not a cold profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, animated attachment to a favorite prince, the native of their country. They did not wait to examine your conduct, nor to be determined by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future blessings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of their affections. Such, sir, was once the disposition of a people, who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints. Do justice to yourself. Banish from your mind those unworthy opinions with which some interested persons have labored to possess you. Distrust the men who tell you that the English are naturally light and inconstant;-that they complain without a cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties-from ministers, favorites, and relations; and let there be one moment in your life in which you have consulted your own understanding. You have still an honorable part to act. The affections of your subjects may still be recovered. But before you subdue their hearts, you must gain a noble victory over your own. Discard those little, personal resentments which have too long directed your public conduct. Pardon this man, the remainder of his punishment; and if resentment still prevails, make it, what it should have been long since, an act not of mercy, but contempt. He will soon fall back into his natural station, —a silent senator, and hardly supporting the weekly eloquence of a newspaper. The gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglected and unremoved. It is only the tempest that lifts him from his place. Without consulting your minister, call together your whole council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects with the spirit of a man, and in the language of a gentleman. Tell them you have been fatally deceived. The acknowledgment will be no disgrace, but rather an honor to your understanding. Tell them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint against your government; that you will give your confidence to 1 Mr. Wilkes. 732 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. no man who does not possess the confidence of your subjects; and leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future election, whether or no it be in reality the general sense of the nation, that their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the present House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves. These sentiments, sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may be offensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed to the language of courtiers, you measure their affections by the vehemence of their expressions; and, when they only praise you indirectly, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, sir, who tell you that you have many friends whose affections are founded upon a principle of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality with which they are received, and may be returned. The fortune, which made you a king, forbade you to have a friend. It is a law of nature which cannot be violated with impunity. The mistaken prince, who looks for friendship, will find a favorite, and in that favorite the ruin of his affairs. The people of England are loyal to the house of Hanover, not from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a conviction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the support of their civil and religious liberties. This, sir, is a principle of allegiance equally solid and rational:-fit for Englishmen to adopt, and well worthy of your majesty's encouragement. We cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of Stuart, of itself, is only contemptible;-armed with the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince, who imitates their conduct, should be warned by their example; and while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember, that as it was acquired by one revolution, it may be lost by another. JUNIUS. ENCOMIUM ON LORD CHATHAM. It seems I am a partisan of the great leader of the opposition If the charge had been a reproach, it should have been better supported. I did not intend to make a public declaration of the respect I bear Lord Chatham. I well knew what unworthy conclusions would be drawn from it. But I am called upon to deliver my opinion, and surely it is not in the little censure of Mr. fHorne to deter me from doing signal justice to a man, who, I confess, has grown upon my esteem. As for the common, sordid views of avarice, or any purpose of vulgar ambition, I question whether the applause of Junius would be of service to Lord Chat 1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 33 ham. My vote will hardly recommend him to an increase of his pension, or to a seat in the cabinet. But if his ambition be upon a level with his understanding; —if he judges of what is truly honorable for himself, with the same superior genius which animates and directs him to eloquence in debate, to wisdom in deci sion, even the pen of Junius shall contribute to reward him. Recorded honors shall gather round his monument, and thicken over him. It is a solid fabric, and will support the laurels that adorn it. I am not conversant in the language of panegyric.These praises are extorted from me; but they will wear well, for they have been dearly earned. TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD CAMDEN. MY LORD:-I turn, with pleasure, from that barren waste in which no salutary plant takes root, no verdure quickens, to a character fertile, as I willingly believe, in every great and good qualification. I call upon you, in the name of the English nation, to stand forth in defence of the laws of your country, and to exert, in the cause of truth and justice, those great abilities with which you were intrusted for the benefit of mankind. Your lordship's character assures me that you will assume that principal part, which belongs to you, in supporting the laws of England, against a wicked judge, who makes it the occupation of his life to misinterpret and pervert them. If you decline this honorable office, I fear it will be said that, for some months past, you have kept too much company with the Duke of Grafton. When the contest turns upon the interpretation of the laws, you cannot, withoat a formal surrender of all your reputation, yield the post of honor even to Lord Chatham. Considering the situation and abilities of Lord Mansfield, I do not scruple to affirm, with the most solemn appeal to God for my sincerity, that, in my judgment, he is the very worst and most dangerous man in the kingdom. Thus far I have done my duty in endeavoring to bring him to punishment. But mine is an inferior, ministerial office in the temple of justice. — I have bound the victim, and dragged him to the altar. The man, who fairly and completely answers iny arguments, shall have my thanks and my applause. My heart is already with him.