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I65i tasi Main Street

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Eno

portrait Edition

Eno^isli Men of Letters

JOHN MOIILEY

III.
DRYDEN. Bv G. Saintsbuky
POPE. By Leslie Steimiun
SIDNEY. By Joun Aduington Symonds

FACULTE DES ARTS
COLLEGE UMVERSITAIRE

SHERBROOKE

GEOROE N. MORANG & COMPANY

(Limited)

TouOiNTo, Canada

1900

ENCiLlSlI xMEN OF LETTEKS.

EuiTEU uv John .Muklky.

Mll.TON.
(IlllltON.

SiiKi.i.Ky.

II.

SOITTIIKV.
HvRilN.

Ukkok.

III.

DitYDKN.

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fftovtrait JEMtlon.

IV.

VII.

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SoOTT.

Coi.KUlOOK.

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DiOKKN!*.

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Lanuob.

Spknci.k.

BuRNii.

VIII.

BtBKK.

Stkhnb.

Lo(!KK.

Maoaui.ay.

Sw ii-r.

(ioi.DSMITII.

KlKI.IllNO.

HUMK.

(iKAY.

VI.

IX.

XII.

nilNVAN.

('IIAVOKK.

Tha<;kkkay.

Johnson.

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Baoon.

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D E Y DEN

G. SAINTSBT^RY

FREFATOKY NOTE.

A WRITER on Drydcn is more especially bound to acknowl-
edge his iiulebtedncss to his predecessors, because, so far
as matters of fact are concerned, that indebtedness must
necessarily be greater than in most other cases. There is
now little chance ut fresh information being obtained about
the noct, unless it be in a few letters hitherto undiscovered
or withheld from publication. I have, therefore, to ac-
knowledge my debt to Johnson, Malone, Scott, Mitford,
Bell, Christie, the Rev. 11. Hooper, and the writer of an ar-
ticle in the Quarterly Review for 1878. Murray's "Guide
to Northamptonshire " has been of much use to me in the
visits I have made to Drydcn's birthplace, and the numer-
ous other places associated with his memory in his native
county. To Mr. J. Churton Collins I owe thanks for
pointing out to me a Dryden house which, so far as he
and I know, has escaped the notice of previous biogra-
phers. ISIr. W. Noel Sainsbury, of the Record Office, has
supplied me with some valuable information. IMy *riend
Mr. Edmund W. Gossc has not only read the proof-sheets
of this book with the greatest care, suggesting many things
of value, but has also kindly allowed me the use of origi-
nal editions of many late seventeenth -century works, in-
cluding most of the rare pamphlets against the poet in
reply to his satires.

rUEFATORY NOTE.

Except Scott's oxocllont Imt costly and bulky edition,
tlicM'c is, to tla- disijracc of Kninflish boolvsollors or hook-
bnyers, no complete edition of Dryden. The first issue of
this in 1808 was reproduced in 1821 with no material al-
terations, but both are very expensive, especially tiie sec-
ond. A tolerably complete and not unsatisfactory Dryden
may, however, be tjot together without much outlay by
any one who waits till he can pick up at the ()o()ksliops
copies of Malone's edition of the prose works, and of ( 'on-
jjreve's original edition (duodecimo or folio) of the plays.
By addini;' to these }ih. Christie's admirable Globe edition
of th(! poems, very little, except the translations, will be
left out, and not too much obtained in duplicate. This,
of course, deprives the reader of Scott's life and notes,
wliicb are very valuable. The life, however, has been re-
printed, and is easily accessible.

Tn the following pages a few passages from a course of
lectures on " Dryden and his I'eriod,'' delivered by me at
the Royal Institution in the spring of 1880, have been
incorporated.

CONTENTS.

CHArTER I. PAOP.

Befork thk Rkstoration 1

CIIAl'lER II.
Early Literary Work -^3

CHAPTER III.
I'kuiou (»f Dramatic Activity 3^

CHAPTER IV.
Satirical and Didactic Poems. 71

CHAPTER V.
Life from IGSO to 1G88 99

CHAPTER VL
Later Dramas and Prose Works 113

CHAPTER Vn.
PicRioD OF Translation 13.'>

CHAPTER VIIL
The Fables 153

CHAPTER IX.
Conclusion 1"7

D R Y D E N .

CHAPTER I.

BEFORE THE RESTORATION.

John Dkyden was born on the 9th of August, 1631, at
the Vicarage of Aldwinkle All Saints, between Thrapston
andOundle. Like other small Northamptonsliire villages,
Aldwinkle is divided into two parishes, All Saints and St.
Peter's, the churches and parsonage -houses being within
bowshot of each other, and some little confusion has arisen
from this. It has, however, been cleared up by the indus-
trious researches of various persons, and there is now no
doubt about the facts. The house in whicli the poet was
born (and which still exists, though altered to some extent
internally) belonged at the time to his maternal grandfa-
ther, the Rev. Henry Pickering. The Drydcns and the
Pickerings were both families of some distinction in the
county, and both of decided Puritan principles ; but they
were not, properly speaking, neighbours. The Drydens
originally came from the neighbourhood of the border, and
a certain John Dryden, about the middle of the sixteenth
century, married the daughter and heiress of Sir John
Cope, of Canons Ashby, in the county of Northampton.
1*

DllYDEN.

[chap,

Erasmus, tlie son of this John Dryden — tlie name is spelt
as usual at the time in half-a-dozen different ways, and
there is no reason for supposing that the poet invented
the y, tliou2,h before him it seems to liavc been usually
Driden — was created a baronet, and liis tliird son, also au
Erasmus, was the poet's father. Before this Erasmus
married Mary Pickering tlie families had already been
connected, but they lived on opposite sides of the county.
Canons Ashby being in the hilly district which extends
to the borders of Oxfordshire on the south-west, while
Tichmarsh, the headquarters of the Pickerings, lies on the
extreme east on high ground, overlooking the flats of
Huntingdon. The poet's father is described as " of Tich-
marsh," and seems to have usually resided in that neighbour-
hood. His property, however, which descended to our poet,
lay in the neighbourhood of Canons Ashby at the village
of Blakcsley, which is not, as the biograpliers persistently
repeat after one another, " near Tichmarsh," but some for-
ty miles distant to the straightest flying crow. Indeed,
the conr.exion of the poet with the seat of his ancestors,
and of his own property, appears to have been very slight.
There is no positive evidence that he was ever at Canons
Ashby at all, and this is a pity. For the house— still in
the possession of his collateral descendants in the female
line — is a very delightful one, looking like a miniature
college quadrangle set down by the side of a country lane,
with a background of park in which the deer wander, and
a fringe of formal garden, full of the trimmest of yew-
trees. All this was there in Dryden's youtli, and, more-
over, the place was tiie scene of some stirring events. Sir
John Driden was a staunch parliamentarian, and his house
lay obnoxious to the royalist garrisons of Towcestcr on
the one side, and Banbury on the other. On at least one

'•]

BEFORE THE RESTORATION.

occasion a i^reat fight took place, the parliainentariaiii bar-
ricading thenisolves in the church of Canons Ashby, with-
in stone's throw of the house, and defending it and its
tower for several hours before the royalists forced the
place and carried them off prisoners. This was in Dry-
den's thirtcentli year, and a boy of thirteen would have
rejoiced not a little in such a state of things,

But, as has been said, the actual associatioua of the poet
lie elsewhere. They are all collected in the valley of the
Nene, and a well-girt man can survey the whole in a day's
walk. It is remarkable that Dry den's name is connected
with fewer places than is the case with almost any other
English poet, except, perhaps, Cowper. If we leave out of
sight a few visits to his fatlier-in-law's seat at Charlton, iu
Wiltshire, and elsewhere, London and twenty miles of the
Nene valley exhaust the list of his residences. This val-
ley is not an inappropriate locale for the poet who in his
faults, as well as his merits, was perhaps the most English
of all English writers. It is not grand, or epic, or tragical ;
but, on the other hand, it is sufficiently varied, free from
the monotony of the adjacent fens, and full of historical
and architectural memories. The river in which Dryden
acquired, beyond doubt, that love of fishing which is his
only trait in the sporting way known to us, is always pres-
ent in long, slow reaches, thick with water plants. The
remnants of the great woods which once made Northamp-
tonshire the rival of Nottingham and Hampshire are close
at hand, and luckily the ironstone workings which have
recently added to the wealth, and detracted from the
beauty of the central district of the county, have not yet
invaded Dryden's region. Tichmarsh and Aldwinkle, the
places of his birth and education, lie on opposite sides of
the river, about two miles from Thrapston. Aldwinkle is

DRYDEN.

[chap.

sheltered and low, and looks across to the rising ground
on the summit of which Tichmarsh church rises, flanked
hard by with a huge cedar- tree on the rectory lawn, a
cedar-tree certainly coeval with Dryden, since it was plant-
ed two years before his birth. A little beyond Aldwinkle,
following the course of the river, is the small church of
I'ilton, where Erasmus Dryden and Mary Pickering were
married on October 21, 1630. All these villages are em-
bowered in trees of all kinds, elms and walnuts especially,
and the river banks slope in places with a pleasant abrupt-
ness, jrivinor crood views of the magnificent woods of Lil-
ford, which, however, are new-comers, comparatively speak-
ing. Another mile or two beyond Pilton brings the walk-
er to Oundle, which has some traditional claim to the credit
of teaching Dryden his earliest humanities; and the same
distance beyond Oundle is Cotterstock, where a house, still
standing, but altered, was the poet's favourite sojourn in
his later years. Long stretches of meadows lead thence
across the river into Huntingdonshire, and there, just short
of the great north road, lies the village of Chesterton, the
residence, in the late days of the seventeenth century, of
Dryden's favourite cousins, and frequently his own. All
these places are intimately connected with his memory,
and the last named is not more than twenty miles from
the first. Between Cotterstock and Chesterton, where lay
the two houses of his kinsfolk which we know him to
have most frequented, lies, as it lay then, the grim and
shapeless mound studded with ancient thorn -trees, and
looking down upon the silent Nene, which is all that re-
mains or the castle of Fotheringhay. Now, as then, the
great lantern of the church, with its flying buttresses and
tormented tracery, looks out over the valley. There is no
allusion that I know of to Fotheringhay in Dryden's

!•]

bp:fore the iiesto ration.

works, and, indeed, there seems to have been a very natu-
ral feeling among all seventeenth century writers on the
court side that the less said about Mary Stuart the better.
Fothcringhay waits until Mr. Swinburne shall complete the
trilogy begun in Chastclard and continued in Boihwell, for
an English dramatic poet to tread worthily in the steps of
Montchrestien, of Vondel, and of Schiller. But Drydeu
must have passed it constantly ; when he was at Cotter-
stock he must have had it almost under his eyes, and
we know that lie was always brooding over fit historical
subjects in English history for the higher poetry. Nor
is it, I think, an unpardonable conceit to note the domi-
nance in the haunts of this intellectually greatest among
the partisans of the Stuarts, of the scene of the great-
est trajredv, save one, that befell even that house of the
furies.

There is exceedingly little information obtainable about
Dryden's youth. The inscription in Tichmarsh Church,
the work of his cousin Mis. Creed, an excellent person
whose needle and pencil decorated half the churches and
half the manor-houses in that part of the country, boasts
that he had his early education in that village, while Oun-
dle, as has been said, has some traditional claims to a simi-
lar distinction. From the date of his birth to his entry
at Wesiaiinster School we have no positive information
whatever about him, and even the precise date of the hit-
ter is unknown, lie was a king's scholai, and it seems
that the redoubtable Busby took pains with him — doubt-
less in the well-known Busbeian manner — and liked his
verse translations. From Westminster he went to Cam-
bridge, where he was entered at Trinity on May 18tli,
1650, matriculated on July 16th, and on October 2nd was
elected to a Westminster scholarship. He was then nine-

DRYDEX.

[CIIAP.

teen, an instance, be it observeJ, anionj,' many, of the com-
plete mistake of siipposiiiu; that very early entratice into
the universities was the rule before our own clays. Of
Dryden's Cambridge sojourn we know little more than of
his sojourn at Westminster, lie was in trouble on July
lOtli, 1052, when he was discommonsed and gated for tx
fortnight for disobedience and contumacy. Shadwell also
says that while at Cambridge he " scurrilously traduced
a nobleman," and was "rebuked on the head" therefor,
liut Shad well's uusui)ported assertions about J)ryden are
unworthy of the slightest credence. He took his degree
in 1054, and though he gained no fellowship, seems to
have resided for nearly seven years at the university.
There has been a good deal of controversy about the feel-
ings with which Dryden regarded his alma mater. It is
certainly curious that, except a formal acknowledgment of
having received his education from Trinity, there is to be
found in his works no kind of affectionate reference to
Cambridge, while there is to be found an extremely un-
kind reference to her in liis very best manner. In one of ■
his numerous prologues to the University of Oxford— the
University of Cambridge seems to have given him no oc-
casion of writing a prologue — occur the famous lines,

" Oxford to him a dearer name shall be
Than his own mother university;
Thebes did his green unknowing youth engage,
He ehooses Athens in his riper age."

It has been sought to diminish the force of this very left-
handed compliment to Cambridge by quoting a phrase of
Dryden's concerning the "gross flattery that universities
will endure." But I am inclined to think that most uni-
versity men will agree with me that this is probably a

[t'liAr.

, of the com-
ntrance into
II days. Of
iiore than of
able on July

gated for a
iliadwell also
sly traduced
d" therefor.

Dryden are
ik his degree
ii[), seems to
e university.
jout the fecl-
matcr. It is
vledu'uient of
hero is to be

reference to
ixtremely un-
•. In one of

Oxford — the
n him no oc-
)us lines,

;age,

this very left-
g a phrase of
it universities
hat most unl-
is probably a

BEFORE THE RESTORATION.

unique instance of a member of the one university going
.)ut of his way to flatter the other at the expense of his
own. Dryden was one of the most accomplished flatter-
ers that ever lived, and certainly had no need save of do-
liberate choice to resort to the vulgar expedient of insult-
ino- one person or body by way of praising another. What
his cause of dissatisfaction was it is impossible to say, but
the trivial occurrence already mentioned certainly will not
account for it.

If, however, during these years we have little testimo-
ny about Dryden, we have three documents from his own
hand which are of no little interest. Although Dryden
was one of the most late-writing of English poets, he had
got into print before he left Westminster. A promising
pupil of that school, Lord Hastings, had died of small-pox,
and, according to the fashion of the time, a tombeau, as it
would have been called in France, was published, containing
elegies by a very large number of authors, ranging from
Westminster boys to the already famous names of Waller
and Dcnham. Somewhat later an epistle commendatory
was contributed by Dryden to a volume of religious verse
by his friend John Iloddesdon. Later still, and probably
after he had taken his degree, he wrote a letter to his
cousin. Honor Driden, daughter of the reigning baronet
of Canons Ashby, which the young lady liad the grace
to keep. All these juvenile productions have been very
severely judged. As to the poems, the latest writer on
the subject, a writer in the Quarterly Review, whom I cer-
tainly do not name otherwise than honoris causa, pro-
nounces the one execrable, and the other inferior to the
juvenile ])roductions of that miserable poetaster, Kirke
White. It seems to this reviewer that Dryden had at this
time " no ear for verse, no command of poetic diction,

DKYDEN.

[chap.

no sense of poetic taste." As to the letter, even Scott
describes it as " alternately coarse and pedantic." I am
in hopeless discord with these authorities, both of whom
I respect. Certainly neither the elegy on Lord Hastings,
nor the complimentary poem to lloddcsdon, nor the letter
to Honor Driden, is a masterpiece. But all three show,
as it seems to me, a considerable literary faculty, a remark-
able feeling after poetic style, and above all the peculiar
virtue which was to be Dryden's own. They are all sat-
urated with conceits, and the conceit was the reigning
delicacy of the time. Now, if there is one thing more
characteristic and more honourably characteristic of Dry-
den than another, it is that he was emphatically of his
time. No one ever adopted more thoroughly and more
unconsciously the motto as to Spartam nactus es. lie tried
every fashion, and where the fashion was capable of being
brought suh specie ceternitatis he never failed so to bring it.
Where it was not so capable he never failed to abandon
it and to substitute something better. A man of this tem-
perament (which it may be observed is a mingling of the •
critical and the poetical temperaments) is not likely to
find his way early or to find it at all without a good many
preliminary wanderings. But the two poeujs so severely
condemned, though they are certainly not good poems, are
beyond all doubt possessed of the elements of goodness.
I doubt myself whether any one can fairly judge them
who has not passed through a novitiate of careful study
of the minor poets of his own day. By doing this one
acquires a certain faculty of distinguishing, as Theophile
Gautier once put it in his own case, " the sheep of Hugo
from the goats of Scribe." T do not hesitate to say that
an intelligent reviewer in the year 1650 would have rank-
ed Dryden, though perhaps with some misgivings, among

'■]

BEFORE THE llESTORATIOX.

the sheep. Tlic faults are simply an exaggeration of the
prevailing style, the merits arc different.

As for the epistle to Honor Driden, Scott must surely
have I'oen thinking of the evil counsellors who wished him
to be vdlerisc glorious John, when he called it "coarse."
Tlierc is nothing in it but the outspoken gallantry of an
age which was not afraid of speaking out, and the prose
style is already of no inconsiderable merit. It should be
observed, however, that a most unsubstantial romance has
been built up on this letter, and that Miss Honor's father.
Sir John Driden, has had all sorts of anathcnuis launched
at him, in the Locksley Hall style, for damming the course
of true love. There is no evidence whatever to prove this
crime against Sir John. It is in the nature of mankind
almost invariably to fall in love with its cousins, and—
fortunately according to some pliysiologists — by no means
invariably to marry them. That Drydcn seriously aspired
to his cousin's hand there is no proof, and none that her
father refused to sanction the marriage. On the contrary,
his foes accuse him of being a dreadful flirt, and of mak-
ing- " the young blushing virgins die " for him in a miscel-
laneous, but probably harmless manner. All that is posi-
tively known on the subject is that Honor never married,
that the cousins were on excellent terms some half-century
after this fervent epistle, and that Miss Driden is said to
have treasured the letter and shown it with pride, which is
much more reconcilable with the idea of a harmless flirta-
tion than of a great passion tragically cut short.

At the time of the writing of this epistle Dryden was,
indeed, not exactly an eligible suitor. His father had just
died— 1G54— and had left him two-thirds of the Blakesley
estates, with a reversion to the other third at the death of
his mother. The land extended to a couple of hundred
B 2

DRYDEN.

[cnAP.

acres or thereabouts, and the rent, which witli cliaractcris-
tic generosity Dryden never increased, tlioiigh rents went
fj|) in his time enormously, amounted to 60/. a year. Dry-
den'fc tw<j-thirds were estinuited by Maloiic at the end of
the hist ( tntury to be worth abnut l:iO/. income of tliat
day, and this certainly equals at least 200/. to-day. With
this t(» fall back upon, and with the influence of the Dri-
den and I'ickering families, any bachelor in tii< so days
mitTlit bo considered provided with prospects; but exacting
parents might c TtVuler the total inadequate to the support
of a wife and family. Sir Jolm Driden is said, though a
fanatical Puritan, to have been a man of no very strong
intellect, and he certaiidy did not ft^ather his nest in the
way which was open to any defender of the liberties of
the people. Sir Gilbert rickeiing, who, in consequence
of the intermarriages before alluded to, was doubly Dry-
den's cousin, was wiser in his generation. He was one of
the few members of the Long Parliament who judiciously
attached themselves to the fortunes of Cromwell, and was
plentifully r'^warded with fines, booty, places, and honours,
by the Protector. "When Dryden finally left Cambridge
in 1657, he is said to have attached himself to this kins-
man. And at the end of the next year he wrote his re-
markable Heroic Stanzas on Cromwell's death. This
poem must have at once put out of doubt his literary
merits. There was assuredly no English poet then living,
except Milton and Cowley, who could possibly have writ-
ten it, and it was sufficiently different from the style of
either of those masters. Taking the four- line stanza,
which Davenant had made popular, the poet starts with
a bold opening, in which the stately march of the verse is
not to be disguised by all the frippery of erudition which
loads it :

[chap.

liaraotcris-
rcnts went
oar. T)ry-
:lic end of
nc of that
ay. AVith
,i the Dri-
those days
it exacting
he support
I, thoiii^h a
•cry strong
iiest in the
liberties of
onseqncnce
oiibly Dry-
was one of
judiciously
jll, and was
id honours,
Canibrido'c
) this kius-
[■ote his re-
ath. This
liis literary
then living,
- have writ-
he style of
line stanza,
starts with
the verso is
ition which

'•]

IJEFOIU: THE IlESTOUATIOX. 11

" Ami now 'tis time ; for their ofHeious haste,

Who would liel'ore have lionie hiui to the sky,
Lire eaj^er Houiaiis, ere all rites were jtast,
Dill let too ^non the sacred eagle fly."

The whole poem couiains but thirty -n.,vii of those
stanza^, but it is full of !i<linirablu lines and thoughts. No
doubt there are plenty of conceits as well, and Dryden
would not have been l)i yden if tiieio liad not been. But
at the same time the singular justness which always marked
liis praise, as well as his blanu is as remarkable i'l the
matter of the poem, as the force and vigour of the diction
and versification are in its manner. To this day no bettor
eulogy of the Protector has been written, and the poc
with a remarkable dexterity evades, without directly do-
nyiuir, the more awkward points in liis hero's career and
character. One thing which must strike all careful readers
of the poem is the entire absence of any attack on the
royalist party. To attempt, as ShadwcU and other libellers
attempted a quarter of a century later, to construe a fa-
mous couplet —

" Ho fought to end our fighting, and essayed
To staunch the blood by breathing of the vein — "

into an approval of the execution of Charles I., is to wre t
the sense of the original hopelessly and nnpardonably
Cromwell's conduct is contrasted with that of those wh<
" the quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor," who " tirst
sought to inflame the parties, then to poise," &c., i. e., with
Essex, Manchester, and their likes ; and it need hardly be
said that this contrast was ended years before there was
any question of the king's death. Indeed, to a careful
reader nowadays the Heroic Stanzas read much more like
an elaborate attempt to hedge between the parties than

DRYDEN.

[chap.

like an attempt to gain favour from the roundheads by
uncompromising advocacy of their cause. The author is
one of those "sticklers of the war" that he himself de-
scribes.

It is possible that a certain half-heartedness may have
been observed in Dryden by those of his cousin's ])arty.
It is possible, too, that Sir Gilbert Pickering, like Thack-
eray's Mr. Scully, Avas a good deal more bent on making
use of his young kinsman than on rewarding him in any
permanent manner. At any rate, no kind of preferment
fell to his lot, and the anarchy of the " foolish Ishbosheth "
soon made any such preferment extremely injprobable.
Before long it would appear that Dryden had definitely
<y[vcu up whatever position he held in Sir Gilbert Pick-
ering's household, and had betaken himself to literature.
The^fact of his so betaking himself almost implied adhe- ■
rcnce to the royalist party. In the later years of the Com-
monwealth, English letters had rallied to a certain extent
from the disarray into which they were thrown by the
civil war, but the centres of the rally belonged almost ex-
clusively to the royalist party. Milton had long forsworn
pure literature, to devote himself to official duties with an
occasional personal polemic as a relief. MarvcU and
Wither, the two other chief lights of the Puritan party,
could hardly be regarded by any one as men of light and
leading, despite the really charming lyrics which both of
them had produced. All the other great literary names
of tlie time were, without exception, on the side of the
exile. Ilobbcs was a royalist, though a somewhat singular
one ; Cowley was a royalist ; Herrick was a royalist, so was
Dcnham ; so was, as far as he was anything, the unstable
Waller. IMoreover, the most practically active author of
the day, the one man of letters who combined the power

[chap.

)undhcads by
riie author is
c hiuisclf dc-

less may have
ousin's party.
[T, like Thack-
iit on making
ig hiui in any
of preferment
1 Ishboslieth "
V improbable,
had definitely
Gilbert Pick-
■ to literature,
implied adhc-
rs of the Corn-
certain extent
hrown by the
[^cd almost ex-
long forsworn
duties with an
Marvell and
Puritan party,
m of light and
which both of
literary names
lie side of the
lewhat singular
royalist, so was
lof, the unstable
itive author of
incd the power

BEFORE THE RESTORATIOX.

of organizing literary effort with the power of himself
producing literary work of merit, was one of the staunchest
of the king's friends. Sir William Davcnant, without any
political concession, had somehow obtained leave from the
republican government to reintroduce theatrical entertain-
ments of a kind, and moderate royalists, like Evelyn, with
an interest in literature and the arts and sciences, were re-
turnino- to their homes and looking out for the good time
coming. That Dryden, under these circumstances, having
at the time a much more vivid interest in literature than
in politics, and belonging as he did rather to the Presby~
tcrian faction, who were everywhere returning to the roy-
alist political faith, than to the Independent republicans,
should become royalist in principle, was nothing surprising.
Those who reproach him with the change (if change it
was) forget that he shared it with the immense majority
of the nation. For the last half-century the literary cur-
rent has been so entirely on the Puritan side that we are
probably in danger of doing at least as much injustice to
the royalists as was at one time done to their opponents.
One thing in particular I have never seen fairly put as ac-
counting for the complete royalization of nearly the whole
people, and it is a thing which has a special bearing on
Dryden. It has been said that his temperament was
specially and exceptionally English. Now one of the most
respectable, if not the most purely rational features of the
English character, is its objection to wanton bloodshed
for political causes, without form of law. It was this, be-
yond all question, that alienated the English from James
the Second ; it was this that in the heyday of Hanoverian
power made them turn a cold shoulder on the Duke of
Cumberland; it was this which enlisted them almost as
one man against the French revolutionists ; it was this

DRYDEN.

[chap.

wliicli brought about in our own days a political move-
ment to which there is no need to refer more particular-
ly. Xow, it must be remembered that, either as the losing
party or for other reasons, the royalists were in the great
civil war almost free from the charge of reckless blood-
shedding. Their troops were disorderly, and given to
plunder, but not to cruelty. No legend even charges
against Astlcy or Goring, against Rupert or Lunsford, any-
thing like the Droghcda massacre — the effect of which on
the general mind Defoe, an unexceptionable witness, has
preserved by a chance phrase in Robinson Crusoe — or the
hideous bloodbath of the Irishwomen after Naseby, or the
brutal butchery of Dr. Hudson at Woodcroft, in Dryden's
own county, where the soldiers chopped off the priest's
fingers as he clung to the gargoyles of the tower, and
thrust him back with pikes into the moat which, mutilated
as he was, he had managed to swim. A certain humanity
and absence of bloodthirstiness arc among Dryden's most
creditable characteristics,' and these excesses of fanaticism
are not at all unlikely to have had their share in deteraihi-
ing him to adopt the winning side when at last it won.
But it is perhaps more to the purpose that his literary lean-
ings must of themselves have inevitably inclined him in the
same direction. There was absolutely no opening for lit-
erature on the republican side, a fact of which no better

^ The too famous Political Pi'o)':>;^cs may, perhaps, be quoted
against me here. I have only to remark : first, that, bail as they are,
they form an infinitesimal portion of Dryden's work, and arc in glar-
ing contrast with the sentiments pervading that work as a whole ;
secondly, that they were written at a time of political excitement un-
paralleled in history, save once at Athens and once or twice at Paris.
But I cannot help adding that their denouncers usually seem to mo
to be at least partially animated by the notion that Drydeu wished
the wrong people to be hanged.

I-l

BEFORE THE RESTORATIOX.

proof can be afforded than the small salary at wliioli the
lirst man of letters then living was hired by a government
which, AvLatcvcr faults it had, certainly did not sin by re-
warding its other servants too meagrely. That Dryden at
this time had any deep-set theological or political preju-
dices is very improbable. He certainly had not, like But-
ler, noted for years the faults and weaknesses of the domi-
nant party, so as to enshrine them in inmiortal ridicule
when the time should come. But he was evidently an
ardent devotee of literature ; he was not averse to the
pleasures of the town, which if not so actively interfered
with by the Commonwealth as is sometimes thought, Avere
certainly not encouraged by it ; and liis friends and asso-
ciates must have been royalists almost to a man. So he
threw himself at once un that side when the chance came,
and had probably thrown himself there in spirit some
time before. The state of the literature in which he thus
took service must be described before we go any farther.

The most convenient division of literature is into poetry,
drama, and prose. AVith regard to poetry, the reigning
style at the advent of Dryden was, as everybody knows,
the peculiar style unfortunately baptized as " metaphysi-
cal." The more catholic criticism of the last 100 years
has disembarrassed this poetry of much of the odium
which once hung round it, without, liowcver, doing full
justice to its merits. In Donne, especially, the king of the
school, the conceits and laboured fancies which distinguish
it frequently reach a hardly surpassed height of poetical
beauty. AVhen Donne speculates as to the finding on the
body of his dead lover

"A bracelet of bright liah' about the bone,"
when lie tells us how —

16 DRYDPLV. [CHA>.

" I long to tiilk with some old lovev's ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born ;"

the effect is that of summer lightning on a dark night
suddenly exposing unsuspected realms of fantastic and
poetical suo-gestion. But at its worst the school was cer-
tainly bad enough, and its badnesses had already been ex-
hibited by Dryden with considerable felicity iu his poem
on Lord Hastings and the small -pox. I really do not
know that iu all Johnson's carefully picked specimens in
his life of Cowley, a happier absurdity is to be found than

"Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rising did commit."

Of such a school as this, though it lent itself more direct-
ly than is generally thought to the unequalled oddities
of Butler, little good in the way of serious poetry could
come. On the other hand, the great romantic school was
practically over, and Milton, its last survivor, was, as has
been said, in a state of poetical eclipse. There was, there-
fore growing up a kind of school of good sense in poetry,
of which Waller, Denham, Cowley, and Davenant were the
chiefs. Waller derives most of his fame from his lyrics,
inferior as these are to those of Ilerrick and Carew. Cow-
ley was a metaphysician with a strong hankering after
something different. Denham, having achieved one ad-
mirable piece of versification, had devoted himself chicfiy
to doggrel ; but Davenant, though perhaps not so good a
poet as any of the three, was a more living intiuence. His
early works, especially his dirge on Shakspeare and his
exquisite lines to the Queen, are of the best stamp of the
older school. His GomUhcrt. little as it is now read, and
imsuccessful as the quatrain in which it is written must al-
ways be for a very long work, is better than any long uar-

[CHA.

lark night
tastic and
ol was cer-
ly been ex-
1 his poem
illy do not
eciniens in
found than

!•]

BEFORE THE RESTORATION.

lore direct-
id oddities
)etry could
school was
kvas, as has
was, thcrc-
> in poetry,
tit were the
I liis lyrics,
rew. Cow-
;ering after
cd one ad-
iself chiefly
: so good a
Licnce. Ilis
ire and his
amp of the
w read, and
ten must al-
ly long nar-

rative poem, for many a year before and after. Both his
po'etical and his dramatic activity (of which more anon)
were incessant, and were almost always exerted in the di-
rection of innovation. But the real importance of these
four writers was the help they gave to the development of
the heroic cou^ilet, the predestined common form of poetry
of the more important kind for a century and a half to
come. The heroic couphit was, of course, no novelty ii*
English; but it had hitherto be.n only fitfully patronizec^
for poems of length, and had not been adapted for general
use. The whole structure of the decasyllabic line before
the middle of the seventeenth century was ill calculated
for the perfecting of the couplet. Accustomed either to
the stately plainness of blank verse, or to the elaborate in-
tr'-^acies of the stanza, writers had got into the habit of
communicating to their verse a slow and somewhat lan-
guid movement. The satiric poems in which the couplet
had been most used were, cither by accident or design,
couched in the roughest possible verse, so rough that in
the hands of Marston and Donne it almost ceased to be
capable of scansion. In general, the couplet had two
drawbacks. Either it was turned by means of cvjambe-
ments into something very like rhythmic prose, with
rhymes straying about at apparently indefinite intervals,
or it was broken np into a staccato motion by the neglect
to support and carry on the rhythm at the termination
of the distichs. All the four poets mentioned, especially
the three first, did much to fit the couplet for miscellane-
ous work. All of them together, it is hardly nt^cdful to
say, did not do so much as the young Cambridge man
who, while doing bookseller's work for llerringman the
publisher, hanging about the coffee-houses, and ])lanning
plays with Davcnant and Sir Robert Howard, was wait-
2

DRYDEX.

[chap.

ing for opportunity and inipulso to lielp liim to mate
his wav.

The drama was in an even more critical state than
poetiy pure and simple, and here Davenant was the im-
portant person. All the giant race except Shirley were
dead, and Shirley liad substituted a kind of trar/eclie bour-
(/coii^e for the work of his masters. Other practitioners
chiefly favoured the example of one of the least imitable
of those masters, and out -forded Ford in horrors of all
kinds, while the comedians clung still more tightly to the
humour-comedy of Jonson. Davenant himself had made
abundant experiments — experinients, let it be added, some-
times of no small merit — in both these styles. But the
occupations of tragedy and comedy were gone, and the
question was how to find a new one for them. Davenant
succeeded in procuring permission from the l*rotector,
who, like most Englishmen of the time, was fond of music,
to give what would now be called entertainments; and the
entertainments soon developed into somethinfr like ret^u-
lar stage plays. But Slmkspeare's godson, with his keen
manager's appreciation of the taste of the public, and his
travelled experience, did not content himself with deviating
cautiously into the old paths. He it 'vas who, in the Sier/e
of Rhodes, introduced at once into England the opera, and
a less long-lived but, in a literary point of view, more im-
portant variety, the heroic play, the latter of which always
retained some tinge of the former. There are not many
subjects on which, to put it l)lainly, more rubbish has been
talked than the origin of the heroic play. Very few Eng-
lishmen have ever cared to examine accurately the connex-
ion between this singular growth and the classical ti'agedy
already flourishing in France ; still fewer have ever cared
to investigate the origins of that classical tragedy itself.

BEFORE THE RESTORATION.

Tlie blundering attribution of Drydcn and his rivals to
Corncillc and Kacine, the more blunderini^ attribution of
Corneille and Racine to the Scudery romance (as if some-
body should father Shelley on Monk Lewis), has been gen-
erally accepted without much iiesitation, though Dryden
himself has pointed out that there is but little connexion
between the French and the English drama; and though
the history of the French drama itself is perfectly intelligi-
ble, and by no means difficult to trace. The French clas-
sical drama is the direct descendant of the drama of Sen-
eca, first imitated by Jodelle and Garnier in the days of
the Plciude ; nor did it ever quit that model, though in
the first thirty years of the seventeenth century something
was borrowed from Spanish sources. The P^nglish heroic
drama, on the other hand, which Davcnant invented, which
Sir Robert Howard and Lord Orrery made fashionable, and
for which Dryden achieved a popularity of nearly twenty
years, was one of the most cosmopolitan — I had almost
said the most mongrel — of literary productions. It adopt-
ed the English freedom of action, multiplicity of character,
and licence of stirring scenes acted coram pojndo. It bor-
rowed lyrical admixture from Italy ; exaggerated and bom-
bastic language came to it from Spain ; and to France it
owed little more than its rhymed dialogue, and perhaps
something of its sighs and flames. The disadvantages of
rhyme in dramatic writing seem to modern Englishmen
so great, that they sometimes find it difficult to understand
how any rational being could exciiange the blank verse
of Sliakspeare for the rhymes of Dryden, much more for
the rhymes of his contemporaries and predecessors. But
this omits the important consideration that it was not the
blank verse of Sliakspeare or of Fletcher that was thus
exchanged. In the three-quarters of a century, or there-

DRYDEN.