-I am ready to be converted. —I admire his morality and would gladly subscribe to the articles of his faith. Grateful, as I am, to the Good Being whose bounty has imparted to me this reasoning intellect, whatever it is, I hold myself proportionably indebted to him from whose enlightened understanding another ray of knowledge communicates to mine. But neither should I think the most exalted facalties of the human mind a gift worthy 92 734 COWPER. [GIORGE 111. of the divinity; nor any assistance, in the improvement of them, a subject of gratitude to my fellow-creature, if I were not satisfied, that really to inform the understanding corrects and enlarges the heart. JUNIUS. WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800. WILLIAMt COWPER, "cthe most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers," as the poet Southey terms him, was born in Berkhampstead, in Bedfordshire, Nov. 15, 1731. His father, the Rev. John Cowper, was the rector of that place. From infancy he had a delicate and extremely susceptible constitution,-a misfortune that was aggravated by the loss of an affectionate mother, who died when he was only six years old. The intense love with which he cherished her memory during the rest of his life, may be known from that most affecting poem which lie wrote on contemplating her picture. At the age of ten he was sent to Westminster School, where he stayed till he was eighteen; and though he pursued his studies diligently while there, he could never look back upon those years without horror, as he remembered the despotic tyranny exercised over him by the older boys -a shameful practice, still, in a degree, maintained in the English schools. After leaving school, he spent three years in an attorney's office, and then entered the Middle Temple, in which he continued eleven years, devoting his time, however, to poetry and general literature more than to law. In 1763 the offices of clerk of the journals, reading clerk, and clerk of the committees')f the House of Lords, which were all at the disposal of a cousin of Cowper's, became vacant about the same time. The two last were conferred on Cowper, but the idea of appearing and reading before the House of Lords so overwhelmed him, that he resigned the offices almost as soon as they were accepted. But as his patrimony was nearly spent, his friends procured for him the office of clerk of the journals, thinking that his personal appearance at the House would not be required. But he was unexpectedly summoned to an examination at the bar of the House, before he could be allowed to talke the office. The thoughts of this so preyed upon his mind, as to shatter his reason, and he actually made attempts upon his own life. He was therefore removed to the house of Dr. Cotton, at St. Albans, with whom he continued about eighteen months. On his recovery he was so fortunate as to find friends who were able to soothe his melancholy, direct his genius, and make his time pass happily away. In June, 1765, his brother took him to Huntingdon to board. Here he was introduced to the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin, who was the clergyman of the place. It consisted of the father, Mrs. Unwin, and a son and daughter just arrived at majority. Cowper says of them, in one of his letters, c" they are the most agreeable people imaginable; quite sociable, and as free from *the ceremonious civility of country gentlefolks as any I ever met with. They treat me more like a near relation than a stranger, and their house is always open to me." Much to his joy, they agreed to receive him into their house as a boarder. He had been there, however, but two years, wheni Mr. Unwin, senior, died, and Cowper accompanied Mrs. Unwin and 1760-1820.] COWPER. 735 her daughter to a new residence, which they chose at Olney, in Buckinghamshire. Here he formed an intimate friendship with the Rev. Mr. Newton of that place, with whom he long maintained a Christian intercourse, delightful and profitable to both parties. In 1773 Cowper was visited by a second attack of mental derangement. which showed itself in paroxysms of extreme religious despondency. It lasted for about four years, during which period Mrs. Unwin watched over him with a tenderness and devotion truly maternal. As he began to recover, he betook himself to various amusements, such as taming hares and making bird-cages, which pastimes he diversified with light reading. Hitherto his poetic faculties had lain nearly dormant; but in the winter of 1780-81 he prepared the first volume of his poems for the press, consisting of c"TableTalk," "Hope," c"The Progress of Error," "Charity," &c., which was published in 1782, but it did not attract much attention till the appearance of "s The Task." In the same year that he published his first volume, an elegant and accomplished visitant came to Olney, with whom Cowper formed an acquaintance that was, for some time, a most delightful one to him. This was Lady Austen, the widow of Sir Robert Austen. She had wit, gayety, agreeable manners, and elegant taste. While she enlivened Cowper's unequal spirits by her con. versation, she was also the task-mistress of his Muse. He began his great original poem, "c The Task," at her suggestion,l and was exhorted by her to undertake the translation of Homer. So much cheerfulness seems to have beamed upon his sequestered life from the influence of her society, that he gave her the endearing appellation of Sister Anne.2 But his devoted old friend, Mrs. Unwin, looked with no little jealousy upon the ascendency of a female, so much more fascinating than herself, over Cowper's mind; and, appealing to his gratitude for her past services, she gave him his choice of either renouncing Lady Austen's acquaintance or her own. Cowper decided upon adhering to the friend who had watched over him in his deepest afflictions; and sent Lady Austen a valedictory letter, couched in terms of regret and regard, but which necessarily put an end to their acquaintance. Whether in making this decision he sacrificed a passion or only a friendship for Lady Austen, it is now impossible to tell; but it has been said that the remembrance of a deep and devoted attachment of his youth was never effaced by any succeeding impressions of the same nature; and that his fondness for Lady Austen was as platonic as for Mary Unwin. The sacrifice, however, cost him much pain; and is, perhaps, as much to be admired as regretted.3 1 One day Lady Austen requested him to try his powers on blank verse: "But," said he, "' I have no subject." " Oh you can write on any thing," she replied; " take this sofa." Hence the btginning of the Task, I sing the Sofa. * * * The theme, though humble, yet august and proud Th' occasion-for the fair commands the song. 2 4" Lady Austen's conversation had as happy an effect upon the melancholy spirit of Cowper as the harp of David upon Saul. Whenever the cloud seemed to be coming over him, her sprightly powers were exerted to dispel it. One afternoon, (Oct., 1782,) when he appeared more than usually depressed, she told him the story of John Gilpin, which had been told to her in her childhood, and which, in her relation, tickled his fancy as much as it has that of thousands and tens of thousands since, inihis. The next morning he said to her that he had been kept awake during the greater part of the night by thinking of the story and laughing at, it, and that he had turned it into a ballad. The ballad was sent to Mr. Unwin, who said, in reply, that it had made him laugh teare." —Southey. 8 Sce Campbell's Specimens, vol. vii. p. 346. 