[CIIAP.

abonts, which elapsed between the beginning of the great
dramatic era and the Restoration, the chief vehicle of the
drama had degenerated full as much as the drama itself;
and the blank verse of the plays subsequent to Ford is of
anything but Shakspearian quality — is, indeed, in many
cases such as is hardly to be recognised for verse at all.
Between this awkward and inharmonious stuft" and the
comparatively polished and elegant couplets of the inno-
vators there could be little comparison, especially when
Dryden had taken up the couplet himself.

Lastly, in prose the time was pretty obviously calling
for a reform. There were great masters of English prose
living when Dryden joined the literary world of London,
but there was no generall;' accepted style for the journey-
wo''k of literature. Milton and laylor could arrange the
most elaborate symphonies; Ilobbes could write with a
crabbed clearness as lucid almost as the flowing sweetness
of Berkeley ; but these were exceptions. The endless sen-
tences out of which Clarendon is wont just to save him-
self, when his readers are wondering whether breath and
brain will last out their involution ; the hopeless coils of
parenthesis and afterthought in which Cromwell's speech
lay involved, till Mr. Carlyle was sent on a special mission
to disentangle them, show the dangers and difficulties of
the ordinary prose style of the day. It was terribly cum-
bered about quotations, which it introduced with merciless
frequency. It had no notion of a unit of style in the sen-
tence. It indulged, without the slightest hesitation, in ev-
ery detour and involution of second thoughts and by-the-
way qualifications. So far as any models were observed,
those models were chiefly taken from the inflected lan-
guages of Greece and Rome, where the structural altera-
tions of the words according to their grammatical con-

[chap.

of the groat
eliiclc of the
h-aiiia itself;
to Ford is of
!ed, ill many

verse at all.
tuff and the

of the inno-
ecially when

ously callini;
'^nti'lish prose
I of London,
the journcy-
[ arrange the
write with a
ng sweetness
3 endless scn-
to save him-
r breatli and
."less coils of
well's speech
ccial missioji
Llifficulties of
terribly cum-
ith merciless
le in the sen-
sation, in ev-
5 and by-the-
erc observed,
inflected lan-
ctural altera-
imatical con-

'•]

BEFORE THE RESTORATIOX.

ne.\ion are for tlie most part sufficient to make the mean-
ing tolerably clear. Nothing so much as the lack of in-
flexions .saved our prose at this time from sharing the fate
of German, and involving itself almo.st beyond the reach
of extrication. The co?nmon people, when not bent upon
tine language, could speak and write clearly and straight-
forwardly, as Banyan's W(n'ks show to this day to all who
care to read. But scholars and divines deserved much less
well of their mother tongue. It may, indeed, be said that
prose was infinitely worse off than poetry. In the hitter
there had been an excellent style, if not one perfectly suited
for all ends, and it had degenerated. In the former, notli-
ing like a general prose style had ever yet been elaborated
at all ; what had been done had been done chiefly in the
big-bow-wow manner, as Dryden's editor might have called
it. For light miscellaneous work, neither fantastic nor
solemn, the demand was only just being created. Cowley,
indeed, wrote well, and, comparatively speaking, elcuuntly,
but his prose work was small in extent and little read in
comparison to his verse. Tillotson was Dryden's own
contemporary, and hardly preceded him in the task of
reform.

From this short notice it will be obvious that the gen-
eral view, according to which a considerable change took
place and was called for at the liestoration, is correct, not-
withstanding the attempts recently made to prove the con-
trary by a learned writer. Professor Masson's lists of men
of letters and ot the dates of their publication of their
works prove, if he will pardon my saying so, nothing.
The actual spirit of the time is to be judged not from the
production of works of writers who, as *l'oy one by one
dropi)ed off, left no successors, but from luose who struck
root downwards and blossomed upwards in the general

DRYDEN.

[riiAP. I.

literary soil. Milton is not a writer of the Restoration,
though his greatest works appeared after it, and though he
survived it nearly fifteen years. Nor was Taylor, nor Claren-
don, nor Cowley : hardly even Davenant, or Waller, or But-
ler, or Denhani. The writers of the Restoration arc those
whose works had the seeds of life in them ; who divined
or formed the popular tastes of the period, who satisfied
that taste, and who trained up successors to prosecute and
modify their own work. The interval between the prose
and the poetry of Dryden and the prose and the poetry of
Milton is that of an entire generation, notwithstanding the
manner in which, chronologically speaking, they overlap.
The objects which the reformer, consciously or uncon-
sciously, set before him ha^-e been sufficiently indicated.
It must be the task of the following chapters to show
how and to what extent he effected a reform ; what the
nature of that reform was ; what was the value of the work
which in effecting it he contributed to the lit>3rature of his
country.

[chap. I.

Restoration,
id though he
r, nor Chircn-
aller, or But-
ion are those

who divined
who satisfied
)rosecute and
en the prose
the poetry of
istandinof the
they overhvp.
ly or uncon-
tly indicated,
ters to show
m ; what the
c of the work
orature of his

CHAPTER IT.

EARLY LITERAKV WORK.

The forci^oinf^ chapter will have already shown the chief
difficulty of writinf>- a life of Dryden — the almost entire
absence of materials. At the Restoration the poet was
nearly thirty years old; and of positive information as to
his life during these thirty years we have half-a-dozen
dates, the isolated fact of his mishap at Trinity, a single
letter and three poems, not amounting in all to three hun-
dred lines. Nor can it be said that even subsequently,
during his forty years of fame and literary activity, posi-
tive information as to his life is plentiful. Ilis works are
still the best life of him, and in so far as a biography of
Dryden is tilled with any matter not purely literary, it
must for the most part be filled with controversy as to his
political and religions opinions and conduct rather than
with accounts of his actnal life and conversation. Omit-
ting for the present literary work, the next fact that we
have to record after the Restoration is one of some impor-
tance, though as before the positive information obtaina-
ble in connexion with it is but scanty. On the 1st of De-
cember, 1GG3, Dryden was married at St. Swithin's Cimrch
to Lady Elizabeth Howard, eldest daughter of the Earl of
Berkshire.

This marriage, like most of the scanty events of Dry-

DKYDEX.

[ciup.

dt'ii's life, lias been niiide the occasion of much and tinnec-
essMiy conti-ovci-sy. The libellers of the l*opi.sh I'lot dis-
turbances twenty years later declared that the eiiaracter
of the bride was donbtful, and that her brothers had acted
towards Drydeft in somewhat the same way as the Ilanul-
tons ,li,l towards Granimont. A letter of hers to the Earl
of Clicsterfield, which was published about half a century
ago, has been used to support the first charge, besides
abundant arguments as to the unlikelihood of an earl's
daughter marrying a poor poet for love. It is one of the
misfortunes of prominent men that when fact is silent
about their lives fiction is always busy. If we brusii away
the cobwebs of speculation, there is nothing in the least
suspicious about this matter. Lord Berkshire had a large
family and a small property. Dryden himself was, as we
Ihave seen, well born and well connected. That some of
his sisters had married tradesmen seems to Scott likely to
have been shocking to the Howards; but he must surely
have forgotten the famous story of the Earl of Bedford's
objection to be raised a step in the peerage because it
would make it awkward for the younger scions of the
house of Russell to go into trade. The notion of an ab-
solute severance between Court and City at that time is
one of the many nnhistorical fictions which have somehow
or other obtair urrency. Dryden was already an inti-
mate friend of Sir Robert Howard, if not also of the other
brother, Edward, and perhaps it is not unnoteworthy that
Lady I-^lizaljeth was five-and-twenty, an age in those days
somewhat mature, and one at which a young ladv would
be thought wise by her family in accepting any creditable
offer. As to the Chesterfield letter, the evidence it con-
tains can only satisfy minds previously made up. It tes-
tifies certainly to something liko a flirtation, and su'To-ests

[chap.

.icli and iiiinec-
Dpisli IMot dis-

tlie character
hers liad acted

as the Ilaiiiil-
ers to the P]arl
half a centiu'v
'hari^e, besides
1 of an earl's
; is one of the

fact is silent
ve brnsii away
% in the least
re had a larjre
elf was, as we
riiat some of
5cott likely to
e imist surely

of ] Bedford's
[••e because it
scions of the
ion of an ab-

that time is
lave somehow
ready an inti-
3 of the other
;ewortliy that
n those days
g lady would
my creditable
deuce it con-
! up. It tcs-

.I.J

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

an interview, but there is nothin^r in it at all compromis-
\\\%. The libels already mentioned are perfectly vague and
wholly untrustworthy.

[t seems, though on no vc . .lofinite evidence, that the
marriage was not altogether a happy one. Dryden ap-
pears to have acquired some small property in Wiltshire;
perhaps also a royal grant which was made to Lady Eliz-
abeth in recognition of her father's services; and Lord
Berkshire's Wiltshire house of Charlton became a country
retreat for the poet. But his wife was, it is said, ill-tem-
pered and not overburdened with brains, and he himself
was probably no more a model of conjugal propriety tlian
most of his associates. I say probably, for here, too, it is
astonishing how the evidence breaks down when it is ex-
amin- d, or rather how it vanishes altogether into air. Mr.
J. R. Green has roundly informed the world that " Dryden's
life was that of a libertine, and his marriage with a woman
who was yet more dissolute than himself only gave a new
spur to his debaucheries." We have seen what'foundation
there is for this gross charge against Lady Elizabeth ; now
let us see what ground there is for the charge against Dry-
den. There are the libels of Shadwell and the rest of the
crew, to which not even Mr. Christie, a very severe judge
of Dryden's moral character, assigns the slightest weiglU ;
there is the immorality ascribed to Bayes in the Rehearsal,
a very pretty piece of evidence indeed, seeing that Bayes
is a confused medley of half-a-dozen persons; there is a
general association by tradition of Dryden's name with
that of Mrs. Reeve, a beautiful actress of the day ; and
finally there is a tremendous piece of scandal which is the
battle-horse of the devil's advocates. A curious letter ap-
peared in the Gentleman's Magazine for 17-15, the author
of which is unknown, though conjectures, as to which
C 2* a

DRYDEN.

[chap.

there are difficulties, identify him with Dryden's youthful
friend Southern. " I remember," says this person, " plain
John Dryden, before he paid his court with success to
the great, in one uniform clotliing of Norwich drugget. I
have ate tarts with him and Madam Reeve at the Mul-
berry Garden, when our author advanced to a sword and
a Chedreux wig." Perhaps tliere is no more curious in-
stance of the infinitesimal foundation on which scandal
builds than this matter of Dryden's immorality. Putting
aside mere vague libellous declamation, the one piece of
positive information on the subject that we have is anon-
ymous, was made at least seventy years after date, and
avers that John Dryden, a dramatic author, once ate tarts
with an actress and a third person. This translated into
the language of Mr. Green becomes the dissoluteness of a
libertine, spurred up to new debaucheries.

It is immediately after the marriage that we have almost
our first introduction to Dryden as a live man seen by live
human beings. And the circumstances of this introduc-
tion are characteristic enougli. On the 3rd of February,
1664, Pepys tells us that he stopped, as he was going to
fetch his wife, at the great coffee-house in Covent Garden,
and there he found " Dryden, tlic poet I knew at Cam-
bridge," and all the wits of the town. Tlie company
pleased Pepys, and he made a note to tlie effect that " it
will be good coming thither." But the most interesting
thing is this glimpse, first, of the associates of Dryden at
the university ; secondly, of his installation at Will's, the
famous house of call, where he was later to reign as undis-
puted monarch ; and, tliirdly, of the fact that lie was al-
ready recognised as " Dryden the poet." The remainder
of the present chapter will best be occupied by pointing
out what he had done, and in brief space afterwards did

n.J

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

do, to earn that title, reserving the important snbjedt of
his dramatic activity, which also began about this time,
for separate treatment.

The lines on the death of Lord Hastings, and the lines
to Iloddesdon, have, it has been said, a certain promise
about them to experienced eyes, but it is of that kind of
promise which, as the same experience teaches, is at least
as often followed by little performance as by much. The
lines on Cromwell deserve less faint praise. The following
stanzas exhibit at once the masculine strength and origi-
nality wliich were to be the poet's great sources of power,
and the habit of conceited and pedantic allusion which he
had caught from the fashions of the time :

" Swift aud resistless through the land he passed,
Like that bold Greek wiio did the East subdue,
And made to battle such heroic haste
As if on wings of victory he flew.

" He fought secure of fortune as of fame,

Till by new maps the island might be shown
Of conquests, which he strewed where'er he came.
Thick as the galaxy with stars is sown.

" His palms, though under weights they did not stand.
Still thrived ; no winter did his laurels fade.
Heaven in his portrait showed a workman's hand,
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.

" Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,

Which war had banished, and did now restore:
Bologna's walls so mounted in the air
To scat themselves more surely than before."

An impartial contemporary critic, if he could have an-
ticipated the methods of a later school of criticism, might
have had some difficulty in deciding whether the masterly
plainness, directness, and vigour of the best lines here ought

nil

URYDEX.

[chap.

or ought not to excuse the conceit about the palms and the
weights, and the fearfully far-fetched piece of fancy histo-
ry about Bologna. Such a critic, if he had had the better
part of discretion, would have decided in the affirmative.
There wore not three poets then living who could have
written the best lines of the Heroic Stanzas, and tvhat is
more, those lines were not in the particular manner of
cither of the poets who, as far as general poetical merit
goes, might have written them. But the Restoration,
which for reasons given already I must hold to have been
genuinely welcome to Dryden, and not a mere occasion of
profitable coat-turning, brought forth some much less am-
biguous utterances. Astnta Redux (1660), a panegyric
on the coronation (1061), a poem to Lord Clarendon
(1662), a few still shorter pieces of the complimentary
kind to Dr. Charleton (1663), to the Duchess of York
(1065), and to Lady Castlemaine (166-?), lead up to An-
nus Mirah'dis at the beginning of 1667, the crowning ef-
fort of Dryden's first poetical period, and his last before
the long absorption in purely dramatic occupations which
lasted till the Popish Plot and its controversies evoked
from him the expression of hitherto unsuspected powers.

These various pieces do not amount in all to more than
two thousand lines, of which nearly two-thirds belong to
Annus Mirabilis. But they were fully sufficient to show
that a new poetical power had arisen in the land, and their
qualities, good and bad, might have justified the antii-ioa-
tion that the writer would do better and better work as he
grew older. All the pieces enumerated, with the exception
of Annus Mirabilis, are in the heroic couplet, and their
versification is of such a kind that the relapse into the
quatrain in the longer poem is not a little surprising. But
nothing is more characteristic of Dryden than the- extreme-

[chap.

lalms and the
f fancy histo-
ad the bottei'
e affirmative.
3 could have
, and what is
r manner of
loctical merit

Restoration,
to liave been
•e occasion of
inch less am-
, a panegyric
rd Clarendon
)niplimentary
less of York
ad up to ^-In-
crowning ef-
is last before
)ations which
ersies evoked
;ted powers,
to more than
fds belong to
iient to sliow
md, and their
the anti'-ioa-
3r work as he
the exception
let, and their
ipso into the
prising. But

the extreme-

II.]

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

ly tentative character of hi work, and he liad doubtless not
yet satisfied himself that tuo couplet was suitable for nar-
rative poems of any length, notwithstanding the mastery
over it which he must have known himself to have attain-
ed in his short pieces. The very first lines of Astr(£a Re-
dux show this mastery clearly enough.

" Now with a general peace the world was blest,
While ours, a world divided from the rest,
A dreadful quiet felt, and worser far
Than arms, a sullen interval of war."

Here is already the energy divine for which the author
was to be famed, and, in the last line at least, an instance
of the varied cadence and subtly - disposed music wliich
were, in his hands, to free the couplet from all charges of
monotony and tamencss. But almost immediately there
is a falling off. The poet goes off into an unnecessary
simile preceded by the hackneyed and clumsy " thus," a
simile quite out of place at the opening of a poem, and
disfigured by the too famous, " an horrid stillness first in-
vades the ear," which if it has been extravagantly blamed
— and it seems to me that it has — certainly will go near
to be thought a conceit. But we have not long to wait
for another chord that announces Dryden :

" For his long absence Chu'ch and State did groan,
Madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne.
Experienced age in deep despair was lost
To see the rebel thrive, the loyal crost.
Youth, that with joys had unacquainted been.
Envied grey hairs that once good days had seen.
We thought our sires, not v, ith their own content,
Had, ere we came to age, our portion spent."

Whether the matter of this is suitable for poetry or not la

^^ ^-..w

DRYDEN.

[chap.

one of those questions on which doctors will doubtless
disagree to the end of the chapter. But even when we
look back through the long rows of practitioners of the
couplet who have succeeded Dryden, we shall, I think,
hardly find one who is capable of such masterly treatment
of the form, of giving to the phrase a turn at once so clear
and so individual, of weighting the verse with such dignity,
and at the same time winging it with such lightly Hying
speed. The poem is injured by numerous passages in-
troduced by the usual " as " and " thus " and " like," which
were intended for ornaments, and which in fact simply
disfigure. It is here and there charged, after the manner
of the day, with inappropriate and clumsy learning, and
with doubtful Latinisms of expression. But it is redeemed
by such lines as —

" When to be God's anointed was his crime ;"

as the characteristic gibe at the Covenant insinuated by
the description of the Guisean League —

"As lioly and as Catholic as oursj"

as the hit at the

" Polluted nest
Whence legion twice before was dispossest ;"

as the splendid couplet on the British Amphitrite —

" Proud her returning prince to entertain
:- With the submitted fasces of the main."

Such lines as these must have had for tlie readers of 1660
the attraction of a novelty which only very careful stu-
dents of the literature of the time can understand now.
The merits of Astrcea Redux must of course not be judged
by the reader's acquiescence in its sentiments. But Itt

"•]

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

any one read the following passage without thinking of
the treaty of Dover and the closed exchequer, of Madam
Carwell's twelve tiiousand a year, and Lord Russell's scaf-
fold, and he assuredly will not fail to recognise their beauty :

" Methinks I see those crowds on Dover's strand,
Who in their haste to welcome you to land
Choked up the beach with their still-growing store,
And made a wilder torrent on the shore :
While, spurred with eager thoughts of past delight.
Those who had seen you court a second sight,
Preventing still your steps, and making haste
To meet you often wheresoe'er you past.
How shall I speak of that triumphant day
When you renewed the expiring pomp of May ?
A month that owns an interest in your name ;
You and the flowers arc its peculiar claim.
That star, that at your birth shone out so bright
It stained the duller sun's meridian light.
Did once again its potent fires renew,
Guiding our eyes to find and worship you."

The extraordinary art with which the recurrences of the
you and your — in the circumstances naturally recited with
a little stress of the voice — are varied in position so as to
give a corresponding variety to the cadence of the verse, is
perhaps the chief thing to be noted here. But a compari-
son with even the best couplet verse of the time will show
many other excellences in it. I am aware that this style
of minute criticism has gone out of fashion, and that the
variations of the position of a pronoun have terribly little
to do with " criticism of life ;" but as I am dealing with
a great English author whose main distinction is to have
reformed the whole formal part of English prose and Eng-
glish poetry, I must, once for all, take leave to follow the
only road open to me to show what he actually did.

82 DRY DEN. [chap.

The other smaller couplet-poems whicli have been men-
tioned are less important than Astrcea Redux, not merely
in point of size, but because they are later in date. The
piece on the coronation, however, contains lines and pas-
sages equal to any in the longer poem, and it shows very
happily the modified form of conceit which Dryden,
throughout his life, was fond of employing, and which,
employed with his judgment and taste, fairly escapes the
charges usually brought against "Clevelandisms," while it
helps to give to the heroic the colour and picturesqueness
which after the days of Pope it too often lacked. Such
is the fancy about the postponement of the ceremony —

"Had greater haste these sacred rites prepared,
Some guilty months had in our triumph shared.
But this untainted year is all your own,
Your glories may without our crimes be shown."

And such an exceedingly fine passage in the poem to
Clarendon, which is one of the most finished pieces of
Dryden's early versification —

' Our setting sun from his declining seat
Shot beams of kindness on you, not of heat :
And, when his love was bounded in a few
That were unhappy that they might he true,
Made you the favourite of his last sad times ;
That is, a sufferer in his subjects' crimes :
Thus those first favours you received were sent,
Like Heaven's rewards, in earthly punishment.
Y^ct Fortune, conscious of your destiny,
Even then took care to lay you softly by,
And wrapt your fate among her precious things,
Kept fresh to be unfolded with your King's.
Shown all at once, you dazzled so our eyes
As new-born Pallas did the god's surprise ;

II.]

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

When, springing forth from Jove's new-closing wound,
She strufli tiie warliiie spear into the ground ;
Which sprouting leaves did suddenly enclose,
And peaceful olives shfided as they rose."

For once the mania for simile and classical allusion has
not led the author astray liere, but has furnished him with
a very happy and legitimate ornament. The only fault
in the piece is the use of " did,'' which Dryden never
wholly discarded, and which is perhaps occasionally allow-
able enouQ;h.

The remaininnf poems require no very special remark,
though all contain evidence of the same novel and un-
matched mastery over the couplet and its cadence. The
author, however, was giving himself more and more to the
dramatic studies which will form the subject of the next
chapter, and to the prose criticisms which almost from the
first he associated with those studies. But the events of
the year 1666 tempted him once more to indulge in non-
dramatic work, and the poem of Annus Mirabilis was the
result. It seems to have been written, in part at least, at
Lord Berkshire's seat of Charlton, close to Malinesbury,
and was prefaced by a letter to Sir Robert Howard. Dry-
den appears to have lived at Charlton during the greater
part of 1665 and 1666, the plague and fire years. He
had been driven from London, not merely by dread of
the pestilence, but by the fact that his ordinary occupation
was gone, owing to the closing of the play-houses, and he
evidently occupied himself at Charlton with a good deal
of literary work, including his essay on draniatic poetry,
his play of the Maiden Queen, and Annus Mirahilis itself.
This last was published very early in 166V, and seems to
have been successful. Pepys bought it on the 2nd of Feb-
ruary, and was fortunately able to like it better than he did

: r

.1 ,'

■\ 1 1

ILI

DRYDEN.

[chap.

:l ^

Hudibras. " A very good poem," the Clerk of the Acts
of the Navy writes it down. It may be mentioned in
passing that dining tliis same stay at Charlton Dryden's
eldest son Charles was born.

Annus MirahiUs consists of 304 quatrains on the Gon-
dibert model, reasons for the adoption of which Dryden
gives (not so forcibly, perhaps, as is usual with him) in the
before-mentioned letter to hi?; brother-in-law. He speaks of
rhyme generally with less respect than he was soon to show,
and declares that he has adopted the quatrain because he
judges it " more noble and full of dignity " than any other
form he knows. The truth seems to be that he was still
to a great extent under the influence of Davenant, and that
Gondibert as yet retained sufficient prestige to make its
stanza act as a not unfavourable advertisement of poems
written in it. With regard to the nobility and dignity
of this stanza, it may safely be said that Annus Mira-
bilis itself, the best poem ever written therein, killed it by
exposing its faults. It Is, indeed, at least when the rhymes
of the stanzas are unconnected, a very bad metre for the
purpose; for it is chargeable with more than the disjoint-
edness of the couplet, without the possibility of relief;
while, on the other hand, the quatrains have not, like the
Spenserian stave or the ottava ri.na, suflicietit bulk to form
units in themselves, and to include within them varieties
of harmony. Despite these drawbacks, however, Dryden
produced a very fine poem in Annus Mirabilis, though I
am not certain that even its best passages equal those
cited from the couplet pieces. At any rate, in this poem
the characteristics of the master in what may be called
his poetical adolescence are displayed to the fullest extent.
The weight and variety of his line, his abundance of illus-
tration and fancy, his happy turns of separate phrase, and

II.]

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

his sincvular faculty of bendino- to poetical uses the most
refractory names and things, all make themselves fully felt
here. On the other hand, there is still an undue tendency
to conceit a .d exuberance of simile. The famous lines—

"Tiiese fight like husbands, but like lovers those;
These fain would keep, and thosr more fain enjoy ;"

are followed in the next stanza by a most indubitably
" metaphysical " statement that

" Some preciously by shattered porcelain fall,
And some by aromatic splinters die."

This cannot be considered the happiest possible means of
informing us that the Dutch fleet was laden with spices
and maijlts. Sucl puerile fancies are certainly unworthy
of a poet who could tell how

" The mighty ghosts of our great Harrys rose
And armed Edwards looked with anxious eyes ;"

and who, in the beautiful simile of the eagle, has equalled
the Elizabethans at their own weapons. I cannot think,
however, admirable as the poem is in its best passages (the
description of the fire, for instance), that it is technically
the equal of Astnm Redux. The monotonous recurrence
of the same identical cadence in each stanza— a recurrence
which even Dryden's art was unable to prevent, and which
can only be prevented by some such incements of

rhymes and enjambements of sense as those which Mr.
Swinburne has successfully adopted in Laus Veneris— in-
jures the best passages. The best of all is undoubtedly
the following :

" III tliis deep quiet, from what source unknown,
Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose ;
And first few scattering sparks about were blown,
Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.

V^:

i .>

DRYDEN.

"Then in some close-pent room it crept along,
And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed ;
Till the infant monster, with devouring strong.
Walked boldly upright with exalted head.

" Now, like some rich and mighty murderer,

Too great for prison which he breaks with gold,
Who fresher for new mischiefs docs appear.
And dares the world to tax him with the old.

[chap.

" So 'scapes the insulting fire his narrow jail,
And makes small outlets into open air;
There the fierce winds his tender force assail.
And beat him downward to his first repair.

" The winds, like crafty courtesans, w ithheld

His flames from burning but to blow thvm more;
And, every fresh attempt, he is repelled
With faint denials, weaker than before.

" And now, no longer letted of his prey,
He leaps up at it with enraged desire,
O'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey,
And nods at every house his threatening fire.

" The ghosts of traitors from the Bridge descend.
With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice ;
About the fire into a dance they bend

And sing their sabbath r'^^es with feeble voice."

The last stanza, indeed, contains a fine image finely ex-
pressed, but I cannot but be glad that Dryden tried no
more experiments with the recalcitrant quatrain.

Annus Mirahilis closes the series of early poems, and
for fourteen years from the date of its publication Dryden
was known, with insignificant exceptions, as a dramatic
writer only. But his efforts in poetry proper, though they
had not as yet resulted in any masterpiece, had, as I have

[chap.

,1.]

EARLY LITERARY WORK.

Id,

lore ;

ice.

! finely ex-
!n tried no

endeavoured to point out, amply entitled him to the posi-
tion of a great and original master of the formal part of
poetry, if not of a poet who had distinctly found liis way.
He hud carried out a conception of the couplet which was
almoiit entirely new, having been anticipated" only by some
isolated and ill- sustained efforts, lie had manifested an
ccjual originality in the turn of his phrase, an extraordina-
ry comujand of poetic imagery, and, above all, a faculty of
handling by no means promising subjects in a indispu-
tably poetical manner. Circumstances wl ich I shall now
proceed to describe called him away from the practice of
pure poetry, leaving to him, however, a reputation, amply
deserved and acknowledged even by his enemies, of pos-
sessintr unmatched skill in versification. Nor were the
studies upon which he now entered wholly alien to his
proper function, though they were in some sort a bye-
work. They strengthened his command over the lan-
guage, increased his skill in verse, and, above all, tended
bv degrees to reduce and purify what was corrupt in his
phraseology and system of ornamentation. Fourteen years
of dramatic practice did more than turn out some admira-
ble scenes and some even more admirable criticism. They
acted as a filtering reservoir for his poetical powers, so
that the stream which, when it ran into them, was the
turbid and rubbish -ladeu current of Annus MiraUUs,
flowed out as impetuous, as strong, but clear and with-
out base admixture, in the splendid verse of Absalom and
AcJdtophel.

i •

11!'

. )!:!

poems, and
ion Drydcn
a dramatic
hough they
i, as I have

J ^. Jii,Wik«S«i '

CHAPTER III.

PEKIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITV.

There are not many portions of English literature which
have been treated with greater severity by critics than the
Restoration drama, and of the Restoration dramatists few
have met with less favour, in proportion to their general
literary eminence, than Drydcn. Of his comedies, in par-
ticular, few have been found to say a good word. His
sturdiest champion, Scott, dismisses them as "heavy ;" Haz-
litt, a defender of the Restoration comedy in general, finds
little in them but " ribaldry and extravagance ;" and I have
lately seen them spoken of with a shudder as "horrible."
The tragedies have fared better, but not much better; and
thus the remarkable spectacle is presented of a general
condemnation, varied only by the faintest praise, of the
work to which an admitted master of English devoted,
almost exclusively, twenty years of the llosver of his man-
hood. So complete is the oblivion into which these dramas
have fallen, that it has buried in its folds the always charm-
ing and sometimes exquisite songs which they contain.
Except in Congreve's two editions, and in the bulky edi-
tion of Scott, Dryden's theatre is unattainable, and thus the
majority of readers have but little opportiinity of correct-
ino-, from individual studv, the unfavourable impressions
derived from the verdicts of the critics. For myself, I am

CHAP. III. J

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC AtTIVITV.

aturc which
ics than the
unatists few
heir general
(lies, in par-
word. His

eavy

Ilaz-

reneral, finds
' and 1 have
" horrible."
better; and
af a general
raise, of the
ish devoted,
of his nian-
these dramas
wavs charm-
hey contain,
e bulky edi-
and thus the
;y of correct-
impressions
mvself, I am

very far from considering Dryden's dramatic work as on a
level with his purely poetical work. But, as nearly always
happens, and as happened, by a curious coincidence, in the
case of his editor, the fact that ho did something else much
better has obscured the fact that he did this thing in not
a few instances very well. Scott's poems as poems are far
inferior to his novels as novels ; Dryden's plays are far in-
ferior as plays to his satires and his fables as poems. But
both the poems of Scott and the plays of Dryden are a
great deal better than the average critic admits.

That dramatic work went somewhat against the grain
with J)ryden, is frequently asserted on his own authority,
and is perhaps true. He began it, however, tolerably early,
and had finished at least the scheme of a play (on a sub-
ject which he afterwards resumed) shortly after the Resto-
ration. As soon as that event happened, a double in-
centive to play-writing began to work upon him. It was
much the most fashionable of literary occupations, and also
much the most lucrative. Dryden was certainly not indif-
ferent to fame, and, though he was by no means a covetous
man, he seems to have possessed at all times the perfect
readiness to spend whatever could be honestly got which
frequently distinguishes men of letters. He set t' work
accordingly, and produced in 1063 the Wild Galla We
do not possess this play in the form in which it was first
acted and damned. Afterward^ Lady Castlemaine gave it
her protection; the anti luu. i certain attractions ac-
cording to the taste of tl»e time, and it was both acted and
published. It certainly cannot be said to be a great suc-
cess even as it is. Dryden had, like most of his fellows,
attempted the Comedy of Humours, as it was called at
the time, and as it continued to be, and to be crJled, till
the more polished comedy of manners, or artificial comedy,

! fl

i I

40 DRYDEN. * [chap.

succeeded it, owing to the success of Wycherley, and still
more of Congreve. The number of comedies of this kind
written after 1620 is very large, while the fantastic and
poetical comedy of which Shakspeare and Fletcher had al-
most alone the secret had almost entirely died out. The
merit of the Comedy of Humours is the observation of
actual life which it requires in order to be done well, and
the consequent fidelity with which it holds up the muses'
looking-glass (to use the title of one of Randolph's plays)
to nature. Its defects are its proneness to descend into
farce, and the temptation which it gives to the writer to
aim rather at mere fragmentary and sketchy delineations
than at finished composition. At the Restoration this
school of drama was vigorously cnougl. represented by
Davenant himself, by Sir Aston Cokain, and by Wilson, a
writer of great merit who rather unaccountably abandoned
the stage very soon, while in a year or two Shadwell, the
actor Lacy, aJid several others were to take it up and carry
it on. It had frequently been combined with the embroil-
ed and complicated plots of the Spanish comedy of intrigue,
the adapters usually allowing these plots to conduct them-
selves much more irregularly than was the case in the
originals, while the deficiencies were made up, or supposed
to be made up, by a liberal allowance of " humours." The
danger of this sort of work was perhaps never better illus-
trated than by Shadwell, when he boasted in one of his
prefaces that " four of the humours were entirely new,"
and appeared to consider this a sufficient claim to respect-
ful reception. Dryden in his first play fell to the fullest
extent into the blunder of this combined Spanish-English
style, though on no subsequent occasion did he repeat
the mistake. By degrees the example and influence of
Moliere sent complicated plots and "humours" alike out

[chap.

!y, and still
•f this kind
atastic and
her had al-

out. The
crvation of
e well, and
the muses'
pli's plays)
iscend into
3 writer to
lelineations
ration this
isented by
' Wilson, a
abandoned
adwell, the
> and carry
le embroil-
jf intrigue,
duct them-
ase in the
r supposed
urs." The
)etter illus-
one of his
rely new,"
to respect-
tlio fullest
sh-English

he repeat
ifluencc of
' alike out

in.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

of fashion, though the national taste and temperament
were too strongly in favour of the latter to allow them to
be totally banished. In our very best plays of the so-call-
ed artificial style, such as Love for Love, and the master-
pieces of Sheridan, character sketches to wliich Ben Jonson
himself would certainly not refuse the title of humours
appear, and contribute a large portion of the interest.
Drydcn, however, was not likely to anticipate this better
time, or even to distinguish himself in the older form of
the humour-comedy. He had little aptitude for the odd
and quaint, nor had he any faculty of devising or picking
up strokes of extravagance, such as those which his enemy
Shadwell could command, though he could make no very
good use of them. The humours of Trice and Bibber
and Lord Nonsuch in the Wild Gallant arc forced and
too often feeble, though there arc flashes here and there,
especially in the part of Sir Timorous, a weakling of the
tribe of Aguecheek; but in this first attempt, the one
situation and the one pair of characters which Dryden
was to treat with tolerable success are already faintly
sketched. In Constance and Loveby, the pair of light-
hearted lovers who carry on a flirtation without too much
modesty certainly, and with a remarkable absence of re-
finement, but at the same time with some genuine aflEec-
tion for one another, and in a hearty, natural manner,
make their first appearance. It is to be noted in Dryden's
favour that these lovers of his are for the most part free
from the charge of brutal lieartlessness and cruelty, wliich
has been justly brought against those of Etlicregc, of
Wychcrley, and, at least in the case of the Old Bachelor,
of Congreve. The men are rakes, and rather vulgar rakes,
but they are nothing worse. The women have too many
of the characteristics of Charles the Second's maids of
D 3 4

%\\

DRYDEN.