7836 COWPERI. [GEORGE III. In 1784 appeared his " Taski" a poem which, as Hazlitt wvell remarks, contains " a number of pictures of domestic comfort and social refinement which can hardly be forgotten but with the language itself." The same year he began his " Tirocinium," a poem on the subject of education, the object of which was to censure the want of discipline, and the inattention to morals, which prevailed in public schools. In the same year also he commenced his translation of Homer, which was finished in 1791, and which is, on the whole, the best translation of Homer that we possess: that is, it gives us the best idea of the style and manner and sentiments of the great Grecian bard: for having adopted blank verse, he had to make no sacrifices of meaning or language to rhyme. In the mean time, the loss of Lady Austen was, in a degree, made up by his cousin Lady Hesketh, who, two years after the publication of i" The Task," paid him a visit at Olney, and settling at Weston Hall, in the immediate neighborhood, provided a comfortable abode for him and Mrs. Unwin there, to which they removed in 1786; and here he executed his translation of Homer. In 1792, the poet Hayley, afterwards his biographer, made him a visit at Weston, having corresponded with him previously. Of him, Cowper, in one of his letters, thus writes: "Everybody here has fallen in love with him, and wherever he goes everybody must. We have formed a friendship that, I trust, will last for life, and render us an edifying example to all future poets." While Hayley was with him, Mrs. Unwin had a severe paralytic stroke, which rendered her helpless for the rest of her life. To this most excellent woman, to whom we are indebted, perhaps, as the instrument of preserving Cowper's reason, and it may be his life, he addressed one of the most touching, and perhaps the most widely known of all his poems —" To Mary." Mr. Hayley says he believes it to be the last original piece he produced at Weston, and that he doubts whether any language on earth can exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender. In 1794 his unhappy malady returned upon him with increased violence, and Lady Hesketh, with most commendable zeal and disinterestedness, devoted herself to the care of the two invalids. Mr. Hayley found him, on a third visit, plunged into a sort of melancholy torpor, so that when it was announced to him that his majesty had bestowed on him a pension of;~300 a year, he seemed to take no notice of it. The next year it was thought best for both Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, that their location should be changed, and accordingly they were removed to the house of his kinsman, Mr. Johnson, at North Tuddenham, in Norfolk. The removal, however, had no good effect upon either, and the next year Mrs. Unwin died. Cowper would not believe she was dead, when the event was broken to him, and desired to see her. Mr. Johnson accompanied him to the room where lay her remains. He looked upon her for a few moments, then started away with a vehement, unfinished exclamation of anguish, and never afterwards uttered her name. In the year 1799, some power of exertion returned to him; he completed the revisal of his Homer, and wrote the last original piece that he ever composed-,, The Cast-Away." It is founded on an incident mentioned in one of Anson's Voyages, and when we consider the circumstances under which it was written, and the parallelism constantly prey'lg upon the diseased mind of the author, it is one of the most affecting pieces that ever was composed. His om ra end was now drawing near, and on the 5th of April, 1800 he breathed his last. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 737 Cowper is eminently the David of English poetry, pouring forth, like the great Hebrew bard, his own deep and warm feelings in behalf of moral and religious truth. " His language," says Campbell, "has such a masculine, idiomatic strength, and his manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into negligence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry with a deeper conviction of its sentiments having come from the author's heart; and of the enthusiasm, in whatever he describes, having been unfeigned and unexaggerated. He impresses us with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and simplicity." And a writer in the Retrospective Review remarks, that "Lthe delightful freedom of his manner, so acceptable to those who had long been accustomed to a poetical school, of which the radical fault was constraint; his noble and tender morality; his fervent piety; his glowing and well-expressed patriotism; his descriptions, unparalleled in vividness and accuracy since Thomson; his playful humor and his powerful satire; the skilful construction of his verse, at least in the' Task,' and the refreshing variety of that fascinating poem,-all together conspired to render him highly popular, both among the multitude of common readers, and among those who, possessed of poetical powers themselves, were capable of intimately appreciating those of a real poet." We might thus fill many pages with encomiastic remarks upon the poetry of Cowper, but the reader would rather taste of the original for himself.' THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD IN ALL THINGS. Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that checker life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns; (since from the least The greatest oft originate;) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose -One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth, Philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his instrument, forgets, Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men, That live an atheist life; involves the heaven In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their flry; bids a plague I Read —ayley's Life, a most interesting piece of biography-Grimshaw's Life, preflxed to his edition in 8 vols., and Southey's Life, prefixed to his edition in 15 vols. The latter is the best edition of the poet. Read, also, articles in the Edinburgh Review, ii. 64, and iv. 273, and in the Quarterly xvi. 116, and xxx. 185. Also, an article in Jeffrey's Miscellanies. An admirable dissertation on the progress of English poetry, from Chaucer to Cowper, will be found in vol. ii. chap. 12, of Soutbey's edition of the poet. 3A Ae 738 COWPER. [GEORGaE0 Tr Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew fromn between his shriveli'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce Philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs, And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects Of action and reaction: he has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means, Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of Him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught; And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. Task, ii. 161. THE WOUNDED SPIRIT HEALED. I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charged, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live. Task, il1. 108, TRUE PHILOSOPHY. Philosophy, baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches: Piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true prayei Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in His word sagacious. Such, too, thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, And sound integrity, not more than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled. Tak, lit. 143. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 789 THE GEOLOGIST AND COSMOLOGIST.1 Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn That he who made it and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some, more acute and more industrious still, Contrive creation; travel nature up To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt, And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Task, iii. 150. SLAVERY.2 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax, That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own; and having power T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most tobe deplored, 1 In the early history of geology many good and pious people were concerned, lest such discoveries should be made as would invalidate the Mosaic account of the creation. But how groundless have all their fears proved I Truth is one, and God's works can never be in conflict with his Word. Of the whole race of " spruce philosophers," as Cowper calls them, even the infidel Voltaire could thus write: " Philosophers put themselves, without ceremony, in the place of God, and destroy and renew the world after their own fashion." "From the time of Buffon," says Dr. Wiseman, in his learned Lectures on Science and Revealed Religion, "system rose beside system, like the moving pillars of the desert, advancing in threatening array; but like them they were fabrics of sand; and though in 1806 the French Institute counted more than rIGHTY such theories of geology hostile to Scripture history, not one of them has stood till now, or deserves to be recorded." And Turner, in his learned work on Chemistry, says, " Of all the wonders of geology, none is so wonderful as the confidence of the several theorists." 2 Upon this and other pieces of Cowper, in behalf of the poor slave, the poet Campbell thus truthfully as well as feelingly remarks: "Poetical expositions of the horrors of slavery may, indeed. seem very unolkely agents in contributing to destroy it; and it is possible that the most refinedX planter in the West Indies, may look with neither shame nor compunction on his own image, exposed in the pages of Cowper, as a being degraded by giving stripes and tasks to his fellow creatures. But such appeals to the heart of the community are not lost. They fix themselves silently 1i1 the popular memory, and they become, at last, a part of that public opinion, whicn n ust, sooner oR later, wrench the lash from the hand of the oppressor."-Specihens, vii. 364. 740 COWPER. [GEORGE Irr. As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.1 Task, li. 8. KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. Knowledge and Wisdom, far fromn being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Task. vi. 88. MIERCY TO ANIMALS. I would not enter on my list of friends, (Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense, 1 When Cowper wrote these lines, nearly a million of African slaves toiled in the British colonies. But the English abolitionists, led on by Sharpe, and Clarkson, and Wilberforce, so earnestly portrayed their wrongs and plead their cause, that the great heart of the nation became at length fully aroused to the subject, and they were declared absolutely and unconditionally free on the 1st of Au gust, 1838. It was predicted that theft, and plunder, and murder, would be the consequence, and the 1st of August was anticipated by all with the most intense interest. It came and passed with all the solemnity of a Sabbath-day. The houses of worship were thronged the preceding evening, to welcome the advent of Liberty, and as the clock tolled out the hour of midnight, the assembled populace bowed the knee in prayer and praise to the God who had bestowed it. Not a blow was struck in revenge-not an arm upraised in riot. Ten years have now elapsed, and they have borne witness to the constantand rapid improvement of the freedmen. Their food, clothing, and furniture are much better: nearly every family has a horse or a mule, and very many have several. They are willing to work steadily for moderate wages, and most of them remain on the estates of their former masters. Many have purchased land, and it is estimated thatthere are now 2.0,000 freeholders among the emancipated peasantry of Jamaica alone. Marriage is now "honorable" among them; the parental relation is better understood, and Its duties better performed; education is appreciated; and churches have multiplied. The freedmen contribute liberally towards sustaining the ministration of the gospel among themselves, and are already beginning to stretch out their hands, and to send forth their missionaries to their benighted fatherland. For these condensed facts I am indebted to Rev. C. S. Renshaw, for many years a de voteCd missionary among the freedmen in Jamaica. 1760-1820.] COWrPER. 741 Yet wanting sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, The chamber, or refectory, may die: A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileged; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. The sum is this: If man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all-the meanest things that areAs free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. Ta8, vi. 560. WAR. Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy, the world. Task, v. 185. LIBERTY.'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of discovery; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Task, v. 446. 742 COWPER. [GEORGE III. THE POST-BOY. Hark!'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood; in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected brightHe comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks, News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. Task, iv. 1. PLEASURES OF A WINTER EVENING. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio' of four pages, happy work! Which not even critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them I At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 1 The Newspaper, 1760-1820.] COWPER. 743 And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives. Sweet bashfulness; it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense That it foretells us always comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost: While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katterfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, 1 crown thee King of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long, uninterrupted evening, know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates: No powder'd pert, proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings: no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake. But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposedc Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 744 COWPER. [GEOoRGE IIr. A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng, To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor when he views (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) Tile slope of faces, from the floor to the roof, (As if one master-spring controll'd them all,) Relax'd into a universal grin, Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours. Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks That idleness has ever yet contrived To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form; Ensanguined hearts; clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleased when idle most: Whose only happy, are their idle hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school Of card-devoted time, and, night by night, Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. Task, v. 36 -1760 —1820. ] tCOWPER. 745 THE GUILT OF MAKING MAN PROPERTY. Canst thou, and honor'd with the Christian name, Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1I Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead,Expedience as a warrant for the deed? So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold To quit the forest and invade the fold; So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide, Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside; Not he, but his emergence forced the door, He found it inconvenient to be poor. Has God then given its sweetness to the caneUnless His laws be trampled on —in vain? Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, Unless His right to rule it be dismiss'd? Impudent blasphemy! So Folly pleads, And, Avarice being judge, with ease succeeds.2 TO MARY. Written in the autumn of 1793. The twentieth year is well-nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow;'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But weil thou play'dst the housewife's part; And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! 1 Says the Rev. Albert Balnes, in his Inquiry into the Scriptural Views of Slavery, " There is no power OUT or the church that could sustain slavery an hour, if it were not sustained IN it." Nothing can be more true: and what a sad reflection it is that there can be found professed disciples of Him who camle " to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captive, and good-will toward men," guilty of, or apologizing for, any practices or any systems of wrong-doing that degrade and brutalize their fellow-lnen. lt is enough to make angels weep. Christianity can never fulfil its great and glorious design, unless those who profess it act upon its principles fully and entirely in all their relations, personal, social, business, civil, and political. What a momentous responsibility therefore. rests upon the members of the Christian church I 2 See the lines from Milton, in the note on page 280. 63 746 COWPeR. [GEORGE 11. Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary I! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still molre lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now, at every step thou movest, Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, iMy Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, My Mary I And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! PREACHING VS. PRACTICE. A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, Had once his integrity put to the test; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd — Oh, no What! rob our good neighbor I pray you don't go Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, Then think of his children, for they must be fed." "You speak very fine, and you look very grave, But apples we want, and apples we'll have; If you will go with us, you shall have a share, If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." They spoke, and Tom ponder'd-" I see they will go Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, But staying behind will do him no good. a170-1820.] COWPER. 747' If the smatter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; But since they will take them, I think I'll go too; He will lose none by me, though I get a few." His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, And went with his comrades the apples to seize; He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan; He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home ageia John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band Captain eke was lihe Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear"Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied —" I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the Calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin —" That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoy'd was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud 748 COWPER. [GEORGE 1Tm So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again; For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!" " Good lack!" quoth he,; "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor' that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat; He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, T'he snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 749 6o "Fair allnd softly," John he cried; But John lie cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin-who but he? His fame soon spread around — "He carries weight! he rides a race'Tis for a thousand pound!" And still, as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smok e As they had basted been. But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. 63* 750 COWPE[R. [EORGI-E IL Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "' Stop, stop, John Gilpin! —Here's the house,` — They all aloud did cry; The dinner waits, and we are tired: Said Gilpin —" So am I." But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?-His owner had a house Full ten miles off at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly-which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend's the Calender's His horse at last stood still. rhe Calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:' What news? what news? your tidings tell Tell me you must and shall; Say why bare-headed you are comrn, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the Calender In merry guise he spoke — "I came because your horse would come And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be hereThey are upon the road." The Calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd hlimn not a single word, But to the house went in; Q1",'60-]820.] COWPER. 761 Whence straight he came with hat and wag, A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit: "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John —" It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So, turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here. You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first; For why — They were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, " This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain, Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein: But not performing what he meant And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. 152 COWPER. [GEORGE IIL. Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry: " Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did; and won it too; For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! JOHN BUNYAN. 0 thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word,I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame: Yet even in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober gray, Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God.'