I If

iF .7

I ;f 'i

[chap.

honour; but they have at the same time a certain health-
iness and sweetness of tlie older days, which bring them,
if not close to Rosalind and Beatrice, at any rate pretty
near to Fletcher's lieroines, such as Dorothea and Mary.
Still, the Wild Gallant can by no possibility be called a
good play. It was followed at no Iciig interval by the
Hival Ladies, a tragicomedy, which is chiefly remarkable
for containing some heroic scenes in rhyme, for imitating
closely the tangled and improbable plot of its Spanish
original, for being tolerably decent, and I fear it must
be added, for being intolerably dull. The third venture
was in every way more important. The Indian Emper-
or (1665) was Dryden's first original play, his first heroic
play, and indirectly formed part of a curious literary dis-
pute, one of many in which he was engaged, but which
in this case proved fertile in critical studies of his best
brand. Sir Robert Howard, Dryden's brother-in-law, had,
with the assistance of Dryden himself, produced a play
called the Indian Queen, and to this the Indian Emper-
or was nominally a sequel. But as Dryden remarks, with
a quaintncss which may or may not be satirical, the con-
clusion of the Indian Queen " left but little matter to
build upon, there remaining but two of the considerable
characters alive." The good Sir Robert had indeed heap-
ed the stage with dead in his last act in a manner which
must have confirmed any FrcMich critic who saw or read
the play in his belief of the bloodthirstiness of the Eng-
lish drama. The field was thus completely clear, an'cl
Dryden, retaining only Montezuma as hi- hero, used his
own fancy and invention without restraint in constructing
the plot and arranging the characters. The play was ex-
tremely popular, and it divides with Tyrannic Love and the
Conquest of Oranada the merit of being the best of all

m.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

English heroic plays. The origin of that singular growth
has been already given, and there is no need to repeat the
story, while the Conquest of Granada is so nmch more the
model play of the style, that anything like an analysis of a
heroic play had better be reserved for this. The Indian
Emperor was followed, in 1607, by the Maiden Queen, a.
tragicomedy. The tragic or heroic part is very inferior
to its predecessor, but the comic part has merits which are
by no means inconsiderable. Celadon and Florimel are
the first finished specimens of that pair of practitioners of
light o' love flirtation which was Dryden's sole contribu-
tion of any value to the comic stage. Charles gave the
play particular commendation, and called it " his play," as
Dryden takes care to tell us. Still, in the same year came
Sir Martin Marall, Dryden's second pure comedy. But
it is in no sense an original play, and Dryden was not even
the original adapter. The Duke of Newcastle, famous
equally for his own gallantry in the civil war, and for the
oddities of his second duchess, Margaret Lucas, translated
VEtourdi, and gave it to Dryden, who perhaps combined
with it some things taken from other French plays, added
not a lit^' ■ liis own, and had it acted. It was for
those day .. judingly successful, running more than thirty
nights at its first appearance. It is very coarse in parts,
but amusing enough. The English blunderer is a much
more contemptible person than his French original. He
is punished instead of being rewarded, and there is a great
deal of broad farce brought in. Dryden was about this
time frequently engaged in this doubtful sort of collabo-
ration, and the very next play which he produced, also a
result of it, has done his reputation more harm than any
other. This was the disgusting burlesque of the Tempest,
which, happily, there is much reason for thinking belongs

1:1

f. i!

;i M

DRYDEN.

[chap.

I 'I

i I

r i/

almost wholly to Davenant. Besides degrading in every
way the poetical merit of the poem, Sir William, from
whom better things might have been expected, got into
his head what Dryden amiably calls the "excellent con-
trivance " of giving Miranda a sister, and inventing a boy
(Hippolito) who has never seen a woman. The excellent
contrivance gives rise to a good deal of extremely charac-
teristic wit. But here, too, there is little reason for giving
Dr"den credit or discredit for anything more than a cer-
tain amount of arrangement and revision. His next ap-
pearance, in 1668, with the Mock Astrologer was a more
independent one. lie was, indeed, as was very usual with
him, indebted to others for the main points of his play,
which comes partly from Thomas Cornoille's Feint Astro-
logue, partly from the Dqnt Amoureux. But the play,
with the usual reservations, may be better spoken of than
any of Dryden's comedies, except Marriage a la Mode and
Amphitryon. Wildblood and Jacintha, who play the parts
of Celadon and Florimcl in the Maiden Queen, are a very
lively pair. Much of tiie dialogue is smart, and the inci-
dents are stirring, while the play contains no less than four
of the admirable songs which Dryden now beffan to lavish
on his audiences. In the same year, or perhaps in 1669,
appeared the play of Tyrannic Love, or the Royal Martyr,
a compound of exquisite beauties ^.nd absurdities of the
most frantic description. The part of St. Catherine (very
inappropriately allotted to Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn) is beauti-
ful throughout, and that of Maximin is quite captivating
in its outrageousness. The Astn.l spirits who appear gave
occasion for some terrible parody in the Rehearsal, but
their verses are in themselves rather attractive. An ac-
count of the final scene of the play will perhaps show bet-
ter than anything else the rant and folly in which authors

[chap.

H..]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

no- in every
'illiam, from
ed, got into
:cellent con-
nting a boy
'he excellent
nely cliarac-
n for giving

than a cer-
lis next ap-
was a more
^ usual with
of his play,
Feint Astro-
it the play,
ken of than
la Mode and
ay the parts
1, are a very
nd the inci-
ss than four
;an to lavish
,ps in 1669,
ijal Martyr,
lities of the
lerinc (very
i) is bcauti-

captivating
appear gave
hearsal, but
i'c. An ac-
)s show bet-
lich authors

indulged, and which audiences applauded in these plays.
The Emperor Maximin is dissatisfied with the conduct of
the upper powers in reference to his domestic peace. He
thus expresses his dissatisfaction :

" What liad tlie gods to do with mc or mine ?
Did I molest your heaven ?
Wiiy should you then make Maximin your foe,
Who paid you tribute, whieh he need not do ?
Your altars I with smoke of rams did crown,
For which you leaned your hungry nostrils down,
All daily gaping for my incense there,
More than your sun could draw you in a year.
And you for this these plagues have on nie sent.
But, by the gods (by Maximin, I meant),
Henceforth I and my world
Hostility witli you and yours declare.
Look to it, gods ! for you the aggressors are.
Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies,
And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice.
Your trade of lieaven shall soon be at a stand,
And all your goods lie dead upon your hand."

Thereupon an aggrieved and possibly shocked follower,
of the name of Placidius, stabs him, but the Emperor wrests
the dagger from him and returns the blow. Then follows
this stage direction : " Placidius falls, and the Emperor
staggers after him and sits down upon him." From this
singular throne his guards offer to assist him. But he de-
clines help, and, having risen once, sits down again upon
Placidius, who, despite the stab and the weight of the
Emperor, is able to address an irreproachable decasyllabic
couplet to the audience. Thereupon Maximin again stabs
the person upon whom he is sitting, and they both expire
as follows :

! I

■ ih

■ ¥

DRYDE.V.

[chap.

I' il

" Flac. Oh ! I am gone. Max And after thee I go,
Revenging still and following ev'n to the other world my blow,
And shoving back tliib earth on which I sit,
I'll mount and scatter all the gods I hit."

[Slabs him affain.]

Tyrannic Love was followed by the two parts of Al-
manzor and Ahnahide, or the Conquest of Granada, the
triumph and at the same time the reductio ad absurdum
of the style. I cannot do better than give a full argument
of this famous production, whicli nobody now reads, and
which is full of lines that everybody habitually quotes.

The kingdom of Granada under its last monarch, Boab-
delin, is divided by the quarrels of factions, or rather fam-
ilies — the Abenccrrages and the Zegrys. At a festival
held in the capital this dissension breaks out. A stranf>-cr
interferes on v/hat appears to be the weaker side, and kills
a prominent leader of the opposite party, altogether dis-
regarding the king's injunctions to desist. He is seized
by the guards and ordered for execution, but is then dis-
covered to be Almanzor, a valiant person lately arrived
from Africa, who has rendered valuable assistance to the
Moors in their combat with the Spaniards, The king
thereupon apologizes, and Almanzor addresses much out-
rageous language to the factions. This is successful, and
harmony is apparently restored. Then there enters the
Duke of Arcos, a Spanish envoy, who propounds hard con-
ditions; but Almanzor remarks that 'the Moors have
Heaven and me," and duke retires, Ahnahide, the

king's betrothed, sends a messenger to invite him to a
dance ; but Almanzor insists upon a sally first, and the
first act ends with the acceptance of this order of amuse-
ment. The second opens with the triumphant return of
the Moors, the ever-victorious Almanzor having captured

[chap.

I go,

rid my blow,

I him again.^

parts of Al-
iranada, the
'd absurd um
ill argument
w reads, and
f quotes,
narcli, Boab-
■ rather fam-
Lt a festival

A strano-er
de, and kills
ogether dis-
le is seized

is then dis-
tely arrived
ance to the
The king
i much out-
jcessful, and
t enters the
is hard con-
Moors have
mahide, the
e him to a
rst, and the
sr of amuse-
it return of
i\g captured

in.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

the Duke of Arcos. Then is introduced the first female
character of importance, Lyndaraxa, sister of Zulema, the
Zegry chief, and representative throughout the drama of
the less amiable qualities of womankind. Abdalla, the
king's brother, makes love to her, and she very plainly
tells him that if he were king she might have something
to say to him, Zulema's factiousness strongly seconds
liis sister's ambition and her jealousy of Al mahide, and
the act ends by the formation of a conspiracy against
Boabdelin, the conspirators resolving to attach the invin-
cible Almanzor to their side. The third act borrows its
opening from the incident of Hotspur's wrath, Almanzor
being provoked with Boabdelin for the same cause as
Harry Percy with Henry IV. Thus he is disposed to join
Abdalla, while Abdelmelech, the chief of the x\bencerrages,
is introduced in a scene full of " sighs and flames," as the
prince's rival for the hand of Lyndaraxa. The promised
dance takes place with one of Dryden's delightful, and,
alas ! scarcely ever wholly quotable lyrics. The first two
stanzas may however be given :

" Beneath a myrtle's shade,
Which love for nuiie but hai/py lovers made,
I slept, and straight my love before me brought
Phyllis, the object of my waking thought.
Undressed s]>o came my flame to meet,
While love strewed flowers beneath her feet,
Flowers which, so pressed Vjy her, became more sweet.

" From the bright vision's head
A careless veil of lawn was loosely shed.
From her white temples fell her shaded hair.
Like cloudy sunshine, not too brown nor fair.
Her hands, her lips, d' 1 love inspire.
Her every grace my heart did fire.
But most her eyes, which languished with desire."

•I
IJ:

Jm\

! I

'»

(I II

I I

DRYDEX.

[chap.

It is a thousand pities that the quotation cannot be con-
tinued ; but it cannot, though the verse is more artfully
beautiful even than Jierc.

While, liowever, the king and his court are listening
and looking, mischief is brewing. Aliiianzor, Abdalla, and
the Zegrys are in arras. The king is driven in ; Ahnahide
is captured. Then a scene takes place between Ahnanzor
and Ahnahide in the full spirit of the style. Ahnanzor
sues for Ahnahide as a prisoner that he may set her at
liberty ; but a rival appears in the powerful Zulema. Al-
manzor is disobliged by Abdalla, and at once makes his
way to the citadel, whither Boabdelin has fled, and offers
him his services. At the beginning of the fourth act they
are of course accepted with joy, and equally of course ef-
fectual. Almanzor renews his suit, but Ahnahide refers
him to her father. The fifth a t is still fuller of extrava-
gances. Lyndaraxa holds a fort which has been commit-
ted to her against both parties, and they discourse with
her from without the walls. The unlucky Almanzor pre-
fers his suit to the king and to Almahide's father; has
recourse to violence on being refused, and is overpowered
—for a wonder— and bound. His life is, however, spared,
and after a parting scene with Ahnahide he withdraws
from the city.

The second part opens in the Spanish camp, but soon
shifts to Granada, where the unhappy Boabdelin has to
face the mutinies provoked by the expulsion of Almanzor.
The king has to stoop to entreat Ahnahide, now his
queen, to use her influence with her lover to come back.
An act of line confused fighting follows, in which Lynda-
raxa's castle is stormed, the stormcrs in their turn driven
out by the Duke of Arcos and Abdalla, who has joined the
Spaniards, and a general imhrorflio created. But Almanzor

[chap.

inot be con-
acre artfully

we listening
Abdalla, and
1 ; Alinaliide
3n Almanzor
Almanzor
y set her at
iulema. Al-
e makes his
i, and offers
rth act they
)f course ef-
ahide refers
' of extrava-
jcn commit-
course with
manzor pre-
father; has
)verpowered
;vcr, spared,
! withdraws

p, but soon
el in has to
r Almanzor.
c, now his
come back,
lich Lynda-
turn driven
5 joined the
t Almanzor

....]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITV.

obeys Alniahide's summons, with the result of more sighs
and riauies. The conduct of Almahide is unexceptiona-
ble; but Boabdolin's jealousy is inevitably aroused, and
this in its turn mortally offends the queen, which again
offends Almanzor. More inexplicable embroilment follows,
and Lyndaraxa tries her charms vainly on the champion.
The war once more centres round the Albayzin, Lynda-
raxa's sometime fortress, and it is not flippant to say that
every one fights with Cvcry one else; after which the hero
sees the ghost of his mother, and addresses it more siio.
Yet another love-scene follows, and then Zulema, who has
not forgotten his passion for Almahide, brings a false ac-
cusation against her, the assumed partner of her guilt be-
ing, however, not Almanzor, but Abdelmelech. This leaves
the hero free to undertake the wager of battle for his mis-
tress, though he is distracted with jealous fear that Zule-
ma's talc is true. The result of the ordeal is a foregone
conclusion ; but Almahide, though her innocence is proved,
is too angry with her husband for doubting her to forgive
him, and solemnly forswears his society. She and Alman-
zor meet once more, and by this time even the convention-
alities of the heroic play allow him to kiss her hand. The
king is on the watch, atid breaks in with fresh accusations;
but the Spaniards at the gates cut short the discussion, and
(at last) the embroilment and suffering of true love. The
catastrophe is arrived at in the most approved manner.
Boabdelin dies fighting; Lyndaraxa, who has given trai-
torous help with her Zegrys, is proclaimed queen by Fer-
dinand, but almost immediately stabbed by Abdelmclech.
Almanzor turns out to be the long-lost son of the Duke
of Arcos ; and Almahide, encouraged by Queen Isabella,
owns that when her year of widowhood is up she may
possibly be induced to crown his flames.
3*

1 !i

1 f !

; a-

j'.n

1 "t

ii'

I .l:

! f

I' I)

DRYDEN.

[chap.

Such is the barest outline of this famous [Any, and I fear
that as it is it is too ]ong,tliough much has' been omit-
ted, inchidin.,^ the whole of a pleasing underplot of love
between two very creditable lovers, Osinyn and Benzayda.
Its preposterous " revolutions and discoveries," the wild
bombast of Almanzor and others, the apparently purpose-
less embroilment of the action in ever- new turns and
twists arc absurd cnouoh ; but there is a kind of generous
and noble spirit animating it which could not failto catch
an audience blinded by fashion to its absurdities. There
is a skilful sequence even in the most preposterous events,
which must have kept up the interest unfalteringly ; and
all over the dialogue are squandered and lavished flowers
of splendid verse. Many of its separate lines are, as has
been said, constantly quoted without the least idea on the
quoter's par': of their origin, and many more are quotable.
Everybody, for instance, knows the vigorous couplet :

" Foif^'iveness to the injured does belong.
But they ne'er pardon who have done the wron'^ •"

but everybody does not know the preceding couplet, which
is, perhaps, better still :

" A blush remains in a forgiven face ;
It wears the silent tokens of disgrace."

Almanzor's tribute to Lyndaraxa's beautv, at the same
time that he rejects her advances, is in little, perhaps, as
good an instance as could be given of tlie merits of the
poetry and of the stamp of its spirit, and with this I must
be content :

" Fair though vou are
As summer mornings, and your eyes more bright
Than stars that twinkle on a winter's night ;

[chap.

in.l

PKKIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITV.

!iy, and 1 fear
s been oniit-
■plot of love
id Benzayda.
is," the wild
itly pnrpose-
V turns and
of jrcnerous
fail to catch
ties. There
srous events,
sringly ; and
shed flowers
? are, as has
idea on the
re quotable,
uplet:

iplet, which

t the same
perhaps, as
srits rf the
this r must

•ight

Though you have eloquence to warm and move
Cold age and fasting hermits into love ;
Thougli Almahide with scorn rewards my care,
Yet than to ehiuige 'tis nobler to despair.
My love's my soul, and that from fate is free —
'Tis that unchanged and deathless part of me."

The audience that clieered this was not wholly vile.

The Conquest of Granada appeared in 1670, and in
the followintr vear the famous Rehearsal was brought out
at the King's Theatre. The importance of this event in
Dryden's life is considerable, but it has been somewhat
exaggerated. In the first place, the satire, keen as much
of it is, is only half directed against himself. The origi-
nal Bayes was beyond all doubt Davenant, to whom some
of the jokes directly apply, while they have no reference
to Dryden. In tlie second place, the examples of heroic
plays selected for parody and ridicule are by no means ex-
clusively drawn from Dryden's theatre. His brothers-in-
law, Edward and Robert Howard, and others, figure be-
side him, and the central character is, on the wliole, as
composite as might he expected from the number of au-
thors whose plays are satirized. Although fathered by
Buckingham, it seems likely mat not much of the play is
actually his. His coadjutors are said to have been Butler,
Sprat, and Martin Clifford, Master of the Charterhouse, au-
thor of some singularly ill-tempered if not very pointed
remarks on Dryden's plays, which were not published till
long afterwards. Butler's hand is, indeed, traceable in
many of the parodies of heroic diction, none of which are
so good as liis acknowledged " Dialogue of Cat and Pass."
The wit and, for the most part, the justice of the satire are
indisputable ; and if it be true, as I am told, that the Re-
hearsal does not now make a good acting play, the fact

i! I
I

i ,

^H?'

^\iii

DRYDEN.

[oiup.

docs not bear favourable tostiinony to the (Miltiue and re-
ceptive powers of modeni audiences. But tlierc were many
ii'asons why Dryden should take the satire very coolly, as
in fact he did. As he says, with his customary proud liu-
inility, "liis bettors wore much more concerned than liim-
self ;" and it seems inj,dily probable that JJuckingliam's co-
adjutors, confidinor in jiis oood nature or his inability to
detect tlie liberty, had actually introduced not a few traits
of his own into this singularly composite portrait. In the
second place, the farce was what would bo now called an
advertisement, and a very good one. Nothing can be a
-reatcr mistaki; than to say or to think that the Rehearsal
killed heroic plays. It did nothing of the kind, Dryden
himself going on writing them for some years until his
own fancy made him cease, and others continuing still
longer. There is a play of Crowne's, CalUjula, in which
many of the scenes are rhymed, (biting as late as 1G98,
and the general cliaracter of the heroic play, ii not the
rhymed form, continued almost unaltered. Certainly Dr\ -
den's equanimity was very little disturbed. Buckingbain
he paid off in kind long afterwards, and his (irace im-
mediately proceeded, by his answer, to show how little he
can have liad to do witii the Rehearsal. To Sprat and
Clifford no allusions that I know of arc to be found in
his writings. As for Butler, an honourable mention in a
letter to Lawrence Hyde shows how little acrimony lie felt
towards him. Indeed, it may be said of Dryden that he
was at no ti.ne toucliy about personal attacks. It was
only when, as Shadwell subsequently did, the assailants be-
came outrageous in their abuse, and outstepped the bounds
of fair literary warfare or when, as in Blackmore's case
there was some singular ineptitude in the fashion of the
attack, that he condescended to reply.

lU.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

It is all the more surprising that ho should, at no great
distance of time, liavc engaged gratuitously in a contest
which brought liim no honour, and in which his allies
were quite unworthy of him. Elkunah Settle was one of
Rochester's innumerable Icd-poets, and was too utterly be-
neath contempt to deserve even Rochester's spite. The
character of Docg, ten years later, did Settle complete
justice, ric had a " blundering kind of melody " about
him, but absolutely nothing else. However, a heroic play
of his, the Empress of Morocco, had considerable vogue for
some incomprehensible reason. Dryden allowed himself
to be drawn by Crowne and Shadwcll into writing with
them a pamphlet of criticisms on the piece. Settle re-
plied by a study, as we should say nowadays, of the very
vulnerable Conquest of Granada. This is the only in-
stance in which JJrydcn went out f^l iV. way to attack any
one; and even in this instanc Settle aad given some
cause by an allusion of a contcm )tucus Id'.- in his preface.
But as a rule the laureate showe.' himsc'/ proof against
much more venomous criticisms th;; any that Elkanah was
capable of. It is perhaps not uncharitable to suspr t that
the preface of the Empress of Morocco bore to some ex-
tent the blame of the Rehearsal, which it must be remem-
bered was for years amplified and rc-edited with parodies
of fresh plays of Dryden's as they appeared. If this were
the case it would not be the only instance of such a trans-
ference of irritation, iiiid it would explain Dryden's other-
wise inexplicable conduct. His attack on Settle is, from
a strictly literary point of view, one of his most unjustifia-
ble acts. The pamphlet, it is true, is said to have been
mainly "Starch .lohnny" Crowne's, and the character of
its strictures is quite different from Dryden's broad and
catholic manner of censuring. But the adage, " tell me

I !

III

I . il:-l

DRYDEX.

"i If',

(' II

[chap.

with whom you live," is peculiarly applicable in such a
case, and Dryden must be held responsible for the assault,
whether its venom be really due to hiniself, to Crowne, or
to the foul-mouthed libeller of whose virulence the laure-
ate himself was in years to come to have but too familiar
experience.

A very different play in 16V2 gave Dryden almost as
much credit in comedy as the Conquest of Granada in
tragedy. There is, indeed, a tragic or serious underplot
(and a very ridiculous one, too) in Marriaye a la Mode.
But its main interest, and certainly its main value, is comic.
It is Dryden's only original excursion into the realms of
the higher comedy. For his favourite pair of lovers he
here substitutes a quartette. Rhodophil and Doralicc arc
a fashionable married pair, who, without having actually
exhausted their mutual affection, are of opinion that their
character is quite gone if they continue faithful to each
other any longer. Rhodophil accordingly lays siege to
Melantha, a young lady who is intended, though he does
not know this, to marry his friend Palamede, while Pala-
mede, deeply distressed at the idea of matrimony, devotes
himself to Doralice. The cross purposes of this quartette
are admirably related, and we are given to understand that
no harm comes of it all. But in Doralice and Melantha
Dryden has given studies of womankind quite out of his
usual line. Melantha is, of course, far below Millamant,
but it is not certain that that delightful creation of Con-
greve's genius does not owe something to her. Doralicc,
on the other hand, has ideas as to the philosophy of flirta-
tion which do her no little credit. It is a thousand pities
that the play is written in the language of the time, which
makes it impossible to revive and difficult to read without
disgust.

%■'

[chap.

ni.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

3 in such a

the assault,

Crowne, or

e the laure-

too familiar

1 almost as
Granada in
3 underplot
a la Mode.
10, is comic.
3 realms of
f lovers he
)oralice arc
ng actually
1 that their
ful to each
^s siege to
>h he does
while Pala-
ny, devotes
s quartette
rstand that
1 Melantha
out of hia
Millamant,
m of Con-
Doralice,
y of ilirta-
saiid pities
line, which
id without

Nothinsf of this kind can or need be said about the
play which followed, the Assignation. It is vulgar, coarse,
and dull; it was damned, and deserved it; while its suc-
cessor, Amboijna, is also deserving of the same epithets,
though being a mere play of ephemeral interest, and serv-
ing its turn, it was not damned. The old story of the
Amboyna massacre — a bad enough story, certainly — was
simply revived in order to excite the popular wrath against
the Dutch.

The dramatic production which immediately succeeded
these is one of the most curious of Dryden's perform-
ances. A disinclination to put himself to the trouble of
designing a wholly original composition is among the most
noteworthy of his literary characteristics. No man fol-
lowed or copied in a more original manner, but it always
seem& to have been a relief to him to have something to
follow or to copy. Two at least of his very best produc-
tions — All for Love and Palamon and Arcite — are spe-
cially remarkable in this respect. We can hardly say ^hat
the State of Innocence ranks with either of these ; yet it
has considerable merits — merits of which very few of
those who repeat the story about " tagging Milton's verses "
are aware. As for that story itself, it is not particularly
creditable to the good manners of the elder poet. " Ay,
young man, you may tag my verses if you will," is the
traditional reply which Milton is said to have made to
Drydcii's request for pcrmissiou to write the opera. The
question of Dryden's relationship to Milton and his early
opinion of Paradise Lost is rather a question for a Life of
Milton than for the present pages : it is sufficient to say
that, with his unfailing recognition of good work, Dryden
undoubtedly appreciated Milton to the full long before
Addison, as it ie vulgarly held, taught the British public

DRYDEN.

\^CHAP.

to admire him. As for the State of Innocence itself, the
conception of such an opera has sometimes been derided
as preposterous — a derision which seems to overlook the
fact tliat Milton was himself, in some degree, indebted to
an Italian dramatic original. The piece is not wholly in
rhyme, but contains some very fine passages.

The time was approaching, however, wlien Dryden was
to quit his *' long-loved mistress Rhyme," as far as dra-
matic writing was concerned. These words occur in the
prologue to Aurengzche, which appeared in 16V5. It would
appear, indeed, that at this time Dryden was thinking of
deserting not merely rhymed plays, but play-writing alto-
gether. The dedication to Mulgrave contains one of sev-
eral allusions to his well-known plan of writing a great
lieroic poem. Sir George Mackenzie had recently put
him upon the plan of reading through most of the earlier
English poets, and he had done so attentively, with the
result of aspiring to the epic itself. But he still continued
to write dramas, though yhirenffzche was his last in rhyme,
at least wholly in rhyme. It is in some respects a very
noble play, free from the rants, the preposterous bustle,
and the still more preposterous length of the Conquest of
Granada, while possessing most of the merits of that sin-
gular work in an eminent degree. Even Dryden hardly
ever went farther in cunning of verse than in some of the
passages of Aiirengzchc, such as that well-known one which
seems to take up an echo of Macbeth :

" When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat.
Yet, fooled with hope, iiioii favour the deceit,
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow's falser than the former liay,
Lies worse, and while it says, we shall he blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

ce itself, the
een derided
verlook the
indebted to
»t wholly ia

Dryden was
far as dra-
)ccur in the
>. It would
thinking of
.riting alto-
onc of sev-
ing a great
jcently put
' the earlier
y, with the
1 continued
t in rhyme,
ects a very
ous bustle,
Jonqucst of
of that sin-
den hardly
ome of the
one which

•fS

;t.

Ill,] PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY. 67

Strange cozenage ! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain,
And from the dregs of life think to reeeivo
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this cheniic gold
Which fools us young and beggars us when old."

There is a good deal of moralizing of this melancholy
kind in the play, the characters of which are drawn with
a serious completeness not previously attempted by the
author. It is perhaps the only one of Dryder's which,
with very little alteration, might be acted, at least as a
curiusity, at the present day. It is remarkable that the
structure of the verse in the play itself would have led to
the conclusion that Dryden was about to abandon rhyme.
There is in Aurcmjzehc a great tendency towards cnjambe-
meut ; and as soon as this tendency gets the upper hand,
a recurrence to blank vevse is, in English dramatic writing,
tolerably certain. For the intonation of English is not,
like the intonation of French, such that rhyn)e is an abso-
lute necessity to distinguish verse from prose ; and where
this necessity does not exist, rhyme must always appear
to an intelligent critic a more or less impertinent intrusion
in dramatic poetry. Indeed, the main thing which had
for a time converted Dryden and others to the use of the
couplet in drama was a ciu'ious notion that blank verso
was too easy for long and dignified compositions. It was
thought by others that the secret of it had been lost, and
that the choice was practically between bad blank verse
and good rhyme. In AU for Love Dryden very shortly
showed, amhnlaudo, that this notion was wholly ground-
less. From this time forward he was faithful to the model
he had now ado{)ted, and — which was of the greatest im-

povtance — he induced others to be faithful too. Had it
E

1 '

1 i

4fs

(f i}

t .,

/11

DRYDEX.

[chap.

not been for this, it is almost certain that Vctiice Preserved
would liave been in rhyme ; that is to say, il^at it would
have been spoilt. In this same year, 1675, a publisher,
BeJitley (of whom Dry den afterwards spoke with consid-
erable bitterness), brought out a play called The Mistaken
I/iishand, which is stated to have been revised, and to have
had a scene added to it by Dryden. Dryden, however,
definitely disowned it, and I cannot think tlmt it is in any
part his ; thouo;h it is fair to say that some good judges,
notably Mr. Swinburne, think differently.' Nearly three
years passed without anything of Dryden's appearing, and
at hist, at the end of 1077, or the beginning of 1678, ap-
peared a play as much better than Aurenr/zcbc as Aurenq-
zcbe was better than its forerunnei's. This was All for
Love,\n^ first drama, in blank verse, and his "only play
written for himself." More will be said later on the cu-
rious fancy which made him tread in the very steps of
Shakspeare, It is sufficient to say now that the attempt,
apparently foredoomed to hopeless failure, is, on the con^
trary, a great success. Antony ami Cleopatra and All for

' Tlie list of Dryden's spurious or doubtful works is not largo or
important. IJut a note of Popys, mentioning a play of Dryden en-
titled IauI'h's d la Mode, which was acted and damned in 1G08, has
puzzled the conimontators. There is no trace of this Laillra u la
Mode. IJiit Jfr. E. W. Gosse has in his collection a play entitled The
Mall, or I'hc Modinh Lovcn, which he thinks may possibly be the very
"mean thing" of Pepys' scornful mention. The difference of title
is not fatal, for Sanniel was not over-accurate in such matters. The
play is anonymous, but the preface is signed J. D. The date is 1 074,
and the printing is oxccrablc, and evidently not revised by the author,
whoever he was. Notwithstanding this, the prologue, the epilogue,
and a song contain some vigorous verso and phrase sometimes not a
little suggestive of Dryden. In the entire absence of external t.i-
dence eonnccting him with it, the question, though one of much in-
tercst, is perhaps not one to be dealt with at any length here.

i-il

[chap.

e Preserved
it it would

publislier,
itli consid-
c Mh taken
nd to liavc
1, liowcver,
t is in any
od judges,
.'arly three
\'U'iiifr, and

1678, ap-
is Aurenff-
is All for
only play
)n the cu-
y steps of
3 attempt,
I the con-
lid All for

lot liirgo or
Drydfu cn-
ti 1C68, lias
ImiVivs u la
'iititled 77ic
be the very
lice of title
tters. The
iitois 1074,
the author,
e epilogue,
times not a
tterniil ni-
•f much in-
ere.

n..]

TERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

Love, when tlioy arc contrasted, only sliow by the contrast
the difference of kind, not the difference of degree, be-
tween their Avriters. The heroic conception has here, in
all probability, as favourable exposition given to it as it is
capable of, and it must be admitted that it makes a not un-
favourable show even without the "dull sweets of rhyme"
to drug the audience into good humour with it. The fa-
mous scene between Antony and Ventidius divides with
the equally famous scene in Bon Scbasticm between Sebas-
tian and Dorax the palm among Dryden's dramatic efforts.
But as a whole the play is, I think, superior to Don Sebas-
tian. The blank verse, too, is particularly interesting, be-
cause it v;as almost its author's first attempt at that crux;
and because, for at least thirty years, hardly any tolerable
blank verse — omitting of course Milton's— had been writ-
ten by any one. The model is excellent, and it speaks
Dryden's unerring literary sense, that, fresh as he was from
the study of Paradise Lost, and great a'i was his admira-
tion for its author, he does not for a moment attempt to
confuse the epic and the tragic modes of the style. All
for Love was, and deserved to be, successful. The play
which followed it, Limhcrham, was, and deserved to be,
damned. It must be one of the most astonishing things
to any one who has not fully grasped the weakness as well
as the strength of Dryden's character, that the noble mat-
ter and manner of Aurenr/zcbe and All for Love should
have been followed by this filihy stuff. As a play, it is by
no means Dryden's worst piece of work; but, in all other
respects, the less said about it the better. During the time
of its production the author collaborated with Lee in writ-
ing the tragedy of CEdipus, in wliicli both the friends are
to be seen almost at tl.jir best. On Dryden's part, the
lyric incantation scenes are perhaps most noticeable, and

fl)

It I

DRYDEN.

[chap.

Lee miaglcs throughout liis usual bombast with his usual
splcnlid poetry. If any one thinlcs this expression hy-
perbolical, I shall only ask hiui to read CEdijms, instead
of taking the traditioiial witticisms about Lee for gospel.
T.'tc-re i.5 of course plenty of —

" Let gods meet gods and jostle in the dark,"

and the other fantasljf follies, into which "metaphysical''
poetry and "heroic" plays had seduced men vi talent,
and sometimes of genius; but these can be excused when
they load to such a pasj>agc as that where G'^dipus ciies—

" Tliou coward ! yet
Art living? canst nof, wilt not ^Mv). Ou' road
To the great paluci^ oi' -nagnifictMc death,
Though thousand ways lead to his th.ousanl doors
Which day and night ari still unbarred fur all."

(E(Vtpu>' led to a quarrel with the i>layers of LJio Kiiint's
TheaLr", <)f tho merits of which, as wo only have a one-
sided iUatc)nei)t, it is not easy to judge. But Dryden
seems to I:;?vf formed a connexion about this time with
the other -^i '' luke's company, and by them (April, 1079)
ft "potboiling" adaptation of Troilus and Cnmda was
brought out, which might much better have bco;> left un-
attemptcd. Two years afterwards appeared the iast play
(leaving operas and the scenes contributed to the Duke of
Gvi.-^e out of the question) that Dryden was to wiitc for
many years. This was The Spanitsh Friar, a popular piece,
possessed of a good deal of merit, from the technical point
of view of the play-wright, but vhich I think has been
somewhat over-rated, as far as literary excellence is con-
cerned. The principal character is no doubt amusing, but
ho is heavily indebted to Falstaff on the one hand, and to
Fletcher's Lopez on the other ; and he reminds the reader

FACULTE DES ARTS
COLLEGE UNIVERSITAIRE

SHERBROOKE

^y-^"
1:*^'

[CIUP.

itli liis usual
prcssion hy-
i2)us, instead
e for gospel.