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charmn'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy; And not with curses on his art, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. Tirociniun. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 753 SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.1 Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe, By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou bast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above. ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER S PICTURE 0 that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine —thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief; 1 " The eloquence of Wilberforce was the voice of humanity. It was at the table of Bennet Langton, that he made the public avowal of his sentiments upon slavery. There was something sublime in the spectacle of so young a man preaching a new crusade. He declared himself the advocate of a forsaken race; and with almost unaided arm prepared to open the gates of mercy to mankind. Mackintosh said that he had conferred upon the world a benefit never exceeded by human benevolence. He was neither daunted by opposition nor depressed by defeat. However exhausted by the struggle, if he touched, in imagination at least, the ground where the ashes of the persecuted African reposed, his strength returned to him. The cry of blood ascended from the earth. Let his toil be appreciated, and his difficulties acknowledged. What others have dared in the war of arms, he dared in the war of opinion. He attacked the bulwarks with which avarice had fortified the cruelties of slavery; and never yielded to the invitations of ease, until he had driven a gap into those barricades of iniquity. His mind seemed to dilate with the majesty of his subject. His speech in 1789 gained the applause of all who heard it; and one passage, that in which he summoned death, as his last witness, whose tremendous testimony was neither to be purchased nor refuted, reached the sublime. Burke admired it; Pitt and Fox eulogized it; and Bishop Porteus mentioned it to the poet Mason, in terms of still warmer praise. In him was beheld, for the first, if not for the last time, the noble spectacle of a man without patronage or office, to whom parliament listened with resrect, and -be country with reverence; having no friends but the good; no side but virtlle."- Willsost. 3B 754 COWPL-t. [GEORGE II. Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;) Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 3By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no mnore, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber, made That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to );pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a fiail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'cl in Heaven, though little noticed here. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 755 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here I would not trust my heart;-the dear delight Seermis so to be desired, perhaps I might.But no —what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails howv swift! hast reach'd the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tenmpest-toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet 0 the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth, But higher far my proud pretensions riseThe son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell! —Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft,Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to his letters. These now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English epistolary literature. u There is something in the sweetness and facility of the diction, and more. perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevolent mind, that dif fiuses a charm over the whole collection, and communicates an interest that cannot always be commanded by performances of greater dignity and. pie 756 OWPERi. [rGEORGE VII. tension. From them we now know almost as much of Cowper as we do of those authors who have spent their days in the centre and glare of literary or fashionable society; and they will continue to be read long after the curiosity is gratified to which, perhaps, they owed their first celebrity; for the character with which they make us acquainted, will always attract by its rarity, and engage by its elegance. ~ The feminine delicacy and purity of Cowper's manners and disposition, the romantic and unbroken retirement in which his life was passed, and the singular gentleness and modesty of his whole character, disarm him of those terrors that so often shed an atmosphere of repulsion around the persons of celebrated writers, and make us more indulgent to his weaknesses, and more delighted with his excellencies, than if he had been the centre of a circle of wits, or the oracle of a literary confederacy. The interest of this picture is still further heightened by the recollection of that tremendous malady, to the visitations of which he was subject, and by the spectacle of that perpetual conflict which was maintained, through the greater part of his life, between the depression of those constitutional horrors, and the gayety that resulted from a playful imagination, and a heart animated by the mildest affections." Though it is impossible to have any just conception of the fascination of Cowper's epistolary style without reading a large portion of his letters, yet some faint idea may be formed of its ease, and grace, and charming power, from the following, which are all that our limited space will allow. COWPER'S AMUSEMENTS. To the REv. WVILLIA.I lJwNrIN. A.mico 2io, September 21, 1779. Be pleased to buy me a glazler's diamond pencil. I have glazed the two panes designed to receive my pine plants; but I cannot mend the kitchen windows, till, by the help of that implement, I can reduce the glass to its proper dimensions. If I were a plumber, I should be a complete glazier; and possibly the happy time may come, when I shall be seen trudging away to the neighboring towns with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. If government should impose another tax upon that commodity, I hardly know a business in which a gentleman might more successfully employ himself. A Chinese, of ten times my fortune, would avail himself of such an opportunity without scruple; and why should not I, who want money as much as any Mandarin in China? Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me so occupied, and would have exclaimed with rapture, " that he had found the Emilius who (he supposed) had subsisted only in his own idea." I would recommend it to you to follow my example. You will presently qualify yourself for the task, and may not only amuse yourself at home, but even exercise your skill in mending the church windows: which, as it would save money to the parish, would 1 Edinburgh Review, vol. iv., page 273. 1760-1820.] COWPER. 