I- "

ctaphysical''

211 (if tfslcnt,
xciised whoi)
ipiis t'iics — '

Joon
ill."

f tlie Kiuii's
liavo a one-
nut Dryclen
is time with
April, 1G79)
7ress!da was
>enn left un-
hc last play
tlic Duke of
to write for
opular piece,
;linical point
ik lias been
enco is con-
imusing, but
liantl, and to
Is the reader

I.I.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

of both his ancestors in a way whicli cannot but be un-
favourable to himself. The play is to nie most interesting
because of the light it throws on Dryden's grand charac-
teristic, the consummate craftsmanship with which he could
throw himself into the popular feeling of the hour. This
"Protestant play" is perhaps his mc'^ notable achieve-
ment of the kind in drama, and it may be admitted that
some other achievements of the same kind are less cred-
itable.

Allusion has more than once been made to the very high
quality, from the literary point of view, of the songs which
appear in nearly all the plays of this long list. They con-
stitute Dryden's chief title to a high rank as a composer
of strictly lyrical poetry ; and there are indeed few things
which better illustrate the range of his genius than these
exquisite snatches. At first sight, it would not seem by
any means likely that a poet whose greatest triumphs were
won in the fields of satire and of argumentative verse
should succeed in such things. Ordinary lyric, especially
of the graver and more elaborate kind, might not surprise
us from such a man. But the song-gift is somethino; dis-
tinct from the faculty of ordinary lyrical composition ; and
there is certainly nothing which necessarily infers it in the
jiointed declamation and close-ranked argument with which
the name of Dryden is oftenest associated. But the later
seventeenth century had a singular gift for such perform-
ance — a kind of swan-song, it might be thought, before
the death-like slumber which, with few and brief intervals,
was to rest upon the English lyric for a hundred years.
Dorset, Rochester, even Mulgrave, wrote singularly fasci-
nating songs, as smooth and easy as Moore's, and with far
less of the commonidace and vulgar about them. Aphra
Behn was an admirable, and Tom Durfey a far from des-

, r

i* f!

IP/:,]

DRYDEN.

[chap

'»

I I

picablc, songster. Even among the common rnn of play-
wrights, who have left no lyrical and not much literary

reputation, scraps and snatches which have the true sonj:
stamp are not unfrcquently to be found. But Dryden
excelled them all in the variety of his cadences and the
ring of his lines. Nowhere do we feel more keenly the
misfortune of his licence of language, which prevents too
many of these charming songs from being now quoted or
sunj;. Their abundance may be illustrated by the fact
that a single play. The Mock Astrologer, contains no less
than four songs of the very first lyrical merit. "You
ciianned me not with that fair face," is an instance of the
well-known common measure wliich is so specially Eng-
lish, and which is poetry or doggrcl according to its ca-
dence. "After the pangs of a desperate lover" is one
of the rare examples of a real dactylic metre in English,
were the dactyls are not, as usual, equally to be scanned
as anap;osts. " Calm was the even, and clear was the sky,"
is a perfect instance of what may be called archness in
song; and "Celimcna of my heart," though not much
can be said for the matter of it, is at least as much a met-
rical triumph as any of the others. Nor arc the other
plays less rich in similar work. The song beginning
" Farewell, ungrateful traitor," gives a perfect example of
a metre which has been used more than once in our own
daj's with great success; and "Long between Love and
Fear Phyllis tormented," which occurs in The Assignation,
gives yet another example of the singular fertility with
which Dryden devised and managed measures suitable for
song. His lyrical faculty impelled him Jilso — especially
in his early plays — to luxuriate in incantation scenes, lyr-
ical dialogues, and so forth. These have been ridiculed,
not altogether unjustly, in The Rehearsal ; but the incau-

m.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

tation scene in (Edipus is very far above the average of
such things ; and of not a few passages in King Arthur
at h?ast as nuicli may be said.

Dryden's energy vas so entirely occupied with play-
writing during this period that he had hardly, it would
appear, time or desire to undertake any other work. To-
wards the middle of it, however, when he had, by poems
and plays, already established himself as the greatest liv-
ing poet— Milton being out of the question— he began to
be asked for prologues and epilogues by other poets, or
bv the actors on the occasion of the revival of old plays.
These prologues and epilogues have often been comment-
ed upon as one of the most curious literary phenomena of
the time. The custom is still, on special occasions, spar-
ingly kept up on the stage ; but the prologue, and still
more the epilogue, to the Westminster play are the chief
living representatives of it. It was usual to comment in
these pieces on circumstances of the day, political and oth-
er. It was also usual to make personal appeals to the au-
dience for favour and support very much in the manner
of the old Trouveres when they commended their wares.
But more than all, and worst of all, it was usual to indulge
in the extremest licence both of language and meaning.
The famous epilogue— one of Dryden's own— to Tyran-
nic Love, in which Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn, being left for dead
on the stage, in the character of St. Catherine, and being:
about to be carried out by the scene-shifters, exclaims —

" Hold ! arc you mad ? you damned confounded dog,
I am to rise and speak the epilogue,"

is only a very mild sample of these licences, upon which
Macaulay has commented with a severity which is for
once absolutely justifiable. There was, however, no poet

»' I

DRYDEX.

i ii

i:i

! :»

l\ I

'.ir

[chap.

wlio liatl the knack of telling allusion to passinir events
as DryJen had, and he was early engaged as a prologue
writer. The first composition that we have of this kind
written for a play not his own is the prologue to Alhuma-
zar, a cnrious piece, believed, but not known, to liave been
written by a certain Tonikis in James the First's reign,
and r.Kiking among the many whicji have been attributed
with more or Ics ;^ r ;mM., i,.ss) show of rea.son to Nuak-
speare. Drylen's knowl dgc of the early I-:nglish drama
was not exhaustive, and he here makes a charge of plagi-
arism against IJcn Jonson, for wliich there is in ail proba-
bility nut the least ground. The piece contains, however,
as do most of these vigorous, f]; ' ncqual composi-
tions, many fine linos. The next production or tlic kind
not intended for a play of his own is tlic prologue t. the
first performance of the king's servants, after tliey had
been burnt out of their theatre, and this is followed by
many others. In 107.3 a prologue to the University of
Oxford, spoken when the i<ilent Woman was acted, is the
first of many of the same kind. It has been mentionod
that Dryden speaks slightingly uf these UnivLi-sity prol-
ogues, but they arc among his best pieces of the class, and
are for the most part entirely fn .■ from the ribaldry with
which he was but too often wont to alloy them. In these-
years pieres intended to accompany Carlell's Arviraf/us
and Philici:f, Etiiorege's Ifan of Mod, . Charles Davenant's
Circe, Lee's Mithri,late^, Shadwell's True Widow, Lee's
Cccsar Z?o?Y//a, Tate's Loyal General, and not . few others
occur. A specimen of the style in which Dryden exrelled
so remarkably, and whicli is in itself so utterly dead, may
fairly be given were, and nothii can be l)etter for the
purpose than the iiiost famous prologue to ihc Upiversitv
of Oxford. This is the prologue in which the poet at

[chap.

HI.]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY.

ssinjr events

a prologue
of this kind
to Alhuma-
o liavc been
''irst's reign,
II attrilmted
on to Nliak-
glisli drama
ge of plagi-
n all proba-
tis, however,
al composi-
or tlic kind
oguc ti the
•r they had
Followed bv
niversitv of
icted, is the

mentioned
crsity i)rol-
c class, and
baldry with
. In these

Arviniffus
Davcnant's
/'(low, Lee's

few others
[en exeelled
' dead, may
ter for the
Upivcrsity
he poet at

once displays his exquisite capacity for flattery, liis com-
mand over versification, and liis singular -itipathy to his
own Alma Mater; an antipathy which, ii ay be pointed
out, is confirmed by the fact of his seeking his master's
degree rather at Lambeth than at Cambridge. Whether
any solution to the enigma can be found in Dennis's re-
mark that the "younger fry" at Cambridge preferred Set-
tle to their own champion, it would be vain to attempt to
determine. The following piece, however, may be taken
as a fair specimen of the more decent prologue ')f the
later seventeenth century :

" Though actors cannot nim-h of loarnuig boast,
Of all who want it, wc admire it most:
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are allied to wit.
We speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore,
Like those wlio touch up<ii' tVe golden shore;
Betwixt our judges can distiuctio make.
Discern how much, and why, oui poems take;
Mark if tlic fools, or men of sense, rejoice ;
Whether the applause be only sound or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly,
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy :
We doubt that scene which docs their wonder raise,
And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.
Judge, then, if we who act, and they who write,
Shoi;:d not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grossly ; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit ;
The r ly finger lays on every blot ;
Kn( 'lat siiould justly please, and what should not.

Nature iierself lies open to your view.
You judge, b) ..er, what draught of her is true.
Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint.
Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.

I I

60 DRYDEN. [chap.

I]ut by the Siicre<l genius of this place,

By every Muse, by each domestic grace,

Bo kind to wit, which but endeavours well,

And, whore you judge, jtrcsunies not to excel.

Our poets iiither for adoption come.

As nations sued to be made free of Rome ;

Not in the suffragating tribes to stand.

But in your utmost, last, provincial band.

If his andiition may tliose hopes pursue,

AVho with religion loves your arts and you,

Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,

Than hi- wn mother-university.

Thebes u.d his green, unknowing youth engage;

He chooses Athens in his riper age."

During this busy period, Dryden's dnnicstic life had
been omparatively uneventful. Ilis eldest son hud been
born either in 16G5 or in IGGO, it seems not ckvar which.
Ilis second son, John, was born a year or two later ; and
the third, lilrasinus Henry, in May, 16G9. These three
sons were all the children Lady Elizabeth brought him.
The two eldest went, like their father, to Westminster,
and had their schoolboy troubles there, as letters of Drydcn
still extant show. During the whole period, except in l»is
brief visits to friends and patron-^ in the country, he was
established in the liouse in Gerrard Street, which is identi-
fied with his name.* While the children were young, his
means must have been sufficient, and, for those days, con-

' A house in Fetter Lane, now divided into two, bears a plate stating
that Dryden lived there. The plate, as I was informed by the pres-
ent occupiers, replaces a stone slab or inscription which was destroy-
ed in some alterations not very many years ago. I know of no ref-
erence to this house in any book, nor docs Mr. J. C. Collins, who
called my attention to it. If Drydcn ever lived here, it must have
been betweon his residence with Ilcrringraan and his marriage.

[CIIAP,

U..]

PERIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITV.

II,

xcel.
c;

)U,

mgagc ;

jstlc life had
son liad been
t clear which,
ivo later; and

These three
brought him.
Westminster,
crs of I )ryden

except in liis
untry, lie was
liich is identi-
»re young, his
).sc days, con-
's a plate stating
led by the prcs-
ich was dcstroy-
know of no ref-
. C. Collins, who
re, it must have

raaniage.

siderable. AVith his patrimony iiioliided, Malono has cal-
culated that for great part of the time his income must
have been fully 700/. a year, e<jual in purchasing power
to 2000/. a year in Malone's time, and probably to nearer
3000/. now. In June, 10G8, the degree of Master of Arts,
to which, for some reason or other, Dryden had never pro-
ceeded at Cajubridgc, was, at the recommendation of the
king, conferred upon him by the Archbishop of Canter-
bury. Two years later, in the summer of 1G70, he was
made poet laureate and historiographer royal.' Davenant,
the last holder of the laureateship, had died two years
previously, and Howell, the well-known author of the Upis-
tolcc Ho-EHamc, and the late holder of the historiogra-
phership, four years before. When the two api>ointment3
were conferred on Dryden, the salary was fixed in the
patent at 200/. a year, besides the butt of sack which the
economical James afterwards cut olT, and arrears since
Davcnant's death were to be paid. In the same year, 1G70,
the death of his mother increased his inci^me by the 20/.
a year which had been payable to lier from the North-
amptonshire property. From 1GG7, or thereabouts, Dry-
den had been in possession of a valuable partnership with
the players of the king's house, for wIkmu he contracted to
write three plays a year in consideration of a share and a
(juarter of the profits. Dryden's part of the contract was
not performed, it seems ; but the actors declare that, at any
rate for some years, their part was, and that the pox-t's
receipts averaged from 300/. to 400/. a year, besides which
he had (sometimes, at any rate) the third night, and (we

' The patent, given by Malone, is dated Aug. 18. Mr. W. Noel
Sainsbury, of the Record OlFice, has pointed out to nie a preliminary
warrant to " our Attorney or Solicitor Generall " to " prepare a Bill "
for the purpose dated April 13.

f.1'

1:1

DRVDEX.

[chap.

I >

may suppose always) the bookseller's fee for tlic copyriirht
of the printed play, which too-ether averaged 100/. a play
or more. Lastly, at the extreme end of the peri(»d most
probably, but certainly before 1G79, the king granted him
an additional pension of 100/. u year. The ini[.ortance
of this pension is more than merely pecuniary, for this is
the grant, the eontirmation of which, after some delay, by
James, was taken by Macanlay as the wages of a[)osta'sy.

The pecuniary prosperity of this time was accompanied
by a corresponding abundance of the good things whicli
generally go with wealth. iJryden was familiar w^ith most
of the literary nobles and gentlemen of Charles's court,
and Dorset, Etherege, Mulgrave, Sedicy, and liochestcr
were among his special intimates or patrons, whichever
word may be preferred. The somewhat questionable boast
which he made of this familiarity Nemesis was not long
in punishing, and the instrument which Nemesis ciiosc was
Rochester himself. It might be said of this famous per-
son, whom Etherege has hit off so admirably in his
Dorimant, that he was, except in intellect, the worst of all
the courtiers of the time, because he was one of the most
radically unamiable. It was truer of him even than of
Pope, that he was sure to play some monkey trick or
other on those who were unfortunate enough to be his in-
timates. He liad relations with most of the literary men
of Ins time, but those relations almost always ended badlv.
Sometimes he sot them at each other like dogs, or procured
for on(( some court favour certain to annoy a rival ; some-
times ho satirized them coarsely in his foul-mouthed
poems; sometimes, as we shall sec, he forestalled the
Chevalier do Rohan in his method of repartee. As early
as 1075 Rochester had disobliged Dryden, though the ex-
act amount of the injury has certainly been exaggerated

III.]

PEKIOD OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITY,

by Malone, whom most bioofrapliers, cxee[)t Mr. Cliiistio,
liavc followed. There is little doubt (thoH^'h Mr. Christie
thinks otherwise) that one of the chief functions of the
poet laureate was to compose masques and such like pieces
to be acted by the court ; indeed, this appears to have
been the main reo'ular duty of the office at least in the
seventeenth century. That Crowne should have been
charged with the cf>inposition of Calisfo was, therefore, a
slight to Dryden. Crowne was not a bad play-wrioht.
He mi^iit perhaps, by a planiarisui from Lamb's criticism
on lleywood, be called a kind of prose Dryden, and a
characteristic saying of Dryden's, which luis been handed
down, seems to show that the latter recootiized the fact.
But the addition to the charge against Ivoche>ter that ho
afterwards interfered to prevent an epilogue, which Dryden
wrote for Crowne's piece, from being recited, rests upon
absolutely no authority, and it is not even certain that the
epilogue referred to was actuallv written by Drvdeu.

In the year 1()79, however, Dryden had a much more
serious taste of llochester's malevolence. He had recently
become very intimate with Lord Mulgrave, who liad quar-
relled with Ilochester. IVrsonal courage was not lloches-
ter's forte, and he had shown the white feather when
challenged by Mulgrave. Shortly afterwards there was
circulated in manuscri[)t an AW^// nn Satin; containino-
virulent attacks on the king, on Uochester, and the Dncli-
cssos of Cleveland and Portsmouth. How any one could
over have suspected that the poem was Dryden's it is dif-
ficult to understand. To begin with, hi; never at any time
in his career lent himself as a If'ed literary bravo to any
private person. In the second place, that ho should at-
tack the king, from whom he derived the greatest part of
his income, was inconceivable. Thirdly, uo literary iu.h>'o

F 'I

i'l

it'

DRYDEX.

[chap. ui.

could for one moment connect liini with the shambling
doggrcl lines which distinguish the Essay on Satire in its
original form. A very few couplets liave some faint ring
of Drydcii's verse, but not more tium is perceivable in the
work of many other poets and poetasters of tlie time.
Lastly, Mulgrave, who, with some bad qualities, was truth-
ful and fearless enough, expressly absolves Dryden as be-
ing not only innocent, but ignorant of the whole matter.
However, Rochester chose to identify him as the author,
and in letters still extant almost expressly states his belief
in the fact, and threaten-; to " leave the repartee to Black
Will with a cudgel." On the 18th December, as Dryden
was going home at night, through Hose Alloy, Covent
Garden, he was attacked and beaten by masked men.
Fifty pounds reward (d'-posited at what is now called
Childs' Bank) was offered for the discovery of the offend-
ers, and afterwards a pardon was promised to the actual
crim; als if they would divulge the name of tliiir employ-
er, but nothing came of it. The intelligent critics of the
time affected to consider the matter a disgrace to Dryden,
and few of the subsequent attacks on him fail to notice
it triumphantly. How frequent those attacks soon be-
came the next chapter will show.

1- :

' ('

[chap. ui.

shambling
'ath'C in its
! faint ring
able in the
the time,
was truth-
lion as bc-
ole matter.
:ho author,
s his belief
;c to Black
as Dryden
Icy, Covont
sked men.
now called
the olfend-
thc actual
iir cmploy-
itics of the
to DrydcTi,
1 to notice
s soon be-

CHAPTER IV.

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

In the year 1G80 a remarkable change came ovcrtliw char-
acter of Dryden's work. Had he died in this year (and lie
had already reached an age at which many men's work is
done) he would not at the present time rank very hiijh even
among the second class of English poets. In pure poe-
try he had published nothing of the slightest consc(iuenco
for fourteen years, and though there was much admirable
work in his dramas, they could as wholes only be praised
by allowance. Of late years, too, he liad given np the
style— -rhymed heroic drama — wliich he had speciallv
made Ins own. lie had been for some time casting about
for an opportunity of again taking up strictly poetical
work ; and, as usually happens with the favourites of fort-
une, a better opportunity than any he could have elaborated
for himself was soon presented to him. The epic poem
which, as lie tells us, lie intended to write would doubtless
have contained many fine i)assages and much splendid
versification ; but it almost certainly would not have been
the best thing in its kind even in its own language. The
scries of satirical and didactic poems which, in the space
of less than seven years, ho was now to produce, occupies
the position which the epic would almost to a certainty
have failed to attain. Not only is there nothing better

m itii

DRYDEX.

[chap.

of their own kind in Eni;;lisli, hut it may almost bo s:iid
that there .s notliitiij; better in an\ other literary laiiii'iiad-e.
Satire, argument, and exposition may possibly 1)e lialf-
spnrious kinds of poetry — that is a qiicstiou wliich need
not 1)0 argued here, lint among satirical and didactic
poems Absalom and Achitnphcl, The Medal, Macjlecknoe,
JRelujio Ldii-i, The Hind and the Panther, hold the first
place in c^ uijtany with vciv few rivals. In a certain kind
of satire to be detined presently they have no rival at all ;
and in a certain kind of argumentative exposition they
have no rival except in Lucretius.

It is probable that, until he was far advanced in middle
life, Dryden had paid but little attention to political and
religious controversies, though he was well enough versed
in their terms, and had a logical and almost scholastic
mind. 1 have already endeavoured to show the unlikeli-
ness of his ever having been a very fervent lioundhead,
and I do not thiidc that there is much more ])robability
of his having been a very fem'cnt Royalist. His literary
work, his few friendships, and the tavern-coffeehouso life
which took up so much of the time of the men of that
day, probably occupied him suiliciently in the days of his
earlier manhood. He was loyal enough, no doubt, not
merely in lip-loyalty, and was perfectly ready to furnish
an Auihoyna or anything else that was wanted; but for
the tlrst eighteen years of Charles the Second's reign, tho
nation at large felt little interest, of the active kind, in po-
litical questions. J)ryd(!n almost always reflected the sym-
pathies of tho nation at large. The I'opish l*Iot, however,
and the dangerous excitement which the misgoverninent of
Charles, on the one hand, and the machinations of Shaftes-
bury, on tho other, produced, fouml him at an age when
serious subjects are at any rate, by courtesy, supposed U)

i''

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC TOEMS.

,'. t1

possess greater attractions tlian tliey exert in youtb. Tra-
(litiuii has it that he uas more or less directly encoiirat^eJ
by Charles to write one, if not two, of the poems which in
a few months made him the first satirist in Europe. It is
possible, for Charles had a real if not a very lively interest
in literature, was a sound enough critic in his way, and
had anii»lo shrewdness to perceive the advantage to his
own cause which he might gain by enlisting J)ryden.
However this may be, Absalom and Achilupliel was pub-
lished about the middle of November, 1G81, a week or so
before the grand jury threw out the bill against Shaftes-
bury on a charge of high treason. At no time before,
and hardly at any time since, did party-spirit run higher;
and thougii the immediate object of the poem was defeat-
ed by the fidelity of the brisk boys of the city to their
leader, there is no (jucstion that the poem worked power-
fully among the infiuences which after the most desperate
struggle, short of open warfare, in which any English sov-
ereign has ever been engaged, fitially won for Charles the
victory over the Exclusionists, by means at least ostensibly
constitutional and legitimate. It is, however, with the lit-
erary rather than with the political aspect of the matter
that we are here concerned.

The story of Absalom and Achitophel has obvious capac-
ities for political adaptation, and it had been more than
once so used in the course of the century, indeed (it would
appear), in the course of the actual political strug<i;le in
which Dryden now engaged. Like many other of the
greatest writers, Dryden was wont to carry out Moliere's
principle to the fullest, and to care very little for technical
originality of plan or main idea. The form which his
poem look was also in many ways suggested by the pre-
vailing literary tastes of the day. Both in France and in
F 4* ti

( ;.

DRVDEX.

[chap.

England the character or portrait, a set description of a
given person in prose or verse, had for sonic time been
fasliionable. Clarendon in the one country. Saint Evre-
mond in the other, liad in particular composed prose por-
traits whleli liave never been surpassed. Drydeii, accord-
ingly, made liis poem little more than a string of such
portraits, connected together by the very slenderest thread
of narrative, and interspersed with occasional speeches in
which the ailments of his own side were put in a light
as favourable, .-nd those of the other in a light as un-
favourable, as possible. He was always very careless of
anything like a regular plot for his poems— a carelessness
rather surprising in a practised writer for the stage. But
he was probably right in neglecting this point. The sub-
jects with which ho dealt wore of too vital an interest to
his readers to allow them to stay and ask the question,
whether the poems had a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Sharp personal satire and biting political denunciation need-
ed no such setting as this— a setting which to all appear-
ance Dryden was as unable as he was unwilling to give.
He could, however, aid did, give other things of much
greater importance. The wonderful comman.l over the
couplet of which he had displayed the beginnings in his
early poems, and which had in twenty years of play-writin(r
been exercised and developed till its owner was in as thor-
ough training as a professional athlete, was the first of
these. The second was a faculty of satire, properlv so
called, which was entirely novel. The third was a faculty
of specious argument in verse, which, as has been said, no
one save Lucretius lias ever c(]ualled ; and which, if it falls
short of the great Roman's in logical exactitude, hardly
falls short of it in poetical ornament, and excels it in a
sort of triumphant vivacity which hurries the reader along,

(

[chap.

)tion of a
time been
lint Evre-
prosc por-
!n, accord-
X of such
est tlircad
)ecclies in
in a iiglit
lit as un-
ari'U'ss of
relessness
ii^e. But
Tiio sub-
iitcrcst to
question,
d an end.
ion nccd-
1 appear-
; to give,
of much
over the
gs in his
y-writing
I as thor-
; first of
•perlr so
!V faculty
said, no
if it fails
i, hardly
< it in a
iv along,

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

, \

whetlier lie will or no. All these three srift

s arc almost in-

ditferenth

^vemplified in the series of poems
discussion, and each of them may deserve a little consid-
eration before we proceed to give account of the poems
themselves.

The versification of English satire before Drydcn had
been almost without exception harsh and rugged. There
are whole passages of Marston and of Donne, as well as
more rarely of Hall, which can only be recognised for verse
by the rattle of the rhymes and by a diligent scansion with
the finger. Something the same, allowing for the influence
of Waller and his school, may be said of Marvcll and even
of Oldham. Meanwhile, the octosyllabic satire of Cleve-
land, Butler, and others, though less violently uncouth than
the deciisyllables, was purposely grotesque. There is some
diflEerence of opinion as to how far the heroic satirists them-
selves were intentionally rugged. Donne, when he chose,
could write with perfect sweetness, and Marston could be
smooth enough in blank verse. It has been thought that
some mistaken classical tradition made the early satirists
adopt their jaw -breaking style, and there may be some-
thing to be said for this; but I think that regard must,
in fairness, also be had to the very imperfect command of
the couplet which they possessed. The languid cadence
of its then ordinary form .as unsuited for satire, and the
satirists had not the art of .-r.^kening and varvino- it.
Hence the only resource was iv/ make it as like prose as
possible. r>ut Drydcn was in no such case ; his native
gifts and his enormous practice in play-writing had m: de
the couplet an natural a vehicle to him f c i.iy form of
discourse as blank verse or as plain prose. T'h' form of
it, too, which he had most affected, was specially suited for
satire. In the first place, this form had, as has already

U:'M

■ y

I'^'ii

W A

)■•

DllYDEX.

[chap.

^/.I

I !>

heen noted, a remarkably varied cadence ; in the second,
its strong antitheses and smart telling hits lent themselves
to personal description and attack with consummate ease.
There are passages of Dryden's satires in which every
couplet has not only the force but the actual sound of a
slap in the face. The rapidity of movement from one
couplet to the other is another remarkable characteristic.
V.wn Pope, master as ho was of verse, often fell into the
fault of isolating his couplets too much, as if ho expected
applause between each, and wished to give time for it.
Dryden's verse, on the other hand, strides along with a
careless Olympian motion, as if the writer were looking
at his victims rather with a kind of good-humoured scorn
than with any elaborate triumph.

This last remark leads us naturally to the second head,
the peculiar character of Dryden's satire itself. In this re-
spect it is at least as much distinguished from its prede-
cessors as in the former. There had been a continuous
tradition among satirists that they must affect immense
mural indignation at the evils they attacked. Juvenal and
still more Persius are probably responsible for this; and
even Dryden's example did not put an end to the practice,
for in the next century it is found in persons upon whom
it sits with singular awkwardness— such as Churchill and
Lloyd. Now, this moral indignation, apt to be rather tire-
some when the subject is purely ethical— Marston is a glar-
ing example of this— becomes quite intolerable when the
subject is political. It never does for the political satirist
to lose his temper, and to rave and rant and denounce with
the air of an inspired prophet. Dryden, and perhaps Dry-
den alone, has observed this rule. As I have just observed,
his manner towards his subjects is that of a cool and not
ill-humoured scorn. They are great scoundrels certainly,

[ciup.

ic second,
Lheinsclves
mate case,
licli every
oiind of a
from one
racteristic.
II into tlio
! expected
nc for it,
\g with a
e lookinjr
ired scorn

ond head,
[n this re-
its prede-
ontinuons
ininiensc
venal and
this ; and
i practice,
•on wlioni
I'chill and
ither tirc-
. is a glar-
when tlic
al satirist
II nee with
laps Dry-
observed,
1 and not
certainly,

.v.]

SATIKICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

but tliey are probably even more contemptible than they
arc vicious. Tiie well-known line —

" They got a villain, and wc lost a fool,"

expresses this attitu<lc admirably, and the attitude in its
turn explains the frantic rage which Dryden's satire pro-
duced in his opponents. There is yet another peculiarity
of this satire in which it stands ab- - 1 a!i)nt\ Most satir-
ists are usually prone to the error ot attackinu; either meri'
types, or else individuals too definitely marked as individ-
uals. The first is the fault of Rci^nier and all the minor
French satirists ; the second is the fault of l*ope. In the
first case the point and zest of the tiling arc apt to be lost,
and the satire becomes a declamation against vice and fol-
ly in the abstract; in the second case a suspicion of per-
sonal pi(|iic comes in, and it is felt that the recjuiremcnt of
art, the disengagement of the general law from the individ-
ual instance, is not sufficiently attended to. Regnier per-
haps only in Macettc, Pope perhaps only in Atticus, escape
this Scylla and this Charybdis ; but Drydcn rarely or nev-
er falls into cither's grasp. His figures are always at once
types and individuals. Zimri is at once Buckingham and
the idle grand seigneur who plays at politics and at learn-
ing; Achitophel at once Shaftesbury and the abstract in-
triguer; Shimei at once Bethel and the sectarian politician
of all days. It is to be noticed, also, that in drawing these
satirical portraits the poet has exercised a singular judgment
in selecting his traits. If Absalom and Achitophel be com-
pared with the re|)lies it called forth, this is especially no-
ticeable. iShadwell, for instance, in the almost incredibly
scurrilous libel which he put forth in answer to the Medal,
accuses Dryden of certain definite misdoings and missay-
ings, most of which are unbelievable, while others are in-

uitmK

DRYDEN.

[chap.

I I

conclusive. Dryden, on the other hand, in the character
of Og, confincb liimsclf in the adroitcst M-ay to ^cn< mlities.
These generalities are not only nuicli more etfectivo, but
also much more difficult of disproval. When, to recur to
the already quoted and typical line attacking the unlucky
Johnson, Dryden says —

" They got a villain, and we lost a fool,"

it is obviously useless for the person assailed to sit down
and write a rejoinder tendin-,^ to prove that he is neither
one nor the other. He might clear himself from the
charge of villainy, but only at the inevitable cost of estab-
lishing that of folly. But when Shadwell, in unquotablo
verses, says to Dryden, on this or that day you did such
and such a discreditable thing, the reply is obvious. In
the first place the charge can be disproved ; in the second
it can be disdained. When Dryden himself makes such
charges, it is always in a casual and allusive way, as if
there were no general dissent as to the truth of his alle-
gation, while he takes care to be specially happy in his
language. The disgraceful insinuation against Forbes,
the famous if irreverent dismissal of Lord Howard of
Escrick —

" And cativ! <.' Nadab lot oblivion damn,
Who -..-s iiow porridge for the paschal lamb,"

justify them.^olve^ by their form if not by their matter.
It has also to be .ioted that Dryden's facts arc rarely dis-
putable. The famous passage in which Settle and Shad-
well arc yoked in a sentence of discriminating damnation
is an admirable example of this. It is absolutely true that
Settle had a certain faculty of writing, though the matter
of his verse was worthless ; and it is absolutely true that

[chap.

character

ena-alitios.
cctivo, but
o recur to
unlucky

• sit down
is neither
from tho
t of cstab-
n quotable
. did such
•ious. In
lie second
akos such
ivay, as if
f his alle-
py in his
t Forbes,
oward of

r matter,
■arcly dis-
nd Shad-
amnation
true that
le matter
true that

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

Slndwell wrote worse, and was n ^ uc respects a .uller
man, than any person of cq lal talent'* placed among Eng-
lish nn of letters. There could not possibly be a more
CciTiplete justification of Macjleckme than tho victim's
complaint that "he ba<l been represented as an Irish-
man, though Dryden kucw per ly well that he had
only once been in Ireland, and thui w < but for a few
hours."

Lastly has to be noticed Dryden's singular faculty of
verse argument. lit was, of course, by no means the <irst
didactic poet of talent in England. Sir John Davies is
usually mentioned specially as his forerunner, and there
were others wh » would deserve notice in a critical history
of English poetry. But Dryden's didactic poems are quite
unlike anything which came before them, and havi r

been api)roached by anything that has come after
Doubtless they prove nothing; indeed, the chief of m,
The Hind and the Panther, is so entirely desultory ii.at it
could not prove anything; but at the same time they have

lemarkable air of proving something. Dryden had, in
reality, a considerai touch of the scholastic in his mind.
He delights at all times in the formulas of the schools,
and his various literary criticisms are frequently very fair
specimens of deductive reasoning. The bent of his mind,
moreover, was of that peculiar kind which delights in ar-
guing a point. Something of this may be traced in the
singular variety, not to say inconsistency, even of his liter-
ary judgments. He sees, for the time being, only the point
which he has set himself to prove, and is quite careless of
the fact that he has proved something very different yes-
terday, and is very likely to prove something different still
to-morrow. But for the purposes of didactic noetry he
had special equipments unconnected with his merely logi-

■''i

M ;J

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; .J.

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DRYDEN.

[chap.

cal power. He ^vas at all times singularly happy and fer-
tile ill the art of illustration, and of concealing the weak-
ness of an argument in the most convincnig way, by a
happy simile or jest. He steered clear of the rock on

which Lucretius has more than once gone nigh to split

the rei)etition of dry formulas and professional terms. In
the Hind and Panther, indeed, the aigument is, in great
part, composed of narrative and satirical portraiture. The
Fable of the Tigeons, the Character of the Buzzard, and a
dozen more such things, certainly prove as little as the
most determined enemy of the belles lettrcs could wish.
But Relir/h Laid, which is our best English didactic
poem, is not open to this charge, and is really a verv
good piece of argument. Weakne;-^es lierc and there are,
of course, adroitly patched over with ornament, but still
the whole possesses a very fair capacity of holding water.
Hero, too, tlie peculiar character of Dryden's pocHc style
served him well. He speaks with surely affected depre-
ciation of the style of the Rcligio as "unpolished and
rugged." In reality, it is a model of the plainer sort of
verse, and nearer to his own admirable prose than anythino-
else that can be citcl.

One thing more, and a tiling of the greatest importance,
has to be said about Dryden's satirical poems. There
never, pcrhnps, was a satirist who less abused his power for
personal ends. He only attacked Settle and Shadwell af-
ter both had assailed him in the most virulent and unpro-
voked fashion. Many of the minor assailants whom, as
we shall see, Absalom and Achitopkel raised up against
him, he did not so much as notice. On the other hand,
no kind of personal grudge can be traced in many of his
most famous passages. The character of Zimri was not
only perfectly true and just, but was also a fair literary

[chap.

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC TOEMS.

tit-for-tat in return for the Rehearsal ; nor did Bucking-
ham's foolish rejoinder provolce the poet to say another
word. Last of all, in no part of his satires is there the
slightest reflection on Rochester, notwithstanding the dis-
graceful conduct of which he had been guilty. Rochester
was dead, leaving no heirs and very few friends, so that at
any time during the twenty years which Dry den survived
him satirical allusion would have been safe and easy. But
Dryden was far too manly to war with the dead, and far
too manly even to indulge, as his great follower did, in
vicious flings at the living.

Absalom and Achitophel is perhaps, with the exception
of the St. Cecilia ode, the best known of all Dryden's
poems to modern readers, and there is no need to give any
very lengthy account of it, or of the extraordinary skill
with which Monmouth is treated. The sketch, even now
about the best existing in prose or verse, of the Popish
Plot, the character and speeches of Achitophel, the unap-
proached portrait of Zimri, and the fiiuil harangue of
David, liave for generations found their places in every
book of elegant extracts, either for general or school use.
But perhaps the most characteristic passage of the whole,
as indicating the kind of satire which Dryden now intro-
duced for the first time, is the passage descriptive of
Shimci — Slingsby Bethel — the Republican sheriff of the
city:

" But he, though bad, is followed by a worse,

Tlie wretch, who heaven's anointed dared to curse;

Shimei — whose youth did early promise bring

Of zeal to God, and hatred to his King —

Did wisely from expensive sins rcfraip,

And never broke the Sabbath but for gain :

Nor ever was he known an oath to vent,

Or curse, unless against the govcruraent.

■I- ' f

M iil

**' I

f " 1

t u

' 1
1

BUYDEN.

Thus heaping weaUh, by the most ready way

Among the Jews, which was to cheat and pray ;

The City, to reward his jjious hate

Against his master, chose him magistrate.

His hand a vare of justice did uphold,

His neck was loaded with a chain of gold.

During his office treason was no crime,

The sons of Belial had a glorious time :

For Shimci, though not prodigal of pelf.

Yet loved his wicked neighbour as himself.

When two or three were gathered to declaim

Against the monarch of Jerusalem,

Shimei was always in the midst of them :

And, if they cursed the King when he was by,

Would rather curse than break good company.

If any durst his factious friends accuse,

He packed a jury of dissenting Jews,

Whose fellow-feeling in the godly cause

Wouk? free the suffering saint from human laws:

For laws are only made to punish those

Who serve the King, and to protect his foes.

If any leisure time he had from power.

Because 'tis sin to misemploy an hour.

His business was, by writing to persuade,

That kings were useless, and a clog to trade:

And that his noble style ho might refine.

No Rechabite more shunned the fumes of wine.

Chaste were his cellars, and hi.- shrieval board

The grossness of a city feast abhorred :

His cooks with long disuse their trade forgot;

Cool was his kitchen, though his brains were hot.

Such fi'ugal virtue malice may accuse.

But sure 'twas necessary to the Jews:

For towns, once burnt, such magistrates require,

As dare not tempt God's providence by fire.

With spiritual food he fed his servants wch.

But free from flesh, that made- the Jews rebel:

And Moses' laws he held in more account.

For forty days of fasting in the mount."

[chap.

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

Thcro had been notlunfj in the leat like tliis before.
The prodigality of irony, the sting in the tail of every
couplet, the ingenuity by which the odious charges are
made against the victim in the very words almost of the
phrases which his party were accustomed to employ, and
above all the polish of the language and the verse, and the
tone of half -condescending banter, were things of which
that time had no experience. The satire was as bitter as
Butler's, but less grotesque and less laboured.

It was not likely that at a time when pamphlet-writing
was the chief employment of professional authors, and
when the public mind was in the hottest state of excite-
ment, such an onslaught as Absalom and Achitophcl should
remain unanswered. In three weeks from its appearance
a parody, entitled Toivser the Second, attacking Dryden,
Avas published, the author of which is said to have been
Henry Care. A few days later Buckingham proved,
with tolerable convincingness, how small had been his
own share in the Rehearsal, by putting forth some Po-
etical Reflections of the dreariest kind. Him followed an
anonymous Nonconformist with A Whip for the FooVs
Back, a performance which exposed his own back to a
much more serious flagellation in the preface to the
Medal. Next came Samuel Pordage's Azaria and Hushai.
This work of " Lame MepMbosheth, the wizard's son," is
weak enough in other respects, but shows that Dryden had
already taught several of his enemies how to write. Last-
ly, Settle published Absalom Senior, perhaps the worst of
•ill *^>e replies, though containing evidences of its author's
faculty for "rhyming and rattling." Of these and of sub-
sequent replies Scott has given ample selections, ample,
that is to say, for the general reader. But the student of
Dryden can hardly appreciate his author fully, or estimate

I 'I

LRYDEX.

[chap.

tlic debt which the English language owes to him, unless
ho has read at last some of them in full.

The popularity of Absalom and Achitophd was immense,
and its sale rapid; but the main object, the overthrowing
of Shaftesbury, was not accomplished, and a certain iit
umph was even gained for that turbulent leader by the fail-
ure of the prosecution against him. This failure' was cele-
brated by the striking of a medal with the legend Lacta-
muK Thereupon Dryden wrote the 3fcdu}. A ve-y
precise but probably apocryphal story is told by Spence
of its origin. Charles, he says, was walking with Dryden
in the Mall, and said to him, " If I were a poet, and I think
I am poor enongh to be one, I would write a poem on such
a subject in such a manner," giving him at the same time
hints for the iVcdal, which, when finished, was rewarded
with a hundred broad pieces. The last part of the story is
not very credible, for th- king was not extravagant towards
literature. The first is unlikely, because he was, in the first
place, too much of a gentleman to reproach a man to whom
he was speaking with the poverty of his profession ; and,
in the second, too shrewd not to see that ho laid himself
open to a damaging repartee. However, the storv is not
impossible, and that is all that can be said of it. The
Medal came out in March, 1GS2. It is a much shorter and
a much graver poem than Absalom and Achitophd, extend-
ing to little more than 300 lines, and containing none of
the picturesque personalities which iiad adorned its pred-
ecessor. Part of it is a bitter invective against Shaftes-
bury, part an argument as to the unfitness of republican
institutions for England, and the rest an "Address to the
Whigs," as the prose preface is almost exclusively. The
language of the poem is nervous, its versification less live-
ly than that oi Absaloin and Achitophd, but not less care-

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC TOEMS.

ful. It is noticeable, too, that the Medal contains a line
of fourteen syllables,

" Tliou leap'st o'er all eternal truths in thy Pindaric way."

The Alexandrine was already a favourite device of Dryden's,
but he has seldom elsewhere tried the seven-foot verse as a
variation. Strange to say, it is far from inharmonious in
its place, and has a certain connexion with the sense, though
the example certainly cannot be recommended for univer-
sal imitation. I cannot remember any instance in another
poet of such a licence except the well-known three in the
Revolt of Islam, which may be thought to be covered by
Slielley's prefatory apology.

The direct challenge to the AVhigs which the preface
contained was not likely to go unanswered ; and, indeed,
Dryden had described in it with exact irony the character
of the replies he received. Pordage returned to the charge
with the Medal Reversed ; the admirers of Somers hope
that he did not write Drydeii's Satire to his Muse ; and
there were many others. But one of them, the Medal of
John Bayes,\9. of considerably greater importance. It was
written by Thomas Shadwell, and is perhaps the most scur-
rilous piece of ribaldry which has ever got itself quoted in
English literature. The author gives a life of Dryden, ac-
cusing him pell-mell of all sorts of disgraceful conduct and
unfortunate experiences. His adulation of Oliver, his puri-
tanic relations, his misfortunes at Cambridge, his marriage,
his intrigues with Mrs. Reeve, ttc, (i:c., are all raked up or
invented for the purpose of throwing obloquy on him.
The attack passed all bounds of decency, especially as it
had not been provoked by any personality towards Shad-
well, and for once Dryden resolved to make an example of
his assailant.

>tii

i '* .

DRYDEX.

[CIIAP.

Thomas Shadwcll was a Norfolk man, and about ten
years Drydcn's junior. Ever since the year 1088 l)c had
been writing plays (chiefly comedies) and hanging ab^it
town, and Dryden and he had been in a manner friends.
They had joined Crowne in the task of writing down the
Emjmss of Morocco, and it does not appear that Dryden
had ever given Shadwcll any direct cause of offence. Shad-
well, however, who was exceedingly arrogant, and appar-
ently jealous of Dryden's acknowledged position as leader
of the English drama, took more than one occasion of sneer-
ing at Dryden, and especially at his critical prefaces. Not
long before the actual declaration of war Shadwcll had re-
ceived a i)rologue from Dryden, and the outbreak itself was
due to purely political causes, though no doubt Shadwcll,
who was a sincere Whig and Protestant, was very glad to
pour out his pent-up literary jealousy at the same time.
The personality of his attack on Dryden was, however, in
the last degree unwise ; for the liouse in which he lived
was of glass almost all over. His manners are admitted
to have been coarse and brutal, his conversation unclean,
his appearance uninviting; nor was his literary personal-
ity safer from attack. He had taken Ben Jonson for his
model, and any reader of his comedies must admit that he
had a happy knack of detecting or imagining the oddities
wliich, after Ben's example, he called " humours." The
Sullen Lovers is in this way a much more genuinely amus-
ing play than any of Dryden's, and the Squire of Alsatia,
Bury Fair, Epsom Wells, the Virtuoso, *fec., are comedies
of manners by no means unimportant for the social history
of the time. But whether it was owing to haste, as Roch-
ester pretended, or, as Dryden would have it, to certain in-
tellectual incapacities, there can be no doubt that nobody
ever made less use of his faculties than Shadwell. His

[chap.

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

woirt. is always disgraceful as writing; he seems to have
been totally destitute of any critical faculty, and he mixes
up what is really funny with the dullest and most weari-
some folly and ribaldry, lie was thus given over entirely
into Dryden's hands, and the unmatched satire of Mac-
Fiecknoe was the result,

Flecknoc, whom but for this work no one would ever
have inquired about, was, and had been for some time, a
stock-subject for allusive satire. He was an Irish priest
who had died not long before, after writing a little good
verse and a great deal of bad. lie had paid compliments
to Dryden, and there is no reason to suppose that Dryden
had any enmity towards him ; his part, indeed, is simply
representative, and the satire is reserved for Shadwell.
Well as they are known, the first tv/enty or thirty lines
of the poem must be quoted once more, for illustration
of Dryden's satirical faculty is hardly possible without
them :

" All human things are subject to decay,
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoo found, who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace.
And blessed with issue of a large increase.
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state ;
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit.
Cried — ' 'Tis resolved ! for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears.
Mature in dulness from his tender years ;
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he

;f'

«s

DKYDEX.

[CUAP.

1^.^

■

; 1

Who stands coiifiniu-d in full stupidity.

The rest to sonio fiiiut nieauir.j; inalvo pretence,

But Shadwell never deviates into sense.

Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,

Strike through and make a lucid interval ;

But Sliadwell's genuine night admits no ray,

His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye.

And seems designed for tliought'ess majesty ;

Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,

And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.' "

MacFlecknoe was puhlislied in October, 1682, but Dry-
den had not done witli Shadwell. A month later came
out the second part of Absalom and Achitophel, in which
Nahuni Tate took up the .story. Tate copied the versifi-
cation of his master with a good deal of success, thouyh,
as it is known that Dryden gave strokes almost all throu<-!i
the poem, it is difficult exactly to apportion the other lau-
reate's part. But the second part of Absalom and Achit-
ophel would assuredly never be opened were it not for a
long passage of about 200 lines, which is entirely Dry-
den'.s, and which contains some of his very best work.
Unluckily it contains also some of his greatest licences of
expression, to which he was probably provoked by the un-
paralleled language which, as has been said, Shadwell and
others had used to him. The 200 lines which he gave
Tate are one string of characters, each more savage and
more masterly than the last. Ferguson, Forbes, and John-
son are successively branded ; Pordage has his ten syllables
of immortalizing contempt; and then come the famous
characters of Doeg (Settle) and Og (Shadwell) —

" Two fools that crutch their feeble sense on verse.
Who by my muse to all succeeding times
Siiall live, in spite of their own doggrel rhymes."

[cJiAr.

iv.l

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

f.n

ilain,

but Dry-
iter caini-
in wliidi
he versiti-
S though.
1 tlirouuh
other hiii-
nd Achit-
not for a
i'cly Dry-
;st work,
ecnces of
y the uii-
IwcU and
he gave
vage and
.nd John-
syllables
3 famous

The coarseness of speech before alluded to makes it inv-
possible to quote these characters as a whole, but a cento
is fortunately possible with little lo.ss of vigour.

"Doej:;, tliougli without knowing how or why,
Made still a blunduring kind of melody ;
Spurred boldly on, and dashed through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in ;
Free from all meaning, whether good or bad.
And, in one word, heroically mad,
lie was too warm on picking-work to dwell.
But fagoted his notions as they fell,
And, if they rh^meu and rattled, all was well.
Railing in other men may be a crime.
But ought to pass for mere instinct in him ;
Instinct he follows, and no farther knows,
For, to write verse with him is to tramprosc;
'Twere pity treason at his door to lay.
Who makes heaven's gate a lock to its oioi ke^i;
Let him rail on, let his invective muse
Have four-and-twenty letters to abuse.
Which, if he jumbles to one line of sense,
Indict him of a capital offence.
In fire-works give him leave to vent his spite,
Those are the only serpents he can write ;
The height of his ambition is, we know,
But to be master of a puppet-show ;
On that one stage his works may yet appear.
And a month's harvest keep him all the year.

" Now stop your noses, readers, all and some,
For here's a tun of midnight work to come,
Og from a treason-tavern rolling home.
Round as a globe, and liquored every chink,
Goodly and great he sails behind his link.
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og,
For every inch, that is not foril >■ i-ogue.
The midwife laid her hand on i!,, thick skull,
With this prophetic blessing— Be thou dull !
G 5 '7

III

90 , DRYDEX.

Drink, swear, and roar ; forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy 'iuli<, do imvfhiiig but write.
Thou art ui lasting make, lilie thoughtless men,
A strong nativity — but for the pen ;
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink,
Still thou niayest live, avoiding i)en and ink.
I see, I see, 'tis counsel given in vain,
For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy banc;
Rliyine i.s the rock on which thou art to wreck,
'Tis fatal to thy fame and to tiiy neck.
Why should thy metre good King David blast ?
A psalm of his will surely be thy last.
A double noose thou on tliy neck dost pull
For writing treason, and for writing dull;
To die for faction is a common evil,
. But to be hanged for nonsense is the devil.
Iladst thou the glories of thy king exprest.
Thy praises had been satire at the best ;
But thou in clumsy verse, unlickt, unpointed,
Ilast shamefully defied the Lord's anointed :
I will not rake the dunghill of thy crimes,
P'or who would read thy life that reads thy rhymes ?
But of King David's foes, be this the doom,
May all be like the young man Absalom ;
And for my foes may tlii^ their blessing be,
To talk like Doeg, and to write like thee."

[chap.

/If

No one, I think, can fail to recognise here the qualities
which have already been set forth as specially distinguish-
ing Drydcn's satire, the fund of truth at the bottom of it,
the skilful adjustment of the satire so as to make faults of
the merits which are allowed, the magnificent force and
variety of the verse, and the constant maintenance of a
kind of superior contempt never degenerating into mere
railing, or losing its superiority in petty spite. The last
four versos in especial might almost bo taken as a model
of satirical verse.

■

[cHAi«.

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC rOEMS.

These verses were the last that Drydcu wrote in the
dux'Ctly satirical w.y. Ilis four great poems — the two
parts of Absalom and Achitophel, the Medal, and Mac-
Flecknoe, had been produced in rather more than a year,
and, high as was his literary position before, had exalted
him infinitely higher. From this time forward there could
be no doubt at all of his position, with no second at any
moderate distance, at the head of living English men of
letters. He was now to earn a new title to this position.
Almost simultaneously witli the second part of Absalom
and Achitophel ajipcared Religio Laid.

Scott has described Religio Laid as one of the most
admirable poems in the language, which in some respects
it tmdoubtedly is ; but it is also one of the most singular.
That a man who had never previously displayed any par-
ticular interest in tlieological (picstions, and who had reach-
ed the age of fifty -one, with a reputation derived, until
quite recently, in the main from the)<jomposition of loose
plays^hould appear before his public of pleasure-seekers
with a serious argument in verse on the credibility of the
Christian religion, and the merits of the Anglican form
of doctrine and church government, would nowadays be
something more than a nine days' wonder. In Dryden's
time it was somewhat less surprising. The spirit of theo-
logical controversy was bred in the bone of the seventeenth
century. It will always remain an instance of the subor-
dination in Macaulay of th"3 judicial to the advocatiiii] fac-
ulty, that he who knew the time so well should have ad-
duced the looseness of Dryden's plays as an argument
against the sincerity of his conversion. It is quite certain
that James the Second was both a man of loose life and
of thoroughly sincere religious belief; it is by no means
certain that his still more profligate brother's unbelief was

DRYDEX.

[chap.

1 1

}

' 1

not a mere assumption, and generally it may bo noted that
tlic bioorapliics of the time never seem to infer any con-
nexion between irregularity of life and unsoundness of re-
ligious faith. 1 have already shown some cause for dis-
believing the stories, or rather the assertions, of Dryden's
protligacy, though even these would not be conclusive
against his sincerity ; but I believe that it would be diffi-
cult to trace any very active concern in him for things
religious before the Popish Plot. Various circumstances
already noticed may then have turned his mind to the sub-
ject, and that active and vigorous mind when it once at-
tacked a subject rarely deserted it. Consistency was in no
matter Dryden's great characteristic, and the arguments of
Religio Laid arc not more inconsistent with the arguments
of The Hind and the Panther than the handling of the
(piestion of rhymed plays in the Essaij of Dramatic Poesy
is with the arguments against them in the prefaces and
dissertations subsequent to Aurengzehe.
H It has sometimes been sought to give Reltgio Laici a
political as well as a religious sense, and to connect it in
this way with the series of political satires, with the Duke
of Guise, and with the subsequent Hind and Panther. The
connexion, liowever, seems to me to be faint. The strug-
gles of the Popish Plot liad led to the contests on the Ex-
clusion Bill on the one hand, and they had reopened the
controversial question between the Churches of England
and Rome on the other. They had thus in different ways
given rise to Absalom and Achitophel and to Religio Laid,
but the two poems have no community but a community
of origin. Indeed, the suspicion of any political design
in Reliffio Laid is not only groundless but contradictory.
The views of James on the subject were known to every
one, and those of Charles himself are not likely to have

[CHAP.

lotcd that
any con-
less of ro-
e for dis-
Diyden's
conclusive
1 be diffi-
or tliings
jmstanccs
the sub-
once at-
was in no
uncnts of
irgunicnts
ig of the
ttic Poesy
faces and

Laid a
acct it in
tlie Duke
her. The
'he strug-
n the Ex-
)encd the

England
rent ways
r/io Laid,
immunity
al design
radictory.

to every
T to have

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

been wholly hidden from an assiduous follower of the court,
and a friend of the king's greatest intimates, like Drydcn.
Still less is it necessary to take account of the absurd sug-
gestion that Dryden wrote the poem as a stepping-stone to
orders and to ecclesiastical preferment, lie has definitely
denied that he had at any time thoughts of entering the
church, and such thoughts are certainly not likely to have
occurred to him at the age of fifty. The poem, therefore,
as it seems to me, must be regarded as a genuine produc-
tion, expressing the author's first thoughts on a subject
which liad just presented itself to him as interesting and
important. Such first thoughts in a mind like Dryden's,
which was by no means a revolutionary mind, and which
was disposed to accept the church as part and parcel of
the Tory system of principles, were pretty certain to take
the form of an apologetic harmonizing of difficulties and
doubts. The author must have been familiar with the
usual objections of the persons vaguely called Hobbists,
and with the counter - objections of t" Romanists. He
takes them both, and he makes the best of them.

In its form and arrangement Rcligio Laid certainly de-
serves the praise which critics have given it. Dryden's
overtures are very generally among the happiest parts of
his poems, and the opening ten or twelve lines of this
poem are among his very best. The bold cnjamhement of
the first two couplets, with the striking novelty of cadence
given by the sharply cut ccesiira of the third line, is one
of his best metrical effects, and the actual picture of the
cloudy night-sky and the wandering traveller matches the
technical beauty of the verse. The rest of the poem is
studiously bare of ornament, and almost exclusively argu-
mentative. There is and could be nothing specially novel
or extraordinarily forcible in the arguments ; but they are

§\

it '

i 1

1 ' !■

» ■ *

'1'!

■

«4 DRYDEX. [ciiAP.

put with that ease and apparent cogency which have been
ah-eady remarked upon as characterizing all Dryden's di-
dactic work. Tiie poem is not without touches of humour,
and winds up with a characteristic but not ill-humoured
fling at the unhappy Shadwell.

Dryden's next productions of importance were two odes
of the so-called Pindaric kind. The example of Cowley
had made this style very popular; but Dryden himself had
not practised it. The years 1685-6 gave liim occasion to
do so. His Threnodia Augustalis, or funeral poem on
Charles the Second, may be taken as the chief official pro-
duction of his laureatcship. The difficulties of such per-
formances arc well known, and the reproaches brought
against their faults are pretty well stereotyped. Threno-
dia Augustalis is not exempt from the faults of its kind ;
but it has merits which for that kind are decidedly unu-
sual. The stanza which so adroitly at once praises and
satirizes Charles's patronage of literary men is perhaps the
best, and certainly the best known ; but the termination
is also fine. Of very different merit, however, is the Ode
to the Memory of Mm. Anne Killegrew. This elegy is
among the best of many noble funeral poems which Dry-
don wrote. The few lines on the Marquis of Winchester,
the incomparable address to Oldham—" Farewell, too littie
and too lately known "—and at a later date the translated
e^/itaph on Clavcrhouso, arc all remarkable ; but the Kil-
legrew elegy is of far greater importance. It is curious
that in these days of selections no one has attempted a
collection of the best regular and irregular odes in English.
There are not many of them, but a small anthology could
be made, reaching from Milton to Mr. Swinburne, which
would contain some remarkable poetry. Amono- these
the ode to Anne Killegrew would assuredly hold a high

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC TOEMS.

place. Johnson pronounced it the noblest in the language,
and in his time it certainly was, unless Lycidas be called
an ode. Since iis time there has been Wordsworth's great
immortality ode, anr' ain beautiful but fragmentary
pieces of Shelley whici,. :.ight be so classed; but till our
own days nothing else which can match this. The first
stanza may be pronounced absolutely faultless, and inca-
pable of improvement. As a piece of concerted music in
verse it has not a superior, and Warton's depreciation of it
is a curious instance of the lack of catholic taste which
has so often marred English criticism of poetry :

" Thou youngest virgin-diiughtor of the skies,

Made in the hist promotion of the blessed ;
Wliose palms, new plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Tiiou rollest above us, in thy wandering race,

Or, in procession fixed and regular,

Movest with the heaven's majestic pace ;

Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou treadest with seraphims 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 thy own voico 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."

These smaller pieces were followed at some interval by
the remarkable poem which is Dryden's chief work, if

1?:

' (

:(!"

i X

i) i

I ii

DRYDEN.

[chap.

bulk and originality of plan arc taken into consideration.
There is a tradition as to the place of composition of The
Hind and the Panther, v*hicli in many respects deserves
to be trao^tlioni.h there is apparently no direct testimo-
ny to its trutlu It is said to have been written at Rush-
ton not far from Kettering, in the poet's native county.
Rnshton had been (thoiio-h it had passed from them at
this time) the seat of the Treshams, one of the staunchcst
families to the old faith which Dryden had just embraced.
They had held another seat in Northamptonshire— Lyve-
den, within a few miles of Aldwinkle and of all the scenes
of the poet's youth ;. and both at Ly veden and Rnshton,
architectural evidences of their devotion to the cause sur-
vive in the shape of buildings covered with symbolical
carvings. The neighbourhood of Rnshton, too, is singu-
larly consonant to the sccneiy of the poem. It lay just
on the southern fringe of the great forest of Rocking-
liam, and the neighbourhood is still wonderfully timbered,
though uiost of the actual wood owes its existence to the
planting energy of Duke John of Montagu, half a century
after Drydcn's time. It would certainly not have been
easy to conceive a better place for the conception and ex-
ecution of this sylvan poem ; but, as a matter of fact, it
seems impossible to obtain any definite evidence of the
connexion between the two.

The Hind and the Panther is in plan a sort of combina-
tion of Absalom and Achitojyhel, and of HeUffio Laid, but
its three parts are by no means homogeneous. The first
part, which is perhaps, on the whole, the best, contains the
well-known ap[)ortionmcnt of the characters of ditferent
beasts to the different churches and sects ; the second con-
tains the major part of the controversy between the Ilind
and the Panther; the third, which is as long as the other

[chap.

IV.]

SATIRICAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS.

two put together, continues this controversy, but before
very long diverges into allegorical and personal satire.
The story of the Swallows, which the Panther tells, is one
of the liveliest of all Dryden's pieces of narration, and it
is not easy to give the pahn between it and the Hind's
retort, the famous fable of the Doves, in which Burnet is
caricatured with hardly less vigour and not much less truth
than Buckingham and Shadwell in the satires proper.
This told, the poem ends abruptly.

'^he Hind and the Panther was certain to provoke con-
troversy, especially from the circumstances, presently to
be discussed, under which it was written. Drydcn had
two points especially vulnerable, the one being personal,
the other literary. It was inevitable that his argument in
Religio Laid should be contrasted with his argument in
The Hind and the Panther. It was inevitable, on the
other hand, that the singularities of construction in the
latter poem should meet with animadversion. No de-
fender of The Hind and the Panther, indeed, has ever at-
tempted to defend it as a regular or classically proportion-
ed piece of work. Its main theme is, as always with Dry-
den, merely a canvas whereon to embroider all sorts of
episodes, digressions, and ornaments. /Yet liis adversaries,
in their blind animosity, went a great deal too far in the
matter of condemnation, and showed themselves entirely
ignorant of the history and requirements of allegory in
general, and the beast -fable in particular. Dryden, like
many other great men of letters, had an admiration for
the incomparable story of Reynard the fox. It is charac-
teristic, both of his enemies and of the age, that this wasi
made a serious argument against him. This is specially
done in a celebrated little pamphlet which lias perhaps had
the honour of being more overpraised than anything else
6*

• 1

V 1^1

ill

mtYDEX.

[chap. IV.

! U

■1 ( I'

; ■ 'i

of its kind in English literature. If any one wishes to
appraise the value of tlie story that Dryden was serious-
ly vexed by The Hind and the Panther transversed to the
Story of the City and Country Mouse, he cannot do better
than read that production. It is difKcult to say what was
or was not unworthy of Montague, whose published poems
certainly do not authorize us to say that he wrote below
himself on this occasion, but it assuredly is in the high-
est degree unworthy of Prior. Some tolerable parody of
Dryden's own work, a good deal of heavy joking closely
modelled on the Rehearsal, and assigning to Mr. Bayes
plenty of "i'gads" and the like catchwords, make up the
staple of this piece, in which Mr. Christie has discovered
"true wit," and the Quarterly Reviewer already cited,
" exquisite satire." Among the severest of Messrs. Mon-
tague and Prior's strictures is a sarcastic reference to Rey-
nard the fox. What was good enough for Dryden, for
Goethe, and for Mr. Carlyle was childish rubbish to these
brisk young critics. The story alluded to says that Dry-
den wept at the attack, and complained that two young
fellows to whom he had been civil should thus liave treated
an old man. Now Dryden certainly did not consider him-
self an old man at this time, and he had " seen many others,"
as an admirable Gallicism has it, in the matter of attacks.

One more poem, and one only, remains to be noticed in
this division. This was the luckless Britannia Rediviva,
written on the birth of the most ill-starred of all Princes
of Wales, born in the purple. It is in couplets, and as no
work of Dryden's wrii'on at this time could be worthless,
it contains some vigorous verse, but on the whole it is by
far the worst of his serioua poems; and it was no mis-
fortune for his fame that the Revolution left it out of
print for the rest of the autlior's life.

! I I

LIFF. FROM 1680 TO 1688.

h )<

CHAPTER V.

That portion of Dryden's life which extends from the
Popish Plot to the Revolution is of so much more impor-
tance for the estimate of his personal character, as well as
for that of his literary genius, than any other period of
equal length, that it has seemed well to devote a separate
chapter to the account and discussion of it. The question
of Dryden's conversion, its motives and its sincerity, has
of itself been more discussed than any other point in his
Ufc, and on the opinions to be formed of it must depend
the opinion which, on the whole, we form of him as a
man. According to one view his conduct during these
years places him among the class which paradox delights
to describe as the " greatest and meanest of mankind," the
men who compensate for the admirable qualities of their
heads by the despicable infirmities of their hearts. Ac-
cording to another, his conduct, if not altogether wise,
contains nothing discreditable to him, and some things
which may be reasonably described as very much the con-
trary. Twenty years of play-writing had, in all probabil-
ity, somewhat disgusted Dryden with the stage, and his
Rose- Alley misfortune had shown him that even a scrupu-
lous abstinence from meddling in politics or in personal
satire would not save him from awkward consequences.

hMl

100

DRYDEX.

[chap.

ii U

;(;*

His lucrative contract with the players had, beyond all
donbt, ceased, and his official salaries, as we shall see, were
paid with the usual irregularity. At the same time, as has
been already pointed out, his turn of thought probably led
him. to take more interest in practical politics and in relig-
ious controversy than had been previously the case. The
additional pension, which as we have seen he had received,
made his nominal income sufficient, and instead of writing
plays invitd Minerva he took to writing satires and argu-
mentative pieces to please himself. Other crumbs of royal
favour fell to his lot from time to time. The broad pieces
received for the Medal arc veiy probably apocryphal, but
there is no doubt that his youngest son received, in Feb-
ruary, 1683, a presentation to the Charterhouse from the
king. This presentation it was which ho was said to have
received from Shaftesbury, as the price of the mitigating
lines ('' Yet fame deserved— easy of access ") inserted in
the later edition of Absalom and Achito2)heL lie was
also indefatigable in undertaking and performing minor
literary work of vaiious kinds, which will be noticed later.
Nor, indeed, could he afford to be idle ; his pensions were
often unpaid, and it is just after the great scries of his
satires closed that we get a glimpse of this fact. A letter
is extant to Rochester— Hyde, not Wilinot— complaining
of long arrears, and entreating some compensation in the
shape of a place in the Customs, or the Excise, besides
an instalment at least of the debt. It is this letter which
contains the well-known phrase, " It is enough for one age
to have neglected Mr. Cowley and starved Mr. Butler." ^Vs
far as documentary evidence goes, the answer to tlie appeal
was a Treasury warrant for 75/., the arrears being over
1000/., and an appointment to a collectorship of Customs
in the port of London, with unknown emoluments. The

ii ■

[chap.

f.j

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1688.

101

only df ' ;'e sum mentioned is a nominal one of 5^. a year
as collecior of duties on cloth. But it is not likely that
cloth was the only subject of Drydcn's labours, and in
those days the system of fees and perquisites flourished.
This Customs appointment was given in 1683.

To the condition of Drydcn's sentiments in the last
years of Charles' reign Religio Laid must be taken as the
surest, and, indeed, as the only clue. There is no proof
that this poem was composed to serve any political pur-
pose, and indeed it could not have served any, neither
James nor Charles being likely to be propitiated by a de-
fence, however moderate and rationalizing, of the Church
of England. It is not dedicated to any patron, and seems
to have been an altogether spontaneous expression of what
was passing in the poet's mind. A careful study of the
poem, instead of furnishing arguments against the sincer-
ity of his subsequent conduct, furnishes, I think, on the
contrary, arguments which are very strongly in its favour.
It could have, as has just been said, no purpose of pleasing
a lay patron, for there was none to be pleased by it. It is
not at all likely to have commended itself to a clerical pa-
tron, because of its rationalizing tone, its halting adop-
tion of the Anglican Church as a kind of makeshift, and its
heterodox yearnings after infallibility. These last, indeed,
are among the most strongly-marked features of the piece,
and point most clearly in the direction which the poet
afterwards took.

" Such an omniscient church we wish indeed,
'Twere worth both Testaments, cast in the Creed,"

is an awkward phrase for a sound divine, or a dutifully
acquiescing layman; but it is exactly the phrase which
might be expected from a man who was on the slope from

If ■

\ •!

i |l'.l

102

DRYDEN.

[ciup.

il '

(11-

:(!l)

1 1

placid caring for none of these things to a more or less
fervent condition of membership of an infallible church.
The tenor of the whole poem, as it seems to me, is the
same. The author, in his character of high Tory and
orthodox Englishman, endeavours to stop himself at the
point which the Anglican Church marks with a thus far
and no farther ; but, in a phrase which has no exact Eng-
lish equivalent, nous le voyons venir. It is quite evident
that if he continues to feel anything like a lively interest
in the problen s at stake, he will go farther still. lie did
go farther, and has been accordingly railed against for
many generations. But I do not hesitate to put the ques-
tion to the present generation in a very concrete form.
Is Dryden's critic nowadays prepared to question the sin-
cerity of Cardinal Newman ? If he is, I have no objection
to his questioning the sincerity of Dryden. But what is
sauce for the nineteenth-century goose is surely sauce for
the seventeenth -century gander. The post -conversion
writings of the Cardinal are not less superficially incon-
sistent with the Tracts for the Times and the Oxford
Sermons, than the Hind and the Panther is with Religio
Laid.

A hyperbole has been in some soi-t necessary in order to
rebut the very unjust aspersions which two of the most
popular historians of the last thirty years have thrown on
Dryden. But I need hardly say, that though the glory of
Oxford in the first half of the nineteenth century is a fair
argumentative parallel to the glory of Cambridge in the
second half of the seventeenth, the comparison is not in-
tended to be forced. I believe Dryden to have been, in
the transactions of the years 1685-7, thoroughly sincere
as far as conscious sincerity went, but of a certain amount
of unconscious insincerity I am by no means disposed to

[chap.

v.]

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1688.

103

acquit liim. If I judge his cliaraclcr aright, no English
man of letters was ever more thoroughly susceptible to
the spirit .and iriuence of his time. Dryden was essen-
tially a literary .nan, and was disposed rather to throw
himself into the arms of any party than into those of one
so hopelessly unliterary as the ultra-Liberal and ultra-Prot-
estant party of the seventeenth century was. He was,
moreover, a professed servant of the public, or as we should
put it in these days, he had the journalist spirit. Fortu-
nately — and it is for o'erybody who lias to do with litera-
ture the most fortunate sign of the times — it is not now
necessary for any one to do violence to a single opinion,
even to a single crotchet of his own, in order to make his
living by his pen. It was not so in Dryden's days, and
it is fully believable that a sense that he was about to be
on the winning side may have assisted his rapid determina-
tion from Ilobbism or Ilalifaxism to Romanist orthodoxy.
I am the more disposed to this allowance because it seems
to me that Dryden's principal decrier was in need of a
similar charity. Lord Macaulay is at present a glory of
the Whigs. If there had been an equal opening when he
was a young man for distinction and profit as a Tory, for
early retirement on literary pursuits witli a competence,
and for all the other things which he most desired, is it
quite so certain that he would not have been of the other
persuasion ? I have heard persons much more qualified
than I am to decide on the characteristics of pure Lib-
eralism energetically repudiate Macaulay's claim to be an
apostle thereof. Yet I, for my part, have not the least
idea of challenging his sincerity. It seems to me that he
would have been at least wise if lie had refrained, consid-
ering the insuflRciency of his knowledge, from challenging
the sincerity of Dryden.

104

DUYDEX.

'' il

i'l

,|il)

i '

1 I'i

[CUAP.

How iiisuffioient the knowlodgc was the hibours of sub-
8^ ucnt iikvestiojators have sudiciently shown. Mr. 15ell
p?r. (1 .at the {irnsion supposed to be confoiTcd by
J<< •' s a ' a reward for J>!'y(h'i)'s apostasy was simply a re-
newal of iiV'i pcHMon granted by ( harles years before; tliat
it preceded instead of followinj,^ th. conversion ; and tiiat
tlio sole reason of its liavinjv to be renewed at all was
technical merely. As for the nrgnmcnt abont Dryden's
boinjr previously indifferent to -religion, and having written
l|j4»e«'"t plays, the arguer lias hii self demolished his argu-
ment in a famous passage about James's own morals, and
the conduct of the non-resistance doctors of the Anglican
Church. Burnet's exaggerated denunciations of Dryden
as a " monster of impurity of all s.^rt8," «fec., are sufficiently
traceable to Shadweli's shameless libels and to the Char-
acter of the Buzzard. It is true that the allegations of
iMalone and Scott, to the effect that Lady Elizabeth had
been already converted, and Charles Dryden likewise, rest
on a very slender foundation ; but these are matters whicli
have very little to do with the question in any case. The
real problem can be very easily stated. Given a man to
the general rectitude of whose private conduct all quali-
fied witnesses testify, while it is only questioned by un-
scrupulous libellers — who gained, as can be proved, not
one penny by his conversion, and though he subsequently
lost heavily by it, maintained it unswervingly— who can
be shown, from the most unbiassed of his previous writ-
ings, to have been in exactly the state of mind wliich was
likely to result in such a proceeding, and of whose insin-
cerity there is no proof of the smallest value — what rea-
son is there for suspecting him ? The literary greatness
ui the man has nothing to do with the question. The
fact is that he 'lias been convicted, or rather sentence.], on

[chap.

v.]

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1088.

105

evidence which would not .suffice to convict Elkaiiah Settle
or Sanuiel Pordage.

In particular, we have a right to iti ist upon the absolr >
consistency of Drydon's sul>se(juent ( ouduot. Mr. Clirisuj,
who, admirably as 'or the most part lie judges Drydeu's
literary work, was steeled against his personal charai'ter
by the fact that Dryden attacked his idol, Shaftesbury,
thinks that a recantation would have done him no gui»d
had he tried it. The opinion is, to say tli- least, hasty.
Had Dryden proffered the oaths to William and Mary, as
poet laureate and historiographer, it is very hard to see
what power could have deprived him of his two hundred
a year. Tlie extra hundred of pension might have been
forfeited, but the revenues of these places and of that in
the Customs must have been safe, unless the new Govern-
ment chose to incur what it was of all things desirous to
prevent, the charge of persecution and intolerance. When
the AVhigs were so desperately hard up for literary talent
that Dorset, in presenting Shadwell for the laureateship,
had to pay him the very left-handed compliment of .say-
ing that, if he was not the best poet, he was at least the
honestest — /. e., the most orthodo.xly Whiggish — man, when
hardly a single distinguished man of letters save Locke,
who was nothing of a pamphleteer, was on their side, is
it to be supposed for a moi.ient that Dryden would not
have been welcome? The argument au'ainst him recalls a
curious and honourable story which Johnson tells of Smith,
the Bohemian author of Phcedra and Jlippoli/tus. Addi-
son, who, as all the world knows, was a friend of Smith's,
and who was always ready to do his friends good turns,
procured for Smith, from some Whig magnates, a commis-
sion for a History of the Revolution. To the disgust of

the mediator, Smith demurred. " What," he said, " am I
II 8

i I

106

DRYDEX.

[chap.

I ,

ir.

U l: '" ]

to do with the cliaractcr of Lord Sundedaiid ?" Addison
is said to have replied, in deep but illogical wrath, " When
were you drunk last?" I feel extremely inclined to put
Smith's query to the persons who maintain that it would
have been impossible for Dryden to turn liis coat at the
Revolution. AVhat arc they going to do with the charac-
ter of Lord Sunderland ? Li the age not merely of Sun-
derland, but of Marlborough, of Godolphin, of Russell, of
a hundred other treble-dyed traitors, it surely cannot be
contended that the first living writer of English would
have been rejected by those who had need of his services.
Now we know that, so far from making any overtures of
submission, Dryden was stiff in his Jacobitism and in his
faitli. Nothing in his life is more celebrated than his per-
sistent refusal to give way to Tonson's entreaties to dedi-
cate the Virgil to William, and his whole post-Revolution
works may be searched in vain for a single stroke intended
to curry favour with tlie powers that were. If, as he puts
it in a letter still extant, they would take liim on his lit-
erary merits, ho would not refuse their offers ; but as to
yielding an inch of his principles, he would not.' And his
works amply justify the bravo words. It is surely hard
measure to go out of one's way to upbraid with wanton
or venal apostasy one to. whose sincerity- there is such
complete testimony, both a prion and a jiosterioi-i, as this.
Except the Hind and the Panther, no work inspired by
his new religious sentiments did Dryden much credit, or,
it would api)ear, brought him much profit. James was not
a particularly generous master, though it is probable that
the laureate -historiographer -collector received his dues
much more punctually under his orderly administration
than in the days of his spendthrift brother. The works
upon which the court put Dryden were not very happily

[chap.

v.]

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1688.

107

Addison
J, " When
ed to put

it would
»at at the
ic cliarac-
Y of Sun-

tUSSi'll, of

•annot be
sh Avould
i services.
M'tuves of
nd in liis
ti liis per-
i to dedi-
evohition
intended
s he puts
n liis lit-
)ut as to

And his
rely hard
1 wanton

is such
I, as this,
pi rod by
redit, or,
! was not
Eible that
bis dues
listration
le works

happily

chosen, nor in all cases very happily executed. His defence
of the reasons which liad converted Anne llyde is about
the worst of his prose works, and was handled (in the
rough controversial fashion of the day) very damaginoly
by Stillingfieet. A translation of a work of Varillas' on
ecclesiastical history was announced but never published;
and, considering the worthlessness of Varillas as a histori-
an, it is just as well. The Life of St. Francis Xavier, dedi-
cated to the queen, was better worth doing, and was well
done. It is curious that in this dedication occurs one of
those confident anticipations of the birth of the young
I'retcnder, which after the event were used by zealous
Protestants as arguments for the spnriousness of the child.
These and minor works show that Dryden, as indeed might
be expected, was in favour at court, and was made use of
by the economical and pious rulers of England. But of
any particular benefit reaped by him from his conversion
there is no hint whatever; in some respects, indeed, it did
him harm, liis two youngest sons, who had followed their
father's change of faith, were elected about this time to
scholarships at the universities, but were prevented, appar-
ently by their religion, from going into residence.

The mere loss of education and prospects for his children
was, however, a trifle to what Dryden had to undergo at
the Revolution. It is probable that this event was almost
as much a surprise to him as to James himself. But how-
ever severe the blow might be, it was steadily borne. The
period at which the oaths had to be taken to the new
Government came, and Dryden did not take them. This
vacated at once liis literary posts and his place in the Cus-
toms, if, as there seems every reason to believe, he held it
up to the time. His position was now exceedingly serious.
Ho was nearly sixty years of age. His patrimony was

rlf

■ k

108

DRYDEX.

[chap.

Itii

I't!

■ ii

i:;i

^ !

but small, and such addition to it as he had received with
Lady Elizabeth did not exceed a few scores of pounds an-
nually, lie had three sons grown to man's estate, and all
the more difficult to provide for tliat their religion inca-
ftacitated them from almost every profitable pursuit in their
native country, lie himself had long, save in one triflin'^-
instance, broken his relation with the stage, the most In-
crativc opening for literary work, lie was a marked man,
far more obnoxious personally to many of the ruling party
than Milton had been thirty years before, when he thought
it necessary to go into " abscondcnce," The very gains of
the theatre were not what they had been, unless they Avere
enhanced by assiduous visits to patrons and dedicatees, a
degrading performance to which Dryden never would con-
sent. Loss of fortune, of prospects, and of powerful friends^
was accompanied in Dryden's case by the most galling an-
noyances to his self-love. His successor in the laureateship
was none other than Shadwell, whom he had so bitterly
satirized, whom he had justly enough declared able to do
anything but write, and who was certain to exult over
him with all the triumph of a coarse and vindictive nature.
Dryden, however, came out of the trial admirably. lie had,
indeed, some staunch friends in both political parties — the
Dorsets and the Leveson-Gowers being as true to him as
the Rochcsters and the Ormonds. ]>ut his main resource
now, as all through his life, was his incomparable literary
faculty, his splendid capacity for work, and his dogged op-
position to the assaults of fortune. In the twelve years
of life which remained to him he built up his fortune and
maintained it anew, not merely by assiduous practice of
those forms of literature in which lie had already won
renown, but by exercising yet again his marvellous talent
for guessing the taste of the time, and striking out new

[chap.

v.]

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1688.

109

lines to please it. Just as no one from Annus Mirahills
and Aurengzehe could have divined Absalom and Achito-
phel and the Hind and the Panther, so no one, except on
the principle that all things were now possible to Dryden,
could have divined from Absalom and Achitojihel and the
Hind and the Panther either Palamon and Arcite or the
translation of Virgil.

Some minor works of Dryden's not mentioned in the
last chapter, nor falling under the heads to be noticed in
subsequent chapters, may here deserve notice. Some time
or other in the reign of James the Second, Dryden wrote
to Ethercge a poetical epistle, which is its author's only
attempt in the easy octosyllabic verse, which Butler had
just used with such brilliant success, anJ which Prior was
in a more polished if less vigorous form to use with suc-
cess almost equally brilliant a few years later. " Gentle
George " Ethercge deserved the compliments which Dry-
den paid him more than once, and it is only to be wished
that the poet's communications with him, whether in verse
or prose, had been more frequent. Had they been so, we
might liavc been able to solve what is now one of the
most curious problems of English literary history. Though
Ethcregc was a man of fashion, of literary importance, aiid
of a distinguished position in diplomacy — he was English
minister at Ratisbon, where Dryden addresses him — only
the circumstances and not the date of his death are known.
It is said that in seeing his friends downstairs he over-
balanced himself and was taken up dead ; but when this
happened no one seems to know.' A line in the epistle

' In reply to a request of mine, Mr.W. Noel Saiiisbury has brought
to my notice letters of Etlierege in the Kecord OfTico and in the Re-
ports of the Ilistorieal MSS. Commission. In January, 1688-9, Ethe-
rege wrote to Lord Preston from Ratisbon. The first letter from his

l-l

110

DRYDEN.

[criAP.

! H

\4\

i ;?■

seems to show that Ethcrecfc had been obliffcd to take to
heavy drhiking as a compliment to his German friends,
and tluis indirectly prophesies the circumstances of liis
death. But the author or Sir FopUnrj Flutter and She
would if she could liardly deserved such a hugger-mug-ger
end.

To tliis time, too, belongs the first Ode on St. Cecilia's
Day. It is not a great production, and cannot pretend
comparison Avith the second and more famous piece com-
posed on a later occasion. But it is curious how many
lines and phrases it has contributed to the list of stock
quotations — especially c^irious when it is remembered that
the whole piece is only sixty -three lines long. "A heap
of jarring atoms," "the diapason closing full in man,'
" the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum,"
and several other phrases, survive. The thing Avas set to
music by an Italian composer named Draglii, and seems
to have been popular. Besides these and other tasks, Diy-
don began at this time a curious work or series of works,
which was continued at intervals till his death, whicli was
imitated afterwards by many otliers, and which in some
sort was an ancestor of the modern literary magazine or
review. This was the Miscellany, the first volume of which
appeared in the beginning of 1684, and the second in the
beginning of 1685, though a considerable interval occur-
red before a third volume was brought out. These vol-
umes contained both old and new poems, mostly of the
occasional kind, by Dryden himself, besides many of his

suecopsor is dated April, 1089. If, then, he died at Ratisbon, this
brings tlie date bct'vcen narrow limits. There is, however, a rival
legend tliat he followed James into exile. Sinee this note was wi it-
ten more letters have, I hear, been found in the British Museum, and
Mr. Gosae has the whole subject under treatment.

[chap.

v.]

LIFE FROM 1680 TO 1688.

311

translations. But they were by no means limited to his
own productions. Many other authors, old and new, ^ve^e
admitted, and to the second volume Charles Dryden, his
eldest son, was a contributor. Tliesc two years (1684 and
1G85), it will be observed, were not merely those in which,
owing to the non-payment of his appointments, his pe-
cuniary straits must have been considerable, but they were
also years in which there was a kind of lull between the
rapid series of his great satirical works and the collection
of verse and prose productions which owe their birth to
bis conversion. It is somewhat remarkable tha"- Dry-
den's abstinence from the stage during this time — which
was broken only by the Duke of Guise and by the pro-
duction of the rather unsuccessful opera, Albion and Alba-
nius — seems \o have been accompanied by a cessation also
in his activity as a prologue Avriter. Both before and af-
ter this period prologue writing was a regular source of
income and employment to him. There is a famous story
of Southern and Dryden which is often quoted, both for
its intrinsic interest, and because the variety with which
its circumstances are related is rather an instructive com-
ment on the trustworthiness of such stories. Every one
is supposed to know Pope's reference to the author of
Oroonoko as —

" Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays."

The story is that Southern in 1G82 applied to Dryden
for a prologue (which is extant), and was told that the
tariff had gone up from two guineas to three — " Not out
of any disrespect to you, young man, but the players have
had my goods too cheap," The figures two and three are
replaced in some versions by four and six, in others by

ffi I

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112

DRYDEN.

I CHAP. V.

iff

' ■ j '

five ana ten. This story gives the date of 1G82, and it is
remarkable that until 1690, when Drydcn once more came
on the stage liimself with a new play, his prologues and
epilogues arc very few. Possibly tlie increased price was
prohibitive, but it is more likely tliat the political strug-
gles of the time put all but political verse out of fashion.
Tliesc compositions had always been famous, or rather in-
famous, for their licence of language, and the political ex-
cesses of some of Dryden's few utterances of the kind at
this time are not creditable to his memory. Ilallam's
phrase of "virulent ribaldry " is absurd as applied to Ab-
salom and Achitophel, or to the Medal. It is only too
well in place as applied .o the stuff put in the mouth of
the actress who spoke the epilogue to the Biike of Guise.
The truth is that if they bo taken as a whole these prol-
ogues and epilogues could be better spared by lovers of
Dryden from his works than any other section thereof;
and it is particularly to be regretted that Mr. Christie, in
Lis excellent Globe edition of the poems, has admitted
them, while excluding the always melodious, and some-
times exquisitely poetical songs from the pbiys, which cer-
tainly do not exceed the prologues in licence of lano'uno-e.
while their literary merit is incomparably greater.

(Ill

; J

I CIUP. V.

CHAPTER VI.

LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

ll!

It miglit liave seemed, at first sight, tlint the Revohition
Avonld be a fatal blow to Drvdcn. Beino- iinwilliiiG: to
take the oaths to the new Govcrniucnt, lie lost at once the
places and the pensions which, iiToguhirly as they had been
paid, had made up, since he ceased to write constantly for
the stage, by far the greater part of his income. lie was
nearly sixty years old, his private fortune was, if not al-
together iasignificant, quite insufficient for his wants, and
he had three sons to maintain and set out in the world.
But he faced the ruin of his fortunes, and, what must have
been bitterer to him, the promotion of his enemies into his
own place, with the steady courage and practical spirit of
resource which were among his most creditable character-
istics. Not all his friends deserted him, and from Dor-
set in particular he received great and apparently constant
assistance. The story that this generous patron actually
compensated Dryden by an annuity equal in value to his
former appointments seems to rest on insufficient founda-
tion. The story that when Dryden and Tom Brown dined
with Dorset the one found a hundred-pound note and the
other a fifty-pound note under his cover, does not do much
credit to Dorset's powers of literary arithmetic, nor, even
allowing for the simpler manners of the time, to his deli«
6

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fill

114

DRYDExV.

[chap.

Mi.

I ■

cacy of feelino-. But Drytien's own words are explicit on
tlio point of his having received assistance from tliis old
friend, and it is said that in certain letters preserved at
Knole, and not yet given to the world, there are still more
definite acknowledgments. Dryden, however, was never
disposed to depend on patrons, even though, like Corneille,
he did not think it necessary to refuse their gifts when
they presented themselves. Theatrical gains had, it has
been said, decreased, unless dramatists took pains to in-
crease them by dedication or by the growing practice of
placing subscription copies among wealthy friends. Still,
a Imrdred pounds could be depended upon from a good
third night and from the bookseller's fee for the book,
and a hundred pounds was a matter of co .siderable im-
portance to Dryden just now. For full seven years he
had all but abandoned dramatic composition. His con-
tributions to Lee's Duke of Guise, which probably brought
him no money, and certainly brought him a troublesome
controversy, and the opera of Albion and Albanias hA
been his only attempts on the stage since the Spanish
Friar. The Duke of Guise, though Dryden's part in it is
of no little merit, hardly needs notice here, and Albion and
Albanius was a failure. It was rather a masque than an
opera, and depended, thougli there is some good verse in
it, rather on elaborate and spiteful gibbeting of the ene-
mies of the court than on poetical or dramatic merits.
But Dryden's dramatic reputation was by no means im-
paired. The first play ordered to be performed by Queen
Mary was the SjJanish Friar, and this Protestant drama
proved a most unfortunate one for her Majesty ; for the
audience at that time ^vere extraordinarily quick to seize
any kind of political allusion, and, as it happened, there
were in the Spanish Friar many allusions of an acciden-

[CIUP.

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LATER DRAMAS AND TROSE WORKS.

115

tal but unmistakable kind to ungrateful children, banished
nionarchs, and so forth. The eyes of the whole audience
were fixed on Mary, and she probably repented of her choice.
But Dryden did not long depend on revivals of his old
plays. The second year of the new regime saw the pro-
duction of Don Sebastian, a tragi-comcdy, one scene of
which, that between Sebastian and Borax, is famous in
literature, and which as a whole is often ranked above all
Dryden's other dramas, though for my own part I prefer
All for Love. The play, tliough at first received with a
certain lukewarmness, which may have been due to vari-
ous causes, soon became very popular. It was dedicated
to Lord Leicester, Algernon Sidney's eldest brother, a very
old man, who was probably almost alone among his con-
temporaries (with the exception of Dryden himself) in be-
ing an ardent admirer of Chaucer. Li the preface to the
Fables the poet tells us that he had postponed his transla-
tion of the elder bard out of deference to Lord Leicester's
strongly expressed ooinion that the text should be left
alone. In the same year was produced a play less origi-
nal, but perhaps almost better, and certainly more popular.
This was Amjihitnjon, wliich some critics have treated
most mistakenly as a mere translation of Moliere. The
truth is, that the three plays of Plautus, Moliere, and Dry-
den are remarkable examples of the power which great
writers have of treading in each other's steps without ser-
vile imitation. In a certain dry humour Dryden's play
is inferior to Plautus, but, as compared with Moliere, it
has two features which are decided improvements — the
introduction of the character of Judge Gripus and fbc
separation of the part of the Soubrettc into two. As uon
Sebastian had been dedicated to Lord Leicester, an old
Cromwellian, so Amphitryon was dedicated to Sir William

'■%

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116

Levi

DRYDEX.

[cn

A p.

k-eson Gower, a prominent Williaaiito. Neither dedica-
tion contains the least truckling to the powers that were,
but Drydcn seems to have taken a pleasure in showing
that men of both {»arties were sensible of his merit and of
the hardship of his position. Besides these two plays an
alteration of The Prophetess was prod.uc<.'d in 1090, in
which Dryden is said to have assisted Betterton, In 1691
appeared King Arthur, a masque-opera on the plan of Al-
bion and Albanius. Unlike the latter, it has no political
meaning; indeed, Dryden confesses to having made con-
siderable alterations in it, in order to make it non-political.
The former piece had been set by a Frenchman, (Jrabut,
and the nmsic had been little thought of. l*urceli under-
took the music for King Arthur with much better si;ccess.
Allowing for a certain absurdity whi^-h always besets the
musical drama, and which is particularly apparent in that
of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century. King
Arthur is a very good piece ; the character of Emmeline
is attractive, the supernatural part is managed with a skill
which would have been almost proof against the wits of
the Behearsal, and many of the lyrics are excellent, hvy-
den was less fortunate with his two remaining dramas.
In writing the first, he showed himself, for so old a crafts-
man and courtier, very unskilful in the choice ci a sub-
ject. Ch'omenes, the banished King of Sparta, c<aild not
but awaken the susceptibilities of zealous revolution cen-
sors. After some difficulties, in which Laurence Hyde
once more did Dryden a good turn, the piece was licensed,
but it was not very successful. It contains some fine pas-
sages, but the most remarkable thing about it is that there
is a considerable relapse into rhyme, Avhich Dryden had
abandoned for many years. It contains, also, one of the
last, not the least beautiful, and fortunately almost the

> ',

[CIIAP.

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LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

117"

most quotable of the exquisite lyrics whicli, while they
prove, jicrhaps, more fully than anythiiii; else, Dryden's al-
most unrivalled coniniand of vcrsitication, disprove at the
same time his alleged incapacity to express true foelinij.
Here it is :

"Xo, no, poor suffeniig heart, no change endeavour,
Choose to sustain the smart, ratiicr than leave her;
My ravished eyes behold such charms about her,
I can die witii her, but not live without her;
One tender sigli of iicrs to see me huiguish,
Will more than pay the price of my past anguish:
IJeware, cruel fair, how you smile on me,
'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me.

"Love has in store for me one happy minute,
And she will end my pain who did begin it ;
Then no day void of bliss, of pleasure, Icavuig,
Ages shall slide away without perceiving ;
Cupid shall guard the door, the more to please us,
And keep out time and death, when they would seize us :
Time and death shall depart, and say, in flying.
Love has found out a way to live by dying."

Last of all the long list came Love Triinnjjhant, a tragi-
comedy, in 1C94, which failed completely; why, it is not
very easy to say. It is probable that these four plays and
the opera did not by any means requite Drydcn for his
trouble in writing them. The average literary worth of
them is, however, superior to that of his earlier drama.s.
The renM^rV«<ble thing, indeed, about this portion of his
work is not that it is not better, but that it is so good.
He can scarcely be said to have liad la tete dramatique,
and yet in the Conquest of Granada, in Marriage a la
Mode, in Aurcngzche, in All for Love, in the Sj)anish
Friar, in Bon Sebastian, and in Amphitryon he produced

!! '

118

DRYDEN.

[ciup.

!1 '

: I'

T)lays whicli are certainly wortliy of no little aOniiiation.
For the rest, save in isolated scenes and characters, little
can be said, and even those just specified have to be praised
with not a little allowance.

Nevertheless, jrroat as are the drawbacks of these plays,
t'.ieir position in the history of English dramatic literature
is still a hinjh and remarkable one. It was Dryden who,
if he for the moment headed the desertion of the purely
English style of drama, authoritatively and finally ordered
and initiated the return to a saner tradition. Even in
his period of aberration he produced on his faulty plan
such work as few other men have produced on the best
plans yet elaborated. The reader who, ignorant of the
English heroic play, goes to Dryden for inforniation about
it, may be surprised and shocked at its inferiority to the
drama of the great masters. But he who goes to it know-
ing the contemporary work of Davenant and JBoyle, of
Howard and Settle, will rather wonder at the unmatched
lit( rary faculty which from such data could evolve such
a result. The one play in which he gave himself the
reins remains, as far as it appears to me, the only play,
with the exception of Venice Preserved, which was written
so as to be thoroughly worth reading now for 150, 1 had
almost said for 200 years. ^ Mourning Bride and the
Fuir Penitent are worthless by the side of it, and to
them may be added at one sweep every tragedy written
during the whole eighteenth centur}^ Since the begin-
ning of the nineteenth we have indeed improved the poet-
ical standard of this most difficult, not to say hopeless, form
of composition ; but at the same time we have in general
lowered the dramatic standard. Half the best plays writ-
ten since the year 1800 have been avowedly written with
hardly a thought of being acted ; I should be sorry to say

[ciui'.

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LATER DRAMAS AXD TROSK WORKS,

119

how mnny of the othci- half have cither failed to he acted
at all, or, having been acted, have proved dead failures.
Now Drydeii did so far manage to C( .-iliate the gifts of
the play-wright and the poet, that he produced work which
was good poetry and good acting material. It is idle to
dispute tliG deserts of his success, the fact remains.

Most, however, of ]m numerous liostile critics would
confess and avoid th • tragedies, and would concentrate
their attention on the comedies. It is impossible to help,
in part, imitating and transferring their tactics. No apol-
ogy for the offensive characteristics of these productions
is possible, and, if it were possible, I for one have no care
to attempt it. The coarseness of Dryden's plays is unpar-
donable. It d >cs not come under any of the numerous
categories of excuse which can be devised for other offend-
ers in the same kind. It is deliberate, it is unnecessary,
it is a positive defect in art. When the culprit, m his oth-
erwise dignified and not unsuccessful confiteor to Collier,
endeavours to shield himself by the example of the elder
dramatists, the shield is seen at once, and, what is more,
wo know that he must have seen it himself to be a mere
shield of paper. But in truth the heaviest punishment
that Dryden could possibly have suffered, the punishment
which Diderot has indicated as inevitably imminent on
this particular offence, has come upon him. Tiie fouler
parts of his work have simply ceased to be read, and his
most thorougli defenders can only read them for the pur-
pose of appreciation and defence at the price of being
queasy and qualmish. He has exposed his legs to the ar'-
rows of any criticaster who chooses to aim at him, and the
criticasters have not failed to jump at the chance of so no-
ble a quarry. Yet I, for my part, shall still maintain that
the merits of Dryden's comedies are by no means incon-

U''

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120

DRYDEN.

[chap.

m \

' *

/(I'

siderablo ; indeed that, when Shakspcai'c, and Jonson, and
Fletcher, and Etliercge, and Wychcrley, and Congrcve, and
Vanbrugh, and Sheridan have been put aside, he has few
superiors. The unfailing thoroughness with which he did
every description of literary work lias accompanied him
even here, where he worked, according to his own confes-
sion, against the grain, and where he was less gifted by
nature tlian scores of other facile workers who could be
named. The one situation which he could manage has
been already indicated, and it is surely not a thing to be
wholly neglected that his handlings of this situation un-
doubtedly preceded and probably suggested the crowning
trium])h of English comedy — the sublime apotheosis of
the coquette in Millamant. To produce that triumph Dry-
den himself was indeed unable. But from sheer literary
skill (the dominant faculty in him) he produced in Dora-
lice, and in Melantha, and in Florimel, something not
wholly unlike it. So, too, in the central figure of the
Spanish Friar he achieved in the same way, by sheer lit-
erary faculty and by the skilful mani[)ulation of his pred-
ecessors, something like an independent and an original
creation. The one disqualification under which Dryden
laboured, the disqualification to create a character, would
have been in any lesser man a hopeless bar even to the
most moderate dramatic success. But the superhuman
degree in which he possessed the other and strictly litera-
ry gift of adoption and arrangement almost snpplied the
place of what was wanting, and almost made him the
equal of the more facile makers. So close was his study,
so untiring his experiments, so sure his command, by dint
of practice, of language, and metre, and situation, that he
could, like the magicians of Egypt, make serpents almost
like, or quite like those of the true dramatic Moses.

\ l»

[CIIAP.

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LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

121

Shakspeare's serpents liavo eaten his up in time, and the
retribution is just, but tlie credit of the original feat is
hardly the less for that. In short, all, or almost all. Dry-
den's dramatic work is a toui- deforce, but then it is such
a tour deforce as the world has hardly elsewhere seen, lie
was "bade to toil on to make them sport," and he obeyed
the biddino- with perhaps less reluctance than he should
have shown. But he managed, as genius always does
manage, to turn the hack-work into a possession for evsr
here and there. Unluckily it was only liere and there,
and no more can be claimed for it by any rational critic.

The subject of Drydcn's prose work is intimately con-
nected with that of his dramatic performances. Had it
not been for the interest he felt in matters dramatic, he
might never have ventured into anything longer than a
preface ; and his prefaces would certainly have lacked the
remarkable interest in the history of style and in the his-
tory of criticism whicli they now possess. At the time
when he first began to write, the accepted prose style of
English was in much greater need of reform and reinforce-
ment than the accepted poetical style ; or, to speak more
properly, there was no accepted prose style at all. Great
masters — Bacon, Hooker, Clarendon, Milton, Taylor,
Hobbes, Bunyan, and some others— may be quoted from
the first two-thirds of the seventeenth century ; but their
excellences, like the excellences of the writers of French
prose somewhat earlier, were almost wholly individual, and
provided in no way a model whereby the average writer
might form himself for average purposes. Now, prose is
above all things the instrument of the average purpose.
Poetry is more or less intolerable if it be not intrinsical-
ly and peculiarly good ; prose is the necessary vehicle of
thought. Up to Diyden's time no such generally avail-
I 0* f

122

DRYDEX.

[chap.

/'..l;

!|/

I-

able vehicle had been attempted or achieved by any one.
Clarendon had shown liow genius can make the best of
the worst style, wliich from any general point of view his
must probably be pronounced to be. In his hands it is
alternately delightful or tolerable; in the hands of any-
body else it would be simply frightful. His parentheses,
his asides, his endless involutions of phrase and thought,
save themselves as if by miracle, and certainly could not be
trusted so to save themselves in any less favoured hands.
Bacon and Hooker, the former in an ornate, the latter in a
simple style, reproduce classical constructions and forms in
English. Taylor and Milton write poetry in prose. Quaint-
ness and picturesque matter justify, and more than justify.
Fuller and Browne. Bunyan puts the vernacular into print
with a sublime assurance and success. Hobbes, casting off
all ornament and all pretence of ornament, clothes his naked
strength in the simplest garment of words competent to
cover its nakedness. But none of these had elaborated, or
aimed at elaborating, a style suited for every-day use— for
the essayist and the pamphleteer, the preacher and the lay
orator, the historian and the critic. This was what Dry-
den did with little assistance from any forerunner, if it were
not Tillotson, to whom, as we know from Congreve, lie ac-
knowledged his indebtedness. But Tillotson was' not a
much older man than Dryd^u himself, and at least when
the latter began to write prose, his work was neither bulky
nor particularly famous. Nor in reading Tillotson, though
it IS clear that he and Drydcn were in soine sort working
on the same lines, is it possible to trace much iiulebtednest
on the part of the poet. The sometime archbishop's ser-
mons are excellent in their combination of simplicity with
a certain grace, but they are much less remarkable than
Dryden's own work for the union of the two. The oreat

I i

[chap.

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LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

123

fault of the elders had been, first, de inordinate leni^th of
their sentences; secondly — and tins was rather a cause of
the first fault than an additional error — their indulgence
in parenthetic quotations, borrowed aivrnments, and other
strengthencrs of the position of the man who has to rely
on authority; thirdly, the danger to which they were al-
ways exposed, of slipping into clumsy classicisms on one
side, or inelegant vernacular on the other, Dryden avoid-
ed all these faults, though his avoidance was not a matter
of a day or a year, nor was it, as far as can be made out,
altogether an avoidance of malice prepense. Accident fa-
voured him in exactly the reverse way to that in which it
had favoured the reformer of French prose half a century
or so before. Balzac had nothing to say, and therefore was
extremely careful and exquisite in his manner of saying it.
Dryden had a great deal to say, and said it in the plain,
straightforward fashion which was of all things most likely
to be useful for the formation of a workman-like prose
style in English.

The influences of the post-Restoration period which, by
their working, produced the splendid variety and efficiency
of prose in the eighteenth century— the century, par excel-
lence, of prose in English— were naturally numerous; but
there were four which had an influence far surpassing that
of the rest. These four were the influences of the pul-
pit, of political discussion, of miscellaneous writing — partly
fictitious, partly discursive— and lastly, of literary criticism.
In this last Dryden himself was the great authority of the
period, and for many years it was in this form that he at
once exercised himself and educated his age in the matter
of prose writing. Accident and the circumstances of the
time helped to give him a considerable audience, and an
influence of great width, the critical spirit being extensive-

l.:i

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( ' .1

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m
if

fe"

124

DRYDEX.

[chap.

i'f

\y diffused at the time. Tiiis critical spirit was to a great
extent a reflection of tliat wliicli, beginning with Malherbc,
and continuing with the institution and rcguhition of the
Academy, had for some time been remarkable in France.
Not long after the Restoration one of the subtlest and
most aocomplishcd of ail Frencli critics took up his resi-
dence in England, and gave further impulse to the fashion
which Charles himself and many other cavaliers had al-
i*cady picked up. Saint Evremond lived in England for
some forty years, and during the greater part of that time
was an oracle of the younger men of wit and pleasure
about London. Now Saint Evremond was a remarkable
instance of that rare animal, the born critic; even nowa-
days his critical dicta arc worthy of all attention. He had
a kind of critical intuition, which is to be paralleled only
by the historical and scientific intuition which some of the
greatest historians and men of science have had. With
national and characteristic indolence he never save himself
the trouble to learn English properly, and it is doubtful
whether he could have read a single English play. Yet
his critical remarks on some English poets, not borrowed
from his friends, but constructed from their remarks, as a
cicver counsel would construct a pleading out of the infor-
mation furnished him, are extraordinarily acute and accu-
rate. The relish for literary discussion which Saint Evre-
mond shows was no peculiarity of his, though he had it in
super-eminent measure. It was fashionable in France, and
he helped to make it fashionable in England.

I have seen this style of criticism dismissed contempt-
uously as "trifling;" but this is only an instance of the
strange power of reaction. Because for many years the
plan of criticising by rule and line was almost exclusively
pursued, and, as happens in the case of almost all exclusive

'iW

[chap.

v.]

LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

125

pursuits, was followed too far, it seems to some people
nowadays, that criticism ought to be confined to the ex-
pression, in more or less elegant language, of the feelings
of admiration or dislike which the subject criticised may
excite in the critic's mind. The critic ought to give this
impression, but he ought not to leave the other task unat-
tempted, and the result of leaving it unattempted is to be
found in the loose and haphazard judgments which now
too often compose what is called criticism. The criticism
of the Gallic School, which Dryden and Saint Evremond
helped so much to naturalize in England, was at least not
afraid of giving a reason for the faith that was in it. The
critics strove to examine the abstract value of this or that
literary form, the propriety of this or that mode of expres-
sion, the limits to be imposed on the choice and disposition
of this or that subject. No doubt this often resulted in
looking merely at the stopwatch, as Sterne's famous phrase
has it. But it often resulted in something better, and it
at least produced something like reasonable uniformity of

judgment.

Bryden's criticisms took, as a rule, the form of prefaces
to his plays, and the reading of the play ensured, to some
considerable extent, the reading of the preface. Probably
the pattern may be found in Corneille's Examms. Nor
must it be forgotten that the questions attacked in these
disquisitions were of real interest at the time to a large
number of persons; to a very much larger number rela-
tively, perhaps even to a much larger number absolutely,
than would now be the case. The first instance of a con-
siderable piece of prose written by Dryden was not, indeed,
a preface, though it was of the nature of one. The Essay
on Dramatic Poesy was written, according to its own show-
in o-, in the summer of 1665, and published two or three

126

DRYDEX.

[chap.

I» I

(

years later. It takes the form of a dialogue between in-
terlocutors, who are sufticiently identified with Dorset, Sed-
ley, Sir Robert Howard, and Dryden himself. The argu-
ment turns on various questions of comparison between
classical French and English dramas, and especially between
English dramas of the old and of the newer type, the lat-
ter of which Dryden defends. It is noticeable, however,
that this very essay contained one of the best worded and
best thought-out of the author's many panegyrics upon
ShalvS{)eare. Viewed simply from the point of view of style
this performance exhibits Dryden as already a considerable
master of prose, though, so far as we know, he had had no
practice in it beyond a few Prefaces and Dedications, if
we except the unacknowledged hackwork which he is some-
times said to have performed for the bookseller Herring-
man. There is still something of the older, lengthy sen-
tence, and of the tendency to elongate it by joint on joint
as fresh thoughts recur to the writer. But these elonga-
tions rarely sacrifice clearness, and there is an almost total
absence, on the one liand, of the cumbrous classical con-
structions o"" the elders ; on the other, of the quaint collo-
quialisms which generally make their appearance when this
more ambitious style is discarded. The Essay was quickly
followed by a kind of reply from Sir Robert Howard, and
Dryden made a somewhat sharp rejoinder to his brother-
in-law in the defence of the Essay which he prefixed to his
play of The Indian Emperor. He was evidently very an-
gry with Sir Robert, who had, indeed, somewhat justified
Shadwell's caricature of him as "Sir Positive At-All ;" and
this anger is not without effects on the style of the de-
fence. Its sentences are sharper, shorter, more briskly and
flippantly moulded than those of the Essay. Indeed, about
this time — the time of bis greatest prosperity — Dryden

[chap.

n.]

LATER DRAMAS AM) IMWSK WORKS.

127

seems to luive passed, soincwlitit late in life, through a pe-
riod of fiippaiicy. He was for a few years decidedly pros-
perous, and his familiarity with men of rank and position
seems a little to have turned his head. It was at this time,
and at this time only, that he spoke disrespectfully of liis
great predecessors, and insinuated, in a manner which, I
fear, must be called snobbish, that his own familiarity with
such models of taste and deportment as Rochester put him
in a very superior position for the drawing of character
to such humble and home-keeping folks as the old drama-
tists. These prefaces an-^ dedications, however, even where
their matter is scarcely satisfactory, show an ever-growing
command of prose style, and very soon the rcsipisccucc of
Dryden's judgment, and the result of his recently renewed
study of the older writers. Tiic Preface to All/or Love,
though short, and more familiar in style than the earlier
work, is of excellent quality ; and the same may be said
of those to Troilus and Cressidu and the Spanish Friar,
the latter of which is especially characteristic, and contains
some striking remarks on the old dramatists. The great
poetical works of the period between 1680 and 1687 are
also attended by prose introductions, and some of these
arc exceedingly well done. The Epistle to the Whigs,
which forms the preface to the Medal, is a piece of po-
litical writing such as there had been hitherto but very
little in English, and it was admirably followed up by
the Vindication of the Duke of Guise. On the other
hand, the preface to Religio Laici, though partly also
polemical, is a model of what may be called the exposi-
tory style. Drydcn obtained no great credit for his con-
troversy with Stillingtleet, his Life of St. Francis Xavier,
or his History of the League, all of which were directly or
indirectly controversial, and concerned with the political

! ''

i If

' n

128

dkydp:x.

[chap.

1«| !

1 1

events of the time. As his longtliicst i)rosc works, how-
ever, they can hardly be passed over without notice.

The Revolution, in throwing Dryden back upon purely
literary pursuits, did him no more harm in the way oi
prose than cf poetical composition. Not a few of his
Translations have prose prefaces of peculiar excellence pre-
fixed. The sketch of Satire whicli forms the preface to
the Juvenal is one of the best of its author's performances.
The uEneid is introduced by an admirable dedication to
Miilgrave ; but the essay on the Georrfics, though it is not,
indeed, Dryden's own, is almost more interesting in this
connexion than if it were ; for this essay came from the
pen of no less a person than Addison, then a young man
of fivc-and-twenty, and it enables us to judge of the in-
debtedness of the Queen Anne men to Dryden, in prose as
well as in poetry. It would be a keen critic who, knowing
Addison only from the Specfator, could detect his hand in
this performance. But it does not require much keenness
in any one who knows Dryden's prose and Addison's, to
trace the link of connexion which this ,nece affords. It
lies much nearer to the former than the latter, and it
shows clearly how the writer must have studied those
"prefaces of Dryden" which Swift chose to sneer at. As
in poetry, however, so in prose, Dryden's best, or almost
his best work, was his last. The dedication of the Fables
to the Duke of Ormond is the last and the most splendid
of his many pieces of polished flattery. The preface which
follows it is the last and one of the best examples of his
literary criticism.

It has been justly observed of Dryden's prose style that
it is, for the style of so distinguished a writer, singularly
destitute of mannerism. If we father any particular piece
upon him without knowing it to be liis, it is not, as in the

V..]

LATKll DRAMAS AND PKOSE WuKKS.

129

case of most writers, because of some obvious trick of ar-
rangement or pbrascolofjy. The truth is, or nt least the
probability, that Dryden had no thouo-ht of inventing or
practising .•?. d iinite prose style, though lie had more than
once a very definite intention in his practice of matters
poetical. Poetry was with him, as, indeed, it should be,
an end in itself; prose, as perhaps it should also be for
the most part, only a means to an end. He wanted, from
time to time, to express bis ideas on certain points that in-
terested him; to answer accusations which he thought un-
just; to proiiitiate powerful patrons; sometimes, perhaps,
merely to discharge commissions with which he had been
intrusted. He found no good instrument ready to his hand
for these purposes, an 1 so, with that union of the practical
and literary spirit which distinguished him so strongly, he
set to work to make one. But he had no special predi-
lection for the instrument, except in so far as it served its
turn, and he had, therefore, no object in preserving any
special peculiarities in it except for the same reason. His
poetical and dramatic practice, and the studies which that
practice implied, provided him with an ample vocabulary,
a strong, terse method of expression, and a dislike to ar-
chaism, vulgarity, or want of clearness. He therefore let
his words arrange themselves pretty much as they would,
and probably saw no object in such devices lhe balanc-
ing of one ^rt of a sentence by another, whicli attracted
so many of his successors. The long sentence, with its
involved clauses, was contrary to his habit of thought, and
would have interfered with his chief objects — clearness and
precision. Therefore he, in the main, discarded it ; yet if
at any time a long and somewhat complicated sentence
seemed to him to be appropriate, he did not hesitate to
write one. Slipshod diction and cant vulgarities revolted

i^'

i:j|

,11

It.

ii:

180

DRYDEX.

[CIIAP.

ill

his notions of correctness and elegance, and therefore he
schlom nscs them ; yet there are not very many writers in
whom colloquialisms occasionally occur with happier effect.
If a fault is to be found with his style, it probably lies in
H certain abuse of figures and of quotation, for both of
which his strong tincture of the characteristics of the first
half of the century may be responsible, while the former,
at least, is natural to a poet. Yet, on the whole, his style,
if compared either with Hooker and Clarendon, IJacon and
Milton, on the one hantl, or with Addison, and still more
the later eighteenth century writers, on the other, is a dis-
tinctly plain and homely style. It is not so vernacular as
Bnnyan or Defoe, and not quite so perfect in simplicity as
Swift. Yet with the work of these three writers it stands
at the head of the plainer English prose styles, possessing
at the same time a capacity of magnificence to which the
others cannot i)retend. As there is no original narrative
of any length from Dryden's hand in prose, it is difficult
to say whether he could have discharged satisfactorily this
part of the prose-writer's functions. The Life of Xavicr
is good, but not of the best. For almost any other func-
tion, however, the style seems to be well adapted.

Now this, it must be remembered, was the great want
of the day in matter of prose style — a style, namely, that
should be generally flexible and capable of adaptation, not
merely to the purposes of the erudite and .-iTtibitious, but
to any purpose for which it might be required, and in
which the vernacular and the literary elements should be
properly blended and adjusted. It is scarcely too much
to say that if, as some critics have inclined to think, the
influence of Drydeu tended to narrow the sphere and
cramp the efforts of English poetry, it tended equally to
enlarge the sphere and devclope the energies of English

[chap.

V..]

LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

131

prose. It lias often been notiectl that poets, when tliey
have any faculty for prose writinij, arc among the best of
prose writers, and of no one is this more true than it is of
Dryden.

Set prose passages of laboured excellence are not very
common .vita Dryden. But the two following, the first
being the fanious character of Shakspcare from the Esnay
on Dramatic Pocsu, the second an extract from the '-•rcface
to the Fables, will give some idea of his stvle at periods
separated by more than thirty years. The one was Ids
first work of finished prose, the other his last :

" As Ncander was bcginiiinp; to examino ' The Silent Woman,'
Eugcnius, earnestly regarding him ; I Ijeseeeh you, Neander, said he,
gratify the company, and me in particular, <o far, as before you speak
of the play, to give us a character of the author ; and tell us frankly
your opinion, whether you do not think all writers, both French and
P^nglish, ought to give place to him. I fear, replied Neander, that in
obeying your commands I shall draw some envy on myself. Besides,
in performing them, it will he first necessary to speak somewhat of
Shakspcare and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy ; and one of them, in my
opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his superior. To begin then with
Shakspcare. He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps .111-
cient poets, had thj largest and most comprehensive soul. All the
images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not la-
boriously, but luckily ; when he d'^scribes anything, you more than
see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learn-
ing, give him the greater commendation : he was naturally learned ;
he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked in-
wards, and found her there. I cannot say ho is everywhere alike ;
were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest
of mankind. lie is many times Hat, insipid — his coniick wit degen-
erating 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,

' Quantum lenta solent inter vibntDa cupressi.'

. 'Tl

,i:

132

DIIVDKX.

[chap.

The coiisideriition of tlii.s niiidc Mr. llnlcs of Eton say, that there was
no subject of which any poet ever writ but lie would produce it much
better done in Slialispeino ; and iiowever otiiers are now generally
jireferred before him, vet the age wherein he lived, which had con-
temporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never ecjualled them to
him in their esteem; and in the last king's court, when Ben's repu-
tation wa.-! at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him 'he greater
part of the courtiers, set our Shakspeare far above him."

. i I.

fii

"As for the religion of our poet,' he seems to have some little bias
towards the opinions of Wicklitfe, after John of Caunf, his patron;
somewhat of which appear.-* in the ' Tale of I'ierce Tlowman ;' yet I
cannot blame him for inveighing so sharply against the vices of the
clergy in his age : iiieir pride, their ambition, their pomp, their ava-
rice, their worldly interest, deserved the lashes which he gave them,
both in that and in most of his Canterbury Tales. Neither has his
contemporary, l?oecace, spared them. Yet both those poets lived in
nnich esteem with good and holy men in orders ; for the scandal
which is given by particular priests reflects not on the sacred func-
tion. Chaucer's Monk, his Canon, and his Friai' took not from the
character of his Good Parson. A satirical poet is the check of the
laymen on bad priests. Wc ar(> only (o Ukc care that we involve
not the innocent with the guilty in the same condemnation. The
good cannot be too much honoured, nor the bad too coarsely used ;
for the corruption of the best becomes the worst. When a clergy-
man is whipped, his gown is first taken off, by which the dignity of
his order is secured. If he be wrongfully accused, he has his action
of slander: and it is at the poet's peril if he transgress the law.
But they will tell us that all kind of satire, though never so well de-
served by particular priests, yet brings the whole oni.'r into con-
tempt. Is then the peerage of England anything dishonoured when
a peer suffers for his treason? If he h. libelled, or any way de-
famed, ho has his scandalum niagnatum lo jjunish the offender.
They who use this kind of argument seem to be conscious to them-
selves of somewhat which has deserved the poet's lash, and are less

* Chaucer.

[chap.

VI]

LATER DRAMAS AND PROSE WORKS.

i.",a

concerned for tlieir i)tibliik capacity thiin for tlii'ir private; at least,
there is pride at tiie Ixjttoni of their reasoning. If the faults of men
in orders arc only to be judged among themselves, they are all in
some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is
concerned in every niendier of it, how can we be s-ure that they will
be impartial judges ? How far I may be allowed to speak my opin-
ion in this case, I know not ; but I am sure a dispute of this nature
caused niischl'.'f in abundance betwixt a King of England and an
Archbishop of ('anterl)ury, one standing up fur the laws of his land,
and the other for the honour (as he called it) of (iod's clmreh ;
which ended in the murder of the Prelate, and in the whipjiing of his
Majesty from post to pillar for his penance. The learned and in-
genious Dr. Drake has saved me the labour of enquiring into the
esteem and reverence which the priests have had of old; and I would
rather extend than diminish any part of it ; yet I nnist needs say
that, when a priest provokes me without any occasion given him, I
have no reason, unless it be the charity of a Christian, to forgive
him: prior liesit is justification sulficient in tl:e civil law. If I an-
swer hinr in his own liinguage, self-defence, I am sure, must be allow-
ed me ; and if I carry it farther, even to a sharp recrimination, some-
what may be indulged to human frailty. Yet my resentment has not
wrought so far, but that I have followed Chaucer in his character of
a holy man, and have enlarged on that subject with some pleasure,
reserving to myself the right, if I shall think fit hereafter, to describe
another sort of priests, such as are more easily to be found than the
Good Parson ; such as have given the last blow to Christiainty in
this age, by a practice so contrary to their doctrine. But th- iU
keep cold till another time. In the mean while 1 take up C jer
where I left him."

These must suffice for examples of the matter as well
as of the manner of the , rary criticism which forms
the chief and certainly tht' most valuable part of Dryrlen's
prose works. The ijreat value of that criti( 'sm consists
in its extremely appreciative character, and in its constant
connexion with the poet's own constructive work. There
is much in it which might seem to expose Dryden to the
charge of inconsistency. But the truth is, that his literary

i\i\

184

DRYDEX.

[chap. VI.

opinions were in a perpetual state of progress, and there-
fore of apparent flux. Sometimes lie wrote with defective
knowledge, sometimes, thougli not often, without think-
ing the subject out, sometimes (and tliis very often) with a
certain one-sidednoss of view having reference rather to the
bearing of the point on experiments he was then trying or
about to try, than to any more abstract considerations, lie
never aimed at paradox for its own sake, but he never
shrank from it ; and, on the whole, his criticisms, though
perhaj)s nowadays tliey appeal rather to the expert and
the student than to the general reader, are at least as in-
teresting for their matter as for their form. The impor-
tance of the study of that form in the cultivation cf a ro-
bust English style has never been denied.

'<''

'Ill

IP-

CHAPTER VII.

PERIOD OF TRANSLATION.

It is in most cases a decidedly difficult problem to settle
the exact influence wliich any writer's life and circum-
stances have upon his literary performances and career.
Althono'h there are probably few natures so absolutely
self-sufficing and so imperial in their individuality that
they take no imprint from the form and pressure of the
time, the exact force which that pressure exercises is near-
ly always very hard to calculate. In the case of Dryden,
however, the difliculty is fortunately minimized. There
was never, it may safely be said, so great a writer who was
so thorougldv occasional in the character of his greatness.
The one thing which to all appearance he could not do,
was to originate a theme. His second best play, accord-
ing to the general judgment, his best as I venture to
think, is built, with an audacity to which only great genius
or great folly could lead, on the lines of Shakspeare. His
longest and most ambitious poem follows, with a surpris-
ing faithfulness, the lines of Chaucer. His most effective
piece of tragic description is a versified paraphrase — the
most magnificent p.u'aphrase, perhaps, ever written — of
the prose of Boccaccio. Even in his splendid satires he is
rarely successful, unless he has what is called in modern
literary slang a very definite "peg" given him to hang his

h 1

i t

130 DKYDEN. [chap.

verse upon. Absalom and Achifophel is little more than
a loosely connected string of characters, each owing no
doubt something, and what is more, a great deal, to the
poet, but originally given to, and not invented by him.
No fashion of poetry can be fartlier aloof from Dryden's
than that which, as in the case of Shelley, spins great
poems purely out of its own brain. His strong and pow-
erful mind could grind the corn supplied to it into the
finest Hour, but the corn must always be supplied. The
exquisite perfection of his smaller lyrics forbids us to set
this down as in any sense a drawback. It was rather a
strong inclination to the ono ofiice than an incapacity for
the other. What is more to the purpose, this peculiarity
is very closely connected with Dryden's fitness for the posi-
tion which he held. The man who is to control the peace-
able revolution of a literature, who is to shape a language
to new uses, and help writers for a century after his death
to vocabulary, rhythm, and style, in prose as well as in
verse, is perhaps all the better off for not being too spon-
taneous or original in his choice of subjects. But however
this may be, there is no doubt that outward circumstances
always had a great, and the greatest, influence upon the de-
velopment of Dryden's genius. There was in some respects
a (luality about this genius for which it would be hard to
find an appropriate name. To call such a mind and such
a talent as Dryden's parasitic would be ridiculous. Yet in
any lesser man the same characteristics would undoubtedly
receive that appellation. It seems always to have been, if
not necessary, at any rate satisfactory to him, to follow some
lines which had been already laid down, to accept a depart-
ure from some previous work, to match himself closely with
some existing performance. It appears almost as if, in his
extraordinary care for the manner of his poetical work, he

[chap.

VII.]

PERIOD OF TRAXSLATIOX.

felt it an advantage to be relieved of much trouble about
the matter. The accusations of plagiarism which his fran-
tic enemies constantly brought against him were, in any
discreditable sense, as idle as accusations of plagiarism
usually are; but they had considerably more foundation
in literal fact than is usual with such accusations. lie
had a habit of catching up phrases sometimes from the
works of men to whom he was anything but compliment-
ary, and inserting them, much improved, it is true, for the
most part, in his own work. I have come across a curi-
ous instance of this, which I do not remember to have seen
anywhere noticed. One of the most mortifying incidents
in Dryden's literary career was the already mentioned com-
position by his rival, though not exactly enemy, Crownc,
of the Masque of Calisto. There seems to be little doubt,
though the evidence is not entirely conclusive, that
Crowne's share in this work was due to Rochester, who
afterwards made himself obnoxious to Dryden's wrath in
a still more unpardonable manner. Under these circum-
stances we certainly should not expect to find Dryden
borrowing f" - . (kiliato. Yet a whole line in Macjlecknoe,
" The fair - ta much to fears inclined," is taken, with

the addition of the adjective and the adverb, from a song
of Crowne's: "Augusta is to fears inclined." This tem-
perament made the work of translation one peculiarly
suitable to Dryden. He had, as early as 1084, included
several translations in his first volume of Miscellanies, and
he soon perceived that there was plenty of demand for
more of the same ware. Except his great editor, it is
doubtful whether any man of letters ever knew the pub-
lic taste better than Dryden. The call for translations of
the ancients was quite natural and intelligible. Direct
classical study was considerably on the wane. So far, in-
K 7 1'^

i' I

,i:

\'{:

1 K

IS8

DRYDEN.

[chap.

deed, as one sex was concerned, it had practically gone
out of fasliion altogctlier, and women of the accomplish-
ments of Lady Jane Grey or Queen Elizabeth were now
tiionght monsters. Even as regards men, a much smaller
proportion of the upper classes were able to read the
classics in the original than had once been the case. Busi-
ness, court life, employment in a standing army and navy,
and many other distractions called men early away from
their studies. Yet the interest felt, or supposed to be felt,
in classical literature was at least as great as ever. The
classics were still considered as literary models and pat-
terns; and the famous controversy between the ancients
and the moderns which arose about this time helped to
inspire a desire for some acquaintance with the former in
the easy, fashionable verse which Dryden had himself
created. In 1093 lie gave to the world the whole of Per-
sius and much of Juvenal, the latter being completed by
his sons and some friends. In the same year some more
versions of Ovid and a little of Homer appeared; and in
1698 also his greatest work of translation, the Virgil, was
begun. This was the only on(> of Dryden's works for
which he received not wholly inadequate remuneration,
and this remuneration was attained chiefly by the method
of subscription. Besides these authors, liis translations
include extracts from Theocritus and Lucretius, a very few
Odes of Horace, and a considerable portion of the Meta-
morphoses of Ovid, which appeared last of all in the well-
known volume of Fab/cs. The merits and peculiarities of
Dryden's translation are easily estimated. It has been ex-
cellently remarked in the Preface of a recent prose trans-
lation of the Odyssey, that there can be no Hnal translation
of Homer, because the taste and literary habits of each age
demand ditTerent qualities in poetry. There is no need To

VII.]

PERIOD OF TRANSLATION.

139

limit this remark to Homer, or indeed to poetry. The
work of the translator is to bridge over the interval be-
tween liis author and his public, and therefore the con-
struction and char;icter of the bridge must necessarily dif-
fer, according to the instruction and demands of the pub-
lic. Dryden could not give exact accuracy, though he
was by no means such a bad scholar as Pope. But his
public did not want exact accuracy, and would not have
been grateful for it. He did not— whether he was or was
not able— give them classical flavour and local colour, but
for these they would have been still less grateful. What
they wanted, and what he could give them as no other
man then living could, was the matter of the original, tol-
erably unadulterated, and dressed up in the splendid dic-
tion and nervous verse which he had himself taught them
to love. The parallel between the characteristics of the
translation and the simple device whereby Jacob Tonson
strove to propitiate the ruling powers in the illustrations
to the Virgil is indeed obvious enough. Those illustra-
tions displayed "old Nassau's hook-nosed head on pious'
^neas' shoulders." The text itself displayed the head of
Bryden on the shoulders of Virgil.

Even before the Miscellany of 1684, translations from
Dryden's liands had been published. There appeared in
1080 a version of Ovid's Jfcroides, to which he gave a
preface and a translation of two epistles, besides collabo-
rating with Mulgrave in a third. The preface contains
some good criticism of Ovid, and a defence of the man-
ner of translation which with little change Dryden himself
constantly employed. This he defines as being equally
remote from verbal fidelity and from mere imitation. He
also lays down a canon as to the necessary equipment of
a translator, which, if it could be despotically enforced,

'! I

ill'

iil

140

DRYDEX.

[chap.

111

In Hi

I; !

!*l

would be a remarkable boon to reviewers. " No man is
capable of translating poetry who, besides a genius to that
art, is not a master both of his author's lanoua^-e and of
his own. Nor must wo understand tlie lanjruao-e only of
the poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expres-
sions, which are the characters that distinguish, and as it
were individuate liim from all other writers." These first
translations are interesting because they are the first, and
for the sake of contrast with the later and more perfect
work of the same kind. In some respects Ovid was an
unfortunate author for Dryden to select, because his pe-
culiarities tempted a relapse into the faults of the heroic-
play style. But, on the other hand, Dryden's practice in
the heroic play fitted him very well to translate Ovid. A
few lines from the close of Canace to Macareus may be
given as an instance —

" And now appeared the messenger of death ;
Sad were liis looks, and scarce he drew his breath,
To say, ' Your father sends jou ' (with tliat word
His trembling hands presented me a sword ;)
' Your father sends you this ; and lets you know
That your own crimes the use of it will show.'
Too well I know the sense those words impart ;
His present shall be treasured in my heart.
Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?
And this the fatal dower a father gives ?
Thou God of marriage, shun thy own disgrace,
And take thy torch from tlr ested place !
Instead of that, let furies lig iheir brands,
And fire my pile with their infernal hands !
With hapi)icr fortune may my sisters wed.
Warned by the dire example of the dead.
For thee, poor hiibo, what criiin' could they pretend ?
How could (hy infant innocence offend ?

[ciup.

VII.] PERIOD OF TRANSLATION.

A guilt there was ; but, oh, that guilt was mine !
Thou suffer'st for a sin that was not thine.
Thy mother's grief and crime ! but just enjoyed,
Shewn to my sight, and born to be destroyed !
Unhappy oiTspring of my teeming womb !
Dragged headlong from thy cradle to thy tomb!
Thy unoffending life I could not save,
Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave ;
Nor on thy tomb could offer my shorn hair.
Nor shew the grief which tender mothers bear.
Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be lost;
For soon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.
But thou, my love, and now my love's despair,
Perform his funerals with paternal care ;
Ilis scattered limbs with my dead body burn,
And once more join us in the pious urn.
If on my wounded breast thou droppest a tear,
Think for whose sake my breast that wound aid bear;
And faithfully my lust desires fulfil.
As I perform my cruel father's will."

141

\\.\

!■ ■ :

The Miscellanies of 1684 and 1685 contained a con-
siderable number of translations from many different au-
thors, and those of 1693 and 1694 added yet more. Al-
together, besides Ovid .vud Virgil, specimens of Horace,
Homer, Theocritus, and Lucretius are In these translations,
■while the more an'biiious and complete versions of Juve-
nal and Virgil swell the total (in Scott's edition) to four
volumes, containing perhaps some 30,000 lines.

It could hardly be expected that in translating authors
of such different characters, and requiring in a poetical
translator so many different gifts, Dryden should be al-
together and equally successful. The Juvenal and the
Virgil deserve separate not' ;e ; the others may be briefly
reviewed- All of them are, according to the general con-
ception of translation which Dryden had formed, decidedly

142

DRYDEN.

[chap.

,i:

loose, and by no means adhere to the original. Indeed,
Dryden not unfrequently inserts whole lines and passages
of his own, a proceeding scarcely to be reconciled with tlie
just-mentioned conception. On the whole, he is perhaps
most successful with Ovid. The versions of Horace are
few, and by no means excessively Horatian, but they are
almost all good poems in Dryden's statelier rhythm. The
version into a kind of Pindaric of the twenty-ninth ode of
the third book is particularly good, and contains the wall-
known paraphrase of resiffuo quw dedit (" I puff the pros-
titute away "), which was such a favourite with Thackeray
that he puts it into the mouth, if I remember rightly, of
more than one of his characters. Indeed, the three last
stanzas of this are well worth quotation—

VIII.

" 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 possessed, in spite of fate, arc mine •.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

" Fortune, that with malicious joy

Docs man, her slave, oppress.
Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleased to bless :
Still various and unconstant 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,

[chap.

^I.]

PEKIOD OF TRANSLATION.

143

And shakes the wings aiul will not stay,

I puff tlie prostitute away :

The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned ;

Cciitcnt with poverty, my soul I arm,

And virtue, thougli in rags, will-keep me warm.

" What is't to mo,
Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,
If storms arise anc 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."

Least successful of all, pcrliaps, arc tlie Tiicocrltcan
translations. The idyllic spirit was not one of the many
which would come at Dryden's call, and certain peculiari-
ties of Theocritus, harmless enough in the original, arc
accentuated and magnified in the copy in a manner by no
'•-leans pleasant. A thing more unfortunate still was the
selection made from Lucretius. No one was ever better
qualified to translate the greatest of Roman poets than
Dryden ; and had he given us the whole, it would probably
have been the best verso translation in the laniruao-e. As
it is, he has done few things better than the selections
from the second and third books; but that from the fourth

,JI

.' \

"* I

DllYDEN.

[chap.

.1,

i ,

I-

fc-

lia:^, justly or unjustly, tainted the whole in the eyes of
most critics. It reproduces only too nakedly the original
where it would be better left alone, and it fails almost
entirely even to attempt the sombre fury of sentiment, the
ine.\i)ressible ai^'ony of regret, which transfuse and redeem
that original itself. The iirst book of Homer and part of
the sixth were avowedly done as an experiment, and it is
difficult to be very sorry that the experiment was not pur-
sued farther. But the versions of Ovid's Metamorphoses
are very good. They, however, belong more properly to
tl'.e next period, that of the Fab/cs.

Dryden's Juvenal is not the least remarkable, and has
been in some ways among the most fortunate of his works.
It is still, if there be any such, the standard verse transla-
tion of the great Roman satirist, and this although much
of it is not Dryder's. His two elder sons assisted him in
the work, as well as some friends. But the first, third,
sixth, tenth, and sixteenth satires are his own, as well as
the whole of the Persitts. The book was published in
1693, addressed to Dorset, with a prefatory essay or dis-
course on satire, which is of great interest and value. It
is somewhat discursive, as is Dryden's wont, and the erudi-
tion which it contains is, as is aisc his wont, anything
but invariably accurate. But it contains some precious
autobiographic information, much capital criticism, and
some of the best passages of its author's prose. He dis-
tinguishes between his own idea of satire and Juvenal's,
approaching the former to that of Horace, which, howl
ever, is scarcely a tenable position. But, as has been suf-
ficiently pointed out already, there are actually many and
grave dilferences between the satire of Dryden and that
of Juvenal. The former rarely or never even simulates
indignation ; the latter constantly and invariably expresses

I I

[ciup.

VII.]

PERIOD OF TRANSLATIOX.

145

it. Still, the poetical resemblances between the two men
are sufficiently close to make the expectation of a valuable
version pretty contidetit, nor is that expectation disap-
pointed. For a wonder Dryden resists, for the most part,
his unhappy tendency to exaggerate the coarseness of his
subjects, and to choose their coarsest parts in preference
to others. No version of Jusenal could be other than
shocking to those uccustonieu only to modern standards
of literary language ; but this version 's perhaps less so
than might be expected. The vigorous stamp of Dryden's
verse is, moreover, admirably suited to represent the orig-
inal, and the chief fault noticeable in it — a fault not un-
common with Dryden in translating — is an occasional
lapse into an unpoutical vernacular, with the object, doubt-
less, of representing the text more vividly to English read-
ers. The Fcrsius is in this respect better than the
Juvenal, though the peculiar dryness of flavour of the
singular original is scarcely retained.

It is not known exactly when Dryden first conceived
the idea of working up the scattered fragments of Vir-
gilian translation which he had as yet attempted into a
whole. The task, however, was regularly begun cither at
the end of 1G93 or the beginning of 1G94, and it occupied
the best part of three years. A good deal of interest was
generally felt in the proceeding, and many friends help-^d
the poet with books or literary assistance of one kind or
another. A great deal of it, too, was written during
visits to hospitable acquaintances in the country. Much
of it was doubtless done in Northamptonshire and llun-
tingdonshiro, at the houses of Mrs. Creed and of Driden of
Chesterton. There is, indeed, a universally repeated tra-
dition that the first lines were written with a diamond on
a window in this latter mansion. The house was pulled

1 ti

= ««

146

DKYDEV.

[chap.

I •

ii'^
'^1

down some seventy years iv^o, and a curious anainicnt
against the trutl. ..f tlu" legend l-as been made out of the
fact that the pane was not preserved. Demolition, how-
ever, IS not usually careful of its prey. Much was certai.dy
wnttou at Denham Court, in JJiickinghamshire, the seat of
Sir W illiain Bowyer, whose gardens are commemorated in
a note on the Geoi'gics. The seventh book of the .-Eneid
was done at Burleigh, Dryden having long had some con-
nexion with the Exeter family. He had, it may be men-
tioned, always been fond of writing in the country. Ton-
80,., the publisher, was exceedingiv anxious that the book-
should be dedicated to William III., and Dryden speaks as
Jf e.'rtain anticipations of gain had been held out to iiini
in sucli a case. But he was unfalteringlv determined to
do nothing that would look like an abandonment of his
principles. No single person received the honor of the
dedication ; but each division of the work was inscribed
to a separate patron. The AWor/ues fell to the lot of Loul
Clifford, Dryden's eo-religionist, and sen of tlie " fierce and
bravo" if not very high-principled member of tlie Cabal
to whom Amhoi/na had been dedicated long before. The
Georffks were inscribed to Lord Chesterfield, a dedication
which, with Dryden's subsequent reception and acknowl-
edgment of a present from Chesterfield, is at least deci-
sive against the supposed connexion between Lady Eliza-
beth and the Earl having been known to the poet". Un\-
grave, now Marquis of Nomianby, had the ^'ncid. The
book was published in July, 1G97, and the edition was
sold off almost within the year. Dryden speaks to his
sons, who were now at Rome, where thev had employment
in the Pope's household, with great pleasure of its success.
It is, in truth, a sufBciently remarkable book. It was, no
doubt, rather ironical of fate to assign Homer to Pope,

I !

Ifi

vir.l

PERIOD OF TPAXi^LATIOX.

14-

v»]io was of all poets tlio least Home lic, and Virgil to Diy
den, tlian whom not many poets have been more un-Vir-
{^ilian. Pope would have done the Matituan, whom in
many tilings he resembles, excellently. Dryden lias dono
him excellently too, only tliat the s[)irit of the translation
is entirely different from that of the original. To say
after Wordsworth that Dryden "spoils" all the best pas-
sages is <|uite unfair. But Wordsworth had no special
faculty of criticism in the classical languages, and was
of all recorded poets the most niggardly of praise, and
the most prone to depreciation of others. Of the three
parts as wholes the Georgics are perhaps done best, the
Eclogues worst, the yEneid with most inequality. Yet the
best passages of the epic arc the best, beyond al! doubt, of
the whole version. A certain delicacy of touch, which Vir-
gil especially requires, and of whic'i i?: v«^-'n was sufficient-
ly master in his more original w »rk, has rften failed him
here, but the bolder and more m iscaiine passages are rep-
resented with a great deal of success Thos^ who believe,
as I confess I myself believe, that an translation is nnsat-
isfactory, and that poetical translation of poetry is nearly
impossible, must of course always praise such work as this
with a very considerable reservation. But when that res-
ervation is made, there remains plenty of fairly disposa-
ble praise for this, Dryden's most considerable undertak-
ing of a single and complete kind. The older translations
have so far gone out of general reading in England that
citation is in this case almost indispensable, as well ft)r the
purpose of sliowing what Dryden actually did give his
readers in this famous book, as for that of exhibiting the
progress he had made since the Ovid of sixteen years be-
fore. The passage I have chosen is the well-known open-
ing of the descent into hell in the sixth book, which has

lii

fri

I' j!

! I

ii'

! 1,
I i.

148 DJIYDE.V. [chap.

not many superiors cither in the orio'inal or in the version.
The subject was one that Dr}dcn could handle well, where-
as his Dido sometimes shows traces of incongruity —

"She said, and passed along the gloomy space;
The prince pursued lier steps with equal pace.
Ye realms, yet unrevealed to human sigiit !
Ye gods, who rule the regions of the night !
Ye gliding ghosts ! permit me to relate
Tlie mystic wonders of your silent state.
Obscure they went through dreary shades, that led
Along tlie waste dominions of the dead.
Thus wander travellers in woods by night,
By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,
When Jove in dusky clouds involves the ski( s.
And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.
Just in the gate, and in the jaws of hell.
Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell,
And pale Diseases and repining Age,
Want, Fear, and Famine's unresisted rage ;
Here Toils, and Death, and Death's half-brother Sleep,
(Forms terrible to view) their ccntry keep ;
With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind,
Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind ;
The Furies' iron beds ; and Strife, that shakes
Her hissing tresses, and unfolds her snakes.
Full in the midst of this infernal road.
An elm displays her dusky arms abroad :
The god of sleep there hides his heavy head.
And empty dreams on every leaf are spread.
Of various forms unnuml)ered spectres more.
Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door.
Bcfoie the passage, horrid Hydra stands.
And IJriareus with all his luuuh'cd hands ;
(iorgons, Geryon with his trijjie frame ;
And vain Chimicra vomits empty flame.
The chief unsheathed his shining steel, prepared.
Though seized with sudden fear, to force the guard,

%WV

[chap.

vii.] TEIUOD OF TRAXSLATIOX. 149

OiTcring his brandished weapon at their face ;
Had not the Sibyl stopped his eager pace,
And told him what those empty phantoms were—
Forms without bodies, and impassive air."

Owinjx to the existence of some letters to Tonson,
Walsli, and others, more is known about the pecuniary
side of this transaction than about most of Dryden's mon-
ey affairs. Tonson was an exceedingly hard bargain-
driver, and there is extant a curious letter of his, in which
he complains of the number of verses he has for his
money, a complaint which, as we shall see when we come
to the Fables, was at any rate in that case grossly unjust.
The book was published by subscription, as Pope's Homer
was subsequently, but the terms were not nearly so profit-
able to the poet. A hundred and two five -guinea s o-
scribers had each his arms printed at the foot of one of
the hundred and two plates. Others who subscribed only
two guineas merely figured in a list of names. But except
a statement by Dryden in a letter that " the thirr, shil-
lings upon every book remains with me," the proportion in
which the subscriptions were divided between author and
publisher is unknown. lie had, however, as Malonc thinks,
50/. for each book of the jEne'ul — as Mr. Christie and Mi-.
Hooper think, 50/. for each two books — and no doubt
there was some sin)ilar payment for the Eclogues and
Georgics. Altogether Pope hoard that he made 1200/. by
the Virgil. Presents too were doubtless sent him by Clif-
ford and Mulgravo, as well as by Chesterfield. But Ton-
son's payments wore anything but satisfactory, and Lord
Macaulay has extracted much evidence as lo the state of
the coinage from Dryden's indignant letters on the subject.
At one time he complains that in some money changed
for Lady Elizabeth by Tonson, " besides the clipped money

!J,

' i

150

DRYDEX.

^I|5

, I

[chap.

lliere were at least forty sl)illings brass." Then he ex-
pects "good silver, not such as he had formerly," and will
not take gold, of couise because of the renewed risk of
bad money in change. Then complaints are made of Ton-
son for refusing subscriptions (which shows that a consid-
erable portion of the subscription-money must have gone
to the poet), for declining to pay anything for notes,
and so on. The most complimentary thing to Tonson in
the correspondence is the rennu-k,"A!l of your trade are
sharpers, and you not more than others." In the next
letter, however, the suspicion as to the goodness of Ton-
son's money returns— "If you have any silver which will
<jo, my wife will be glad of it." Elsewhere there is a half-
apologetic allusion to a "sharp" letter which seems not to
have been preserved. But Dryden had confidence enough
in liis publisher to make him do various pieces of fiduciary
business for him, such as to receive his rents which had
been brought up from Northamptonshire by the Towces-
ter carrier, to get bills to pay a suspicious watchmaker who
would not take gold, and the like. lie, too, was the in-
termediary by which Dryden sent letters to his sons who
were now in Rome, and he is accused of great carelessness
and perhaps something worse in connexion with these let-
ters. In another epistle we hear that "the printer is a
beast," an accusation which it is to be feared has been
r(>peated frequently since by impatient authors. After-
wards, in rather Landorian style— indeed, there arc resem-
blances more than one between the two, and Landor was
a constant adniirer of Dryden— he " vows to God that if
Everingham, the printer, takes not care of this impression,
he shall never print anything more for him." These
letters to Tonson about the Vin/it and the Fables are
among the most interesting memorials of Drvden that wo

"^.^,

[chap.

VI..]

PERIOD OF TRANSLATION.

151

possess, and they are, with those to Mrs. Steward, ahnost
the only letters of his which give much personal detail.'
Perhaps it is not superfluous to say that allusions in them
to his wife arc frequent, and show nothinu; either of any
ill-feelinij between the two, or of anv neglect of household
duty on her part. To one of the letters to his sons is a
long postscript from Lady Elizabeth, in pcrliaps the most
remarkable orthography that even English epistolary his-
tory has to show, but affectionate and motherly enough.

During the period which the last two cliapl'^rs cover,
Dryden had as usual not failed to undertake several minor
and miscellaneous literary tasks. Uleonora, m 1092, was
one of his least successful pieces in a literary point of view,
but perhaps the most successful of all as a piece of journey-
work. The poem is an elegy on the Countess of Abing-
don ; it was ordered by lier husband, and paid for munifi-
cently. There are but 377 verses, and the fee was five
hundred guineas, or on Tousou's method of calculation
some seven or eight-and-twenty shillings a line — a rate
which would have seemed to Jacob sinful, as encouraging
poets to be extortionate with honest tradesmen. The
piece is laboured and ill -sustained. If it deserved five
liundrcd guineas, the Anne Killigrew ode would certainly
liave been cheap at five thousand. But not long after-
wards a poem to Sir Godfrey Kiieller, which may or may
not have been exchanged for somethriig of the other ar-
tist's craft, showed that Drvden had in no wav lost his fac-
^lty of splendid flattery. Perhaps before and perhaps af-
ter this came the incomparable address to Congreve on tho

' As, for instaiu'o, linw (lie is writinp; from Noi'tlminptonsliirc) "
party of beiiiglitod stniiigcrs cuiue in, and lio had to jiivc up liis bod
to tliom, to whidi bed tlicy would have gone suppcrless, had he not
" taken a very lusty pike tliat day."

< i

162

DRYDEX.

[CIIAP. VII.

.1,

!lf:':;.

failure of the Doub/e Dealer, wliich is and deserves to
be one of Drydeu's best -known works. Congreve and
Southern, the leading comic writer and the leading tragic
writer of the younger generation, were among the princi-
pal of the band of sons (in lien Jonson's phrase) whom
Dryden had now gathered round him. In one of liis let-
ters there is a very pleasant picture of the two young men
coming out four miles to meet the coach as he returned
from one of his Northamptonshire visits, and escorting Iiim
to his house. This was in 1G95, and in the same year
Dryden brought out a prose translation of Du Fresnov's
Art of Fainthif/, with a prefatory essay called a " I'araflel
of Poetry and Painting." There is not very much in-
trinsic value in this parallel, l)ut it has an accidental in-
terest of a curious kind. J )ryden tells us that it occupied
him for twelve mornings, and we are therefore able to cal-
culate liis average rate of working, since neither the mat-
ter nor the manner of the work betokens any extraordina-
ry care, nor could it have required exti-aordinary research.
The essay would fill between thirty and forty pages of the
size of this present. Either in 1(595 or in 1690 the poet
also wrote a 'ife of Lucian, intended to accompany a trans-
lation of the Dialogues made by various hands. This too,
which did not appear till after the author's death, was
something of a " pot-boiler;" but the cliaracter of Dryden's
prose work was amply redeemed by the "Discourse on
Epic Poetry," wliich was the form that the dedication of
the ^h'neid to Mulgrave took. This is not unworthy to
rank with the "tissay on Dramatic Poesy" and the "Dis-
course on Satire."

1 1

CHAPTER VIIT.

THE FABLKS.

It was beyond a doubt his practice in translation, and tlie
remarkable success that attended it, which sun'gested to
Drydcn tiic last, and one of the most singular, but at the
same time the most brilliantly successful of all his poetical
experiments. His translations themselves were in many
cases rather paraphrases than translations, lie now con-
ceived the idea of a kind of composition which was to be
avowedly paraphrase. With the unfaili'.ig catholicity of
taste wnicii is one of his finest literary characteristics, he
had always avoided the ignorant contempt with which the
age was wont to look on mcdiajval literature. Even Cow-
ley, we are told, when requested by one of his patrons to
give an opinion on Chaucer, confessed that he could not
relish him. If, when ho planned an Arthurian epic, Dry-
den had happened to hit on the idea of "transversing"
Mallory, we might have had an additional star of the first
magnitude in English literature, though his ability to pro-
duce a wholly original epic may be doubted. At sixty-
seven, writing hard for subsistence, he could not think of
any such mighty attempt as this. But he took certain
tales of Chaucer, and certain novels of Chaucer's master,
Boccaccio, and applied lis system to them. The result
was the book of poems to which, including as it did many

L n '

i ill

^C!

ill

154

DRYDEN.

[CIIAP.

Ovidian trnii>1ations, and much other verse, he gave the
name of Fables, iisinn^ that word in its sin)pl<> sense of sto-
ries. It is not surprising that tliis book took the town
by storm. Enthusiastic critics, oven at the boginnin<>- of
the pref-Ti; century, assigned to Theodore and Ilonoria " a
place on *l!c very topmost shelf of English poetry." Such
arrangements depend, of course, upon the definition of poe-
try itself. ]Jut I venture to think that it would be almost
sufficient case against any such definition, that it sho^ild
exclude the finest passages oc the Fables from a position a
little lower than that which F.llis assigned lo thc.r). It so
happens that we are, at the present day, in a position to
put Dryden to a specially cruci/il test which his contempo-
raries were unable to apply. T. us Chancer is no longer
tin ingenious and intelligent but illegible barbarij^n. We
read the Canferbur>/ Tales with as much rLii>h,;ind >sith
ni.arly as little difl^iculty, as we read Spenser, or Milton, or
I'opo, or Bvron.or our own living poets. Pulamon ayid
Arcite lias,tlK"iforc, to us tho drawback— if drawback it
bo— of being confrofited on equal terms with its original.
Yet I venture \o s.,^; that, '.ixcept in the case of those un-
fortunate persons whose o(i1y way of showing appreciation
of one thing is by depreciation of something else, an ,ic-
quaintance with the KnighCs Tale injures Dryden's w(.,..k
hardly it all. There could not possibly be a severer test
of at least formal e5ccellence than this.

The Fables were published in a folio volume which, ac-
cording to the contract with Tonson, was to contain 10,000
verses. The payment was 300/., of which 250 guineas
were paid down at the time of agreement, when three-
fourths of the stipulated number of lines were actuallv
handed over to the publisher. On this occasion, at least,
Jacob had not to complain of an unduly small considera-

[chap.

VIII.]

THE FABLES.

15i:

' i;i

tion. For Dryden gave him not 2500, but nearly 5000
verses more, without, as far as is known, receiving any in-
crease of his fee. The remainder of the 300^. was not to
be paid till the appearance of a second edition, and this
did not actually take place until some years after the poet's
death. Pope's statement, therefore, tbnt Dryden received
" sixpence a line " for his verses, though not formally ac-
curate, was sufficiently near the truth. It is odd that one
of the happiest humours of Tom the First (Shadvvel!) oc-
curring in a play written long before he quarrelled with
Dryden, concerns this very practice of payment by line.
In the Sullen Lovers one of the characters complains that
his bookseller has refused him twelvepencc a line, when the
intrinsic worth of some verses is at least ten shillings, and
all can be proved to be worth three shillings " to the veri-
est Jew in Christendom." So that Tonson was not alone
in the adoption of the method. As the book finally ap-
peared, the Fables contained, besides prefatory matter and
dedications, five pieces from Chancer {Palamon and Arcite,
the Cock and the Fox, the Floicer and the Leaf, the Wife
of Bath's Tale, the Character of a Good Parson), three
from Boccaccio {Siffismonda and Ouiscardo, Theodore and
Honoria, Cymon and Iphirjenia), the first book of the Iliad,
some versions of Ovid's Metamorphoses in continuation of
others previously published, an Epistle to John Driden, the
second St. Cecilia Ode, commonly called Alexanders Feast,
and an Epitaph.

The book was dedicated to the Duke of Ormond in a
prose epistle, than which even Dryden never did anything
better. It abounds with the fanciful expressions, just stop-
ping short of conceit, which were such favourites with him,
and which he managed perhaps better than any other writ-
er. He holds of the Ormond family, he tells the Duke,

\ ff L

.11

I m

i;f

15ft

DUYDEN.

[CUAP.

i Ti

l>y a tenure of dedications, having paid tliat conipiimcnt to
his Grace's grandfather, the great Duke of Oiniond, and
having celebrated Ossory in memorial verses. Livy, Pub-
licola, and the history of Teni are brought in perhaps
somewhat by the head and shoulders; but this was sim-
ply the fashion of the time, and the manner of the doing
fully excused it. Even this piece, however, falls short, in
point of graceful flattery, of the verse dedication of Fala-
mo/i and Arcite to the Duchess. Between the two is the
preface, which contains a rather interesting history of the
genesis of the Fables. After doing the first book of
Homer "as an essay to the whole work," it struck Dryden
that he would try some of the passages on Homeric sub-
jects in the Metamorphoses, and these in their turn led to
others. When he had sufficiently extracted the sweets of
Ovid, " it came into my mind that our old English poet
Chaucer in many things resembled him;" and then, "as
thoughts, according to Mr. Hobbes, have always some con-
nexion," he was led to think of Boccaccio. The preface
continues with critical remarks upon all three authors and
their position in the history of their respective literatures,
remarks which, despite some almost unavoidable ignorance
on the writer's part as to the early condition and mutual
relationship of modern languages, are still full of interest
and value. It ends a little harshly, but naturally enough,
in a polemic with Blackmore, Miibourn, and Collier. Not
much need be said about the causes of either of these de-
bates. Macaulay has told the Collier story well, and, on
the whole, fairly enough, though he is rather too compli-
mentary to the literary value of Collier's work. That
redoubtable divine had all the right on his side, beyond a
doubt, but he sometimes carried his argument a good deal
too far. Dryden, however, could not defend himself, and

( 1,

[tUAP.

Till.]

THE FABLES.

157

lie knew tliis, atul did not attempt it, tlion2;]i he could not
always refrain, now and afterwards, from indulging in lit-
tle flings at Collier. Blaekmore had iwo causes of quarrel
with Dryden — one the same as Collier's, the other a polit-
ical one, the poetical knight being a staunch Whig. Mil-
bourn was an obscure country clergyman, who had at one
time been a great admirer of Dryden, as a letter of his still
extant, in which he orders the poet's works to be sent to
him, shows. lie had, however, fallen foui of the Vliyif,
for which he received from Dryden due and perhaps more
than due castigation.

Enougli has been already said of the translations of
Homer and Ovid. The latter, however, arc, as far as mere
verse goes, among the best of all the translations. Pala-
mon and Arcitc, however, and all the other contents of the
book arc of a very different order of interest. Dryden hail
an extreme admiration for this story, which as the subject
for an epic he thought as good as either Homer's or Vir-
gil's. Nowadays most people have left off considering
the technical value of different subjects, which is no doubt
a misfortune. But it is easy to see that the legend, with
its interesting incidents, its contrast of character, its revo-
lutions, and so forth, does actually come very near to the
perfect idea of the artificial epic. The comparative nullity
of the heroine would have been thought no drawback in
ancient art. Dryden has divided the story into three
books, and has, as usual, paraphrased with the utmost free-
dom, but he has kept closer to the dimensions of the orig-
inal than is his wont. His three books do not much ex-
ceed the length of the original tale. In the different
parts, however, he has used his own discretion in amplify-
ing or contracting exactly as he thinks proper, and the
comparison of different passages with the original thus

'I,. E

''I

!1 •

\l^

158

DUYDEX.

[CIIAP.

I'll?

I'i

I I.

brlnj^'s out in a niauifolj way the idiosyncrasies of the two
writers. Perhaps this is nowhere nidic marked tiian in
the famous description of the Temple of Mars. As far
as tlie temple itself goes, Dryden has the upper hand, but
he is beaten when it comes to "the portraiture which was
upon the wall." Sometimes he has sim{)ly adopted Chau-
cer's very words, soniclimes ho has done otherwis.-, and
then he has dmost alv . «s .']one w=»vse. The " .-^miler with
the knife under t' . ak" is very inadeipiately replaced
by three whole Hues about hypocrisy. If the couplet —

"Amiddes of the temple sate Miscliauce,
And Discomfort and sory Counteniiuce,"

be contrasted with

" In midst of all the dome Misfortune sate.
And gloomy Discontent and fell Uubate,"

the comj'iratively otiose epithets which in the next cen-
tury were to be the curse of the style, strike the eye and
ear very forcibly. Indeed, in this most finished work of
Drydcn's nothing is easier than to see the strength and the
weakness of the method he had introduced. In liis iiands
it turns almost always to strength. But in thus boldly
bringing his work side by side with Clumcer's, he had
indicated the divergence which was to be carried farther
and farther by his followers, until the mot propre was lost
altogether in a washy sea of elegant epithets and flowing
versification. That time, however, was far off, or might
have seemed to be far off, to a reader of the Fables It ia
only when Chaucer is actually oomj»ared that the defects,
or rather the possibilities of defect, rise to the eye. If
Palamon and Arcite 'h- read by itself, ■ is almos. entirely
delightful, and, as has ucen said alreaa\,it will even bear
the strain of comparison. For the loss is counterbalanced

^■A,

[chap.

VIIl]

THE FABLES.

169

might

by gain, gain of sustained strctigth and greater perfection
of worivinan.ship, even though we may K" w \\<\\ cnougli
that Dryden's own idea of Chaucer's short lings in versi-
rication was a mere dehision.

The Nuti's Priest's Tale was also not very much ex-
tended, though it was considerably altered in Dryden's
version, entitli-d T/ie Cork and the Fox. Dryden's fond-
ness for the boast-story had, as we have seen already, drawn
upon hitn the reprehension of Messrs. Prior and Montague,
critics of severe and cultivated taste. It has just been sug-
gested that a great loss has been sustained by his not hav-
ing taken the fancy to transverse some Arthurian stories.
In the same way, if he had known the origiiud Roman de
Renart, he would doubtless have made good use of it. The
Cock and the Fox itself is inferior to many of the branches
of the old tree, but it has not a few merits, and the story
(»f the two friends is one of the very best things of the
kind. To this Dryden has done a' pie justice. But in
the original not the least attractive part is the solemn pro-
fusion of learne<l names and citations characteristic of the
fourteenth century, which the translator has in some cases
thought it better to omit. It may not be quite clear
V hether Chaucer, who gemrally had a kind of satiri'-al un-
denmrrent of intention in him, was serious in putting these
int< ' he months of Fartlet and Chanticleer or not, but still
one misses them. On the other hand, Dryden has made
the mn of the astrological allusions; for it must be re-
meui'- red tha* ho had a decided hunkering after astro] .(^y,
like many of ■ greatest men of his century. Of this
there is evidence (i"'" apart from Mrs. Thomas's stories,
which ,'ilso deal with liio point.

The third of Dryden's Chaucerian versions is one of the
most charming of all, and this, though the variations from

111

I *

100

DRYDEN.

K ! -

[chap.

the orij^lna, are cotisiderablo, and tlioii<rh tliat orij^inal is
itself one of the most ch'Iii^htfiil works of the kind.' I
have read, poriia[)s as miicli as most Eiitxlishmon, the French
fourteeiitli-centiirv poetry on wliioh so much of (,'liaucer's
is modelled, but I hardly know either in French oi Fntjlish
a poem more characteristic, and more deli^■htfully charac-
teristic of the fourteenth century tlian the Flower and the
Leaf, Tlie deliyht in a certain amiable kind of natural
beauty, the transference of the sij^ns and symbols of that
beauty to the service of .1 fantastic and yet not unnatural
poetry of love, the intro action of ab>tract and supernatu-
ral beings to carry out, sometimes by allco-ory and some-
times by personification, the object of the poet, are ;ill ex-
emplified in this little piece of some 500 or GOO lines, in
a manner which it would be hard to match in Froissart or
Guillaume do Machault. Yet Dryden has asserted his
power of equallino- the virtue of the original in what may
be called an original translation. The two poems differ
from one another considerably in details of machinery and
imagery. Chaucer is happier in his descri{)tions of nature,
Dryden in the representation of the central personages.
But both alike have tin power of transporting. Even now,
when so much of his language and machinery have become
hackneyed, Dryden can exert this power <mi those who are
well acquainted with mediaeval literatui'. who have felt its
strange fascination, and the ease with which it carries off
the reader into unfamiliar and yet delightful lands, where
notliing is disturbing and unreasonable, and yet everything
is surprising and unhackneyed. IIow nnich more strongly
this power must have been exerted on a singularly prosaic
age, in which the majority of persons would, like Prior

' I do not hero conccru myself with the hypothesis of the spuria
ousness of this poem.

%^^

VIM.]

THE FABLES.

161

and Montafjue, have cast asidr ;is nonsense worthy only of
cliildion tlie gracious, shadowy inia^'inations of niediieval
thoiiirht, wc in the nineteenth century can hardly put our-
selves in the conditi<.n to estimate. But it must always
remain one of Dryden's highest titles to fame that he was
able thus to make extremes meet. Ue seems, indeed, to
have had not only the far from ordinary faculty of recog-
nising good literature wherever he met it, but the quite ex-
traordinary faculty of niaking other people recognise it too
by translating it into the language which they were capa-
ble of comprehending, A passage may be worth quoting :

" To this the dame replieil : ' Fair daughter, liiiow
That ^^•hat you saw was all a faiiy show;
And all those airy shapes you now behold
Were human bodies once, and clothed with earthly mould.
Our souls, not yet prepared for upper light.
Till doomsday wander in the shades of night;
Thia only holiday of all the year,
We, privileged, in sunshine may appear;
With songs and dnnco we celebrate the day.
And with du(! honours usher in the May.
At other times we reign l)y night alone.
And posting through the skies pursue the moon;
But when the morn arises, none are fdiiud,
For cruel Demogorgon walks the round.
And if he finds a fairy lag in light,
He drives the wretch before, and lashes into night.

'"All courteous aro by kind ; and ever proud
With friendly offices to help the good.
In every land we have a larger space
Than what is known to you of mortal race ;
Where we with green adorn our fairy bowers,
And even this grove, unseen before, is ours.
Know farther, every lady clothed in white.
And crowned with oak and laurel every knight,
8

1^9

1«2 DRVDEX. [aiAP.

Are servants to the Leaf, liy liveries known

Of innocence; ami I myself am one.

Saw you not lior so graceful to behold,

In white attire, and crowned with radiant gold?

The sovereign lady of our land is she,

Diana called, the queen of chastity ;

And, for the spotless name of maid she bears,

That Arpiits cu.sliis in her hand appears ;

And all her train, with leafy ehujdets crowned,

Were for unblamed virginity renowned ;

Hut those the chief and highest in command

\Vho bear tiiose holy branches in their hand,

The knights adorned with laurel crowns are they,

Whom death nor danger ever could dismay,

Victorious names, who made the world obey:

Who, while they lived, in deeds of arms excelled,

And after death for deities were held.

Hut those who wear the woodbine on their brow.

Were kniglit.s of love, who never broke their vow;

Firm to their plighfed faith, and ever free

Fiom fears, and fickle chance, and jealousy.

The lords and ladies, who the woodbine bear,

As true as Tristram and Isotta were.'"

Why Divdcn selootod the Wife of Bath's Tale among
his few translations from Chaucer, it is not v#i-v easy to
say. It is a suiliciently harmless /«W/a«, but it cannot be
said to come up in point of merit to many others of the
Canterhnrif Talcs. The enemies of onr poet would doubt-
less say that lie selected it l)ocausc of the wnfavourable
opinions as to womankin<l wlii<;h it contains. ]}ut then
those same enemies would find it dillicult to say wliy he
did not choose instead the scandalous prologue which
onites opinions of womankind at least as unfavourable
witli other matter of the .sort wliicli liostile criticism sup-
poses to have been peculiarly tempting to Dryden. In the
actual tale as given in the Fables tliere is some alloy of

VIII.j

THE FABLES.

163

this kind, but nothing that could be at all shocking to the
age. The length of the story is in proportion more am-
plified than is the case with the others. Probably the
argumentative gifts of the old hag who turned out not to
be an old hag attracted Dryden, for he was always at his
best, and must have known that he was always at his best,
in passages of the kind. The pleading of the crone is one
of his best efforts. A certain desultoriness which is to
be found in Chaucer is chai.ged into Dryden's usual chain
of serried argument, and it is much less surprising in the
translation than in the original that the knight should
have decided to submit at once to such a she-lawyer. But
the " wife" herself has something to complain of Dryden.
Her fancy for widowhood is delicately enough put in the
original :

" [Soiulo] grace to overlive tlicm that we wed."

Dryden makes it much blunter:

" May widows wed as often as they can,
And ever for the better change their man,"

The Character of a Good Parson admits itself to be
"enlarged" from Chaucer, and, indeed, the termination,
to the extent of some forty lines, is wholly new, and writ-
ten with special reference to the circumstances of the
time. To this character there is a pleasant little story
attached. It seems from a letter to Pepys that the diarist
had himself recommended the character in the original to
Dryden's notice. When the verses were done, the poet
told Pepys of the fact, and proposed to bring them for
his inspection. The answer contained a sentcn('(! which
displays a much greater antipathy to parsons than that
which, if we may believe Lord Macaulay, who perhaps

\ I'

''. 1

•II!

)

rsl

164

DRYDEX.

[chap.

Ill

borrowed the idea from Stillingflcet or Collier, Dryden
himself felt. Pepys remarks that he hopes " from your
copy of this good parson to fancy some amends made me
for the hourly offence I bear with from the sight of so
many lewd originals." What particular trouble Pepys
had to bear at the hands of the lewd originals it would
be hard to say. But— tiuie-servcr as he had once been—
he was in all probability suiilciently Jacobite at heart to
relish the postscript in Drydon's version. This transfers
the circumstances of the expulsion of the Nonjurors to the
days of Illchard the Second and Henry of Bolingbroke.
Nor, had there still been a censorship o/the press, "is it at
all probable tliat this postscrii)t would have been passed for
publication. The following verses are sufficiently pointed:

" Conquest, an odious nanu', was laid aside;
Wlion all submitted, none tlie battle tried.
The senseless plea of -ij^'lit by providence
Was by a flattering priest invented since.
And lasts no longer flwin tlie present sway
IJut justifies the next wliieh comes in play.
The people's rif,'ht remains ; let those who dare
Dispute their power when ihey the jud"es are."

The character itself is also very much enlarged; so much
so that the original can only be said to have furnished the
heads for it. Dryden has done few better things.

The selections from Boccaccio, like those from Chaucer,
may or may not have been haphazard. The first, at any
rate, wiiich has been, as a rtsle, the worst thotight of, ex-
plains itself sufficiently. Tl, > story of Tuncrrd ami S/.yis-
mumla, perhaps, afforded rr )m for " loose description's ;"
it certainly afforded room for the argument in verse of
which Dryden was so groat a master. Although the hints
of the original iiave been somewhat coarsely ampiitied, the

VIII.]

THE FABLES.

165

speech of Sigismunda is still a very noble piece of verso,
and her final address to her husband's heart almost better.
Here is a specimen :

'"Thy praise (and thine was then tho pubh., voice)
First recomineiHled (Juiscard to .ny choice:
Directed tiiua by tlioe, 1 looked, and found
A man I tiiougiit deserving to be cr(>\vned;
First by my lather pointed to my siglit,
Nor less conspieuous by Iiis native light;
His mind, his mien, the features of ids face,
Excelling all the rest of human race :
These were thy thoughts, and tliou eouldst judge aright,
Till interest made a jaundiee in thy sight.
Or, should I grant thou didst not rightly see.
Then thou wert first deceived, and 1 deceived by thee.
But if thou shalt allege, through pride of mind,
Thy blood with one of base condition joined,
'Tis false, for 'tis not baseness to be poor :
His poverty augments thy crime the more ;
Upbraids thy justice with the scant regard
Of worth ; whom princes |)iaise, they should reward.
Are these the kings intrusted by the crowd
With wealth, to be dispensed for common good ?
The people sweat not for their king's delight,
To enrich a pimp, or raise a parasite ;
Tlieirs is the toil ; and he who well has served
His country, has his country's wealth deserved.
Even mighty monarehs oft are meanly born,
And kings by birth to lowest rank return ;
All subject to the power of giddy chance,
For fortune can depress or ean advance ;
Hut true nobility is of the mind.
Not given by chance, and not to chance resigned.

" ' For the remaining doubt of thy decree.
What to resolve, and how dispose of me ;

He warned to cast that useless care aside

Myself alone will for myself provide.

1C6

DRYDEN.

[chap.

1 1 1

) ''.

ir i!

If, in thy doting and decrepit a<^c,
Thy soul, a stranj^er in thy j'outli to rage,
Begins in cruel deeds to take deligiit,
Gorge witli my blood thy barbaious appetite ;
For I so little am disposed to pray
For life, I would not cast a wish away.
Such as it is, the offence is all my own ;
And what to Guiscard is already done,
Or to 'h; done, is doomed, by thy decree,
That, if not executed first by thee,
Shall on my person be performed by me.

" ' Away ! with women weep, and leave me here,
Fixed, like a man, to die without a tear;
Or save, or slay us both tliis present hour,
'Tis all that fate has left within thy power.' "

The last of the three, Cymon and. Iphigenia, has been a
irreat favourite. In the original it is one of the mo.st un-
interesting stories of the Decameron, i]\e single incident of
Cymon's falling in love, of which not very much is made,
being the only relief to a commonplace tale of violence
and treachery, in which neither the motives nor the char-
acters of the actors sufficiently justify them. The Italian,
too, by making Iphigenia an unwilling captive, takes away
from ( 'ymon the only excuse he could have had. The three
charming lines with which Dryden's poem opens —

" Old as I am, for lady's love unfit,
The power of beauty I remember yet,
Which once inflamed my soul, and still inspires my wit,"

have probably bribed a good many readers, and certainly
the whole volume of the Fables is an ample justification
of the poet's boast, not only as regards beauty of one kind,
but of all. The opening triplet h followed by a diatribe
against Collier, which at first seems in very bad taste; but
it is made, with excellent art, to lead on to a description of

[chap.

VIII.]

THE FABLES.

the power of love, to which tlie story yokes itself most nat-
urally. Nor is any praise too high for the description of
the actual scene in which Cymon is converted from his
brutishness by the sight of Iphigenia, an incident of which,
as has been said, the original takes small account. But
even with the important alterations which Dryden has in-
troduced into it, the story, as a story, remains of but sec-
ond-rate interest.

Nothing of this sort can be said of Theodore and Hono-
ria. I have said that Ellis's commendation of it may be
excessive ; but that it goes at the head of all the poetry
of the school of which Dryden was a master is absolutely
certain. The original here is admirably suggestive: the
adaptation is more admirable in its obedience to the sug-
gestions. It has been repeatedly noticed with what art
Dryden has gradually led up to the hoiror of the phan-
tom lady's appearance, which is in the original introduced
in an abrupt and casual way ; while the mattor-of-factness
of the spectre's address, both to Theodore himself and t..
the friends who w'sh afterwards to interfere in his vic-
tim's favour, is most happily changed in the English poenu
Boccaccio, indeed, master as lie was of a certain kind of
pathos, did not, at least in the Decameron, succeed with
this particular sort of tragedy. His narrative lias alto-
gether too much of tlie chronicle in it to be fully impres-
sive. Here Dryden's process of amplification has been of
the utmost service. At almost every step of the storv he
has introduced new touches which transform it altogether,
and leave it, at the close, a perfect piece of narrative of
the horrible kind. The same abruptness which has been
noticed in the original version of the earlier part of the
story appears in the later. In Dryden, llonoria, impressed
with the sigjit, and witii Theodore's subseipient neglect of

!^i

f't

,1:

;t '■

ItiS

DRYDEK.

[chap.

fi!

hor, dreams of wluit she has seen, and thinks over what
she has dreamt, at hist, and only at last, resolving to sub-
dw'i her pride and consent to Theodore's suit. IJoccaccio's
heroine iroes straight home in a business-like manner, and
sends "a trasty damsel" that very evening to inform her
h.ver that »i»e surrenders. This is, to say the least, sud-
den. In short, the comparison is here wholly in favour of
the English pjet. Nor, if we drop the parallel, and look
at Theodore and Honoria merely by itself, is it less ad-
mirable.

The purely original poems remain to be noticed. Of
the Epitith to John Driden we know that ])ryden him-
self thought highly, while the person to whom it was ad-
dressed was so pleased with it that he gave hiu) " a noble
present," said by family tradition to have been 500/., but
which Malone, ex sua cotijcctura, reduces to 100/. John
Driden was the poet's cousin, and his frequent host at
Chesterton. He was a bachelor, his house being kept by
his sister Honor ; he was a member of Parliament, and an
enthusiastic sportsman. Chesterton had come into the
Dryden family by marriage, and John Driden inherited
it as the second son. The poem contains, in allusion to
Driden's bachelorhood, one of those objurgations on mat-
rimony which have been interpreted in a personal sense,
but which are, in all probability, merely the commonplaces
of the time. Besides wives, physicians were a frequent
subject of Dryden's satire ; and the passage in this jjoem
about the origin of medicine has been learnt by almost
every one. It might not have been written but for Black-
more's sins, for Dryden had, in the postscript to his Virffil,
paid an elaborate comi)liment to two ornaments of the
profession. But it is naturally enough connected with a
compliment to his cousin's sportsmanship. Then there is

[chap.

)vei' what
g to sub-
occaccio's
inner, and
iforni her
least, sud-
favour of
and look
it less ad-

iced. Of

den him-

it was ad-

" a noble
500/., but
0/. John
it host at
g kept by
nt, and an
J into the

inherited

allusion to

IS on mat-

)nal sense,

imonplaces

a frequent

this poem

by almost

for Black-

his Virgil,

nts of the

!ted with a

icn there is

VIII.]

THE FABLES.

169

what might be called a "Character of a good Member of
Parliament," fashioned, of course, to suit the case of the
person addressed, who, though not exactly a Jacobite, was
a member of tiie Opposition. The poem ends with a
most adroit compliment at once to the subject and to the
writer. These complimentary pieces always please pos-
terity with a certain drawback, unless, like the lines to
Congreve, and the almost more beautiful lines on Oldham,
they deal with merits which are still in evidence, and are
not merely personal. But the judgment of Dorset and
Montague, who thought of this piece and of the exquisite
verses to the Duchess of Ormond that he " never writ bet-
ter," was not far wrong.

The only piece that remains to be noticed is better
known even than the Epistle to John Driden. Alexander's
Feast was the second ode which Dryden wrote for the
" Festival of St. Cecilia." He received for it 40/., which,
as he tells his sons that the writing of it " would be
noways beneficial," was probably unexpected, if the state-
ment as to the payment is true. There are other legendary
contradictions about the time occupied in writing it, one
story saying that it was done in a single night, wiiile an-
other asserts that he was a fortnight in composing or cor-
recting it. But, as has been frequently pointed out, the
two statements are by no me&ns incompatible. Another
piece of gossip about this *ar,ous ode is that Dryden at
first wrote Lais instead of Thais, which " small mistake "
he bids Tonson in a letter to remember to «Ut.-. Little
criticism of Alexander's Feast is nec.-ssr.-y. Whatever
drawbacks its form may have (espcciai.y^,.-, irriiating
chorufi), it must be admitted to be about the o* st thing of
its kind, and nothing more can be demanded of any poetry
than to be excellent in its kind. Dryden himself 'thouirht
M 8* 12 ^

/' Jt

ITO

DRYDEN.

[CIIAP.

I'll!

■^1

r (

it tlic best of all his poetry, and he had a remarkable fac-
ulty of sclf-criticisin.