757 conduce, together with your other ministerial accomplishments, to make you extremely popular in the place. I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first enter the garden in the morning, I find them perched upon a wall, waiting for their breakfast; for I feed them always upon the gravel walk. If your wish should be accomplished, and you should find yourself furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly find you anmongst them. Only be so good, if that should be the case, to announce yourself by some means or other. For I imagine your crop will require something better than tares to fill it. Your mother and I last week made a trip in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. He understood that I did not much affect strange faces, and sent over his servant on purpose to inform me, that he was going into Leicestershire, and that if I chose to see the gardens, I might gratify myself without danger of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with all I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens elegantly disposed, the hothouse in the most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the most captivating creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whole scene justice. Our love attends you all. Yours. WRITING UPON ANY THING. To the REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My dear Friend, Augutdl 6, 1780. You like to hear from me: this is a very good reason why I should write. But I have nothing to say; this seems equally a good reason why I should not. Yet, if you had alighted from your horse at our door this morning, and at this present writing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to me,-" Mr. Cowper, you have not spoken since I came in; have you resolved never to speak again?" it would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to the summons, I should plead inability as my best and only excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruction, and reminds me of what I am very apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand, that a letter may be written upon any thing or nothing, just as any thing or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a journey before him, twenty miles in length, which he is to perform on foot, will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall set out or not, because he does not readily conceive how he shall ever reach the end (of it; for he knows, that by the simple operation of moving one foot for64 758 COWPER. [GEORGi3E:T ward first, and then the other, he shall be sure to accomplish it So it is in the present case, and so it is in every similar case. g letter is written as a conversation is maintained, or a journey per formed; not by preconcerted, or premeditated means, a new con trivance, or an invention never heard of before,-but merely bI maintaining a progress, and resolving as a postilion does, having once set out, never to stop till we reach the appointed end. If a man may talk without thinking, why may he not write upon the same terms? A grave gentleman of the last century, a tie-wig square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say, " My good sir, a man has no right to do either." But it is to be hoped that the present cen tury has nothing to do with the mouldy opinions of the last; and so, good Sir Launcelot, or Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, step into your picture-frame again, and look as if you thought for another century, and leave us moderns, in the meantime, to think when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else we might as well be dead, as you are. When we look back upon our forefathers, we seem to look back upon the people of another nation, almost upon creatures of another species. Their vast rambling mansions, spacious halls, and painted casements, the Gothic porch smothered with honeysuckles, their little. gardens and high walls, their box-edging, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, are become so entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly believe it possible, that a people who resembled us so little in their tastes, should resemble us in any thing else. But in every thing else, I suppose, they were our counterparts exactly; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk-stockings, has left human nature just where it found it. The inside of the man, at least, has undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and aims, are just what they ever were. They wear, perhaps, a handsomer disguise than they did in days of yore; for philosophy and literature will have their effect upon the exterior; but in every other respect a modern is only an ancient in a different dress. AN EPISTLE IN RHYME. To the REv. JYoI: NESWTON.1 My very dear friend, July 12, 1781. I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether cI i Cowper, in one of his letters, complained to Mr. Newton of the wanderings of his mind; his friend acknowledged a similar weakness; —'Yes,' replied the poet,'but you have always a serious thought standing at the door, like a j ustice of peace, with the riot-act in his hand, ready to disperse the mob.' Cowper's correspondence with Newton presents few specimens of this delightful badiUage. He loved and respected, but he also feared his friend." —Wiiltott. 1760-1820. j COWPER. 759 what I have got, be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before? The thought did occur, to me and to her, as madam and I, did walk and not fly, over the hills and dales, with spreading sails, before it was dark to Weston Park. The news at Oney is little or noney; but such as it is, I send it, viz.: Poor Mr. Peace cannot yet cease, addling his head with what you said, and has left parish-church quite in the lurch, having almost swore to go there no more. Page and his wife, that made such a strife, we met them twain in Dog-lane; we gave them the wall, and that was all. For Mr. Scott, we have seen him not, except as he pass'd, in a wonderful haste, to see a friend in Silver End. Mrs. J.nes proposes, ere July closes, that she and her sister, and her Jones mister, and we that are here, our course shall steer, to dine in the Spinney; but for a guinea, if the weather should hold, so hot and so cold, we had better by far, stay where we are. For the grass there grows, while nobody mows, (which is very wrong,) so rank and long, that so to speak,'tis at least a week, if it happens to rain, ere it dries again.2 I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the Reviewer should say " To be sure, the gentleman's Muse, wears methodist shoes; you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard, for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoidening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and here and there wear a tittering air,'tis only her plan, to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction. She has baited her trap in hopes to snap all that may come, with a sugar-plum." - His opinion in this, will not be amiss;'tis what I intend, my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid, for all I have said and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, and by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year. I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs, and such-like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you was forced to begin a minuet 1 The Spinney was a delightful rural retirement-a grove-belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton of Weston, and about a mile from Olney. The word is used for a thicket, or clump of trees. 2 Cowper's summer-house still exists, but his favorite Spinney was cut down in 1785. WrIting to Newton, he said, " In one year the whole will be a thicket; that which was once the serpentine-walk is now in a state of transformation, and is already become asowoody as the rest. Poplars and elms, without number, are springing in the turf. They are now as higlh as the knee. Before the summae. is ended they will be twice as high; and the growth of another season will make them trees. The desolation of the whole scene is such that it sunk our spirits." 760 COWPER. [GEORGE IEI. pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string. or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penn'd; which that you may do, ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave, and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, fiom your humble me, WT. C. P. S. When I concluded, doubtless you did think me right, as well you might, in saying what I said of Scott; and then it was true, but now it is due to him to note, that since I wrote, himself and he has visited me. EXPECTS LADY HESKETH-PREPARATIONS FOR HER-HIS WORKSIHOP. OLNEY,.May 29, 1786. To LADY HESKETH. Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose letters, among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly their own, that I expect them without trembling, and never find any thing in them that does not give me pleasure; for which therefore I would take nothing in exchange that the world could give me, save and except that for which I must exchange them soon, (and happy shall I be to do so,) your own company. That, indeed, is delayed a little too long; to my impatience at least it seems so, who find the spring, backward as it is, too forward, because many of its beauties will have faded before you will have an opportunity to see them. We took our customary walk yesterday in the wilderness at Weston, and satw, with regret, the laburnums, syrirngas, and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point of blowing, and could not help observing-All these will be gone before Lady Hesketh comes! Still however there will be roses, and jasmine, and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool alcoves, and you will partake them with us. But I want you to have a share of every thing that is delightful here, and cannot bear that the advance of the season should steal away a single pleasure before you can come to enjoy it. Every day I think of you, and almost all the day long; I will venture to say, that even you were never so expected in your life. 1 called last week at the Quaker's to see the furniture of your bed, the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, of printed cotton, and the subject classical. Every morning you will open your eyes on Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot for a day. May 1760-1820.] COWPER. 7631 your sleep be as sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and your nights at least will be well provided for. I shall send up the sixth and seventh books of the Iliad shortly, and shall address them to you. You will forward them to the General. I long to show you my workshop, and to see you sitting on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two wax figures in an old-fashioned picture frame. I am writing in it now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in summer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, that I might finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the General. The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dewdrops, and the birds are singing in the apple trees, among the blossoms. Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his Muse. TRANSLATION OF HOMER-THE NONSENSE CLUB. To Jos.EPr HILL, Est. MIy dear friend, OLNEY, JTune 9, 1786. The little ti-e that I can devote to any other purpose than that of poetry is, as you may suppose, stolen. Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much remains undone, and no schoolboy is more attentive to the performance of his daily task than I am. You will therefore excuse me if at present I am both unfrequent and short. I had a letter some time since from your sister Fanny, that gave me great pleasure. Such notices from old friends are always pleasant, and of such pleasures I have received many lately. They refresh the remembrance of early days, and make me young again. The noble institution of the Nonsense Club will be forgotten, when we are gone who composed it; but I often think of your most heroic line, written at one of our meetings, and especially think of it when I am translating Homer,"To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tailed." 1 There never was any thing more truly Grecian than that triple epithet, and were it possible to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. I am now flushed with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who spends the summer with us. We hope to see her next week. We have found admirable lodgings both for her and her suite, and a Quaker in this town, still more admirable than they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, furnishes them for her with real elegance. 1 See page 70 under "Moral Plays." 64* 762 COWPER. LGEORGE IL. ON A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE.1 How mysterious are the ways of Providence! Why did I receive grace and mercy? Why was I preserved, afflicted for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, and blessed with the greatest happiness I can ever know or hope for in this life, while others were overtaken by the great arrest, unawakened, unrepent ing, and every way unprepared for it? His infinite wisdom, to whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve these questions, and none beside him. If I am convinced that no affliction can befall.me without the permission of God, I am convinced, likewise, that he sees and knows that I am afflicted. Believing this, I must in the same degree believe that, if I pray to him for deliverance, he hears me; I must needs know likewise with equal assurance that, if he hears, he will also deliver me, if that will, upon the whole, be most conducive to my happiness; and if he does not deliver me, I may-be well assured that he has none but the most benevolent intention in declining it. He made us, not because we could add to his happiness, which was always perfect, but that we might be happy ourselves; and will he not, in all his dispensations towards us, even in the minutest, consult that end for which he made us.? T'o suppose the contrary, is (which we are not always aware of) affronting every one of his attributes; and at the same time the certain consequence of disbelieving his care for us is, that we renounce utterly our dependence upon him. In this view, it will appear plainly that the line of duty is not stretched too tight, when we are told that we ought to accept every thing at his hands as a blessing, and to be thankful even while we smart under the rod of iron with which he sometimes rules us. Without this persuasion, every blessing, however we may think ourselves happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and every affliction is intolerable. Death itself must be welcome to him who has this faith, and he who has it not, must aim at it, if he is not a madman. 1 From a letter to Lady Hesketh, dated Sept. 4, 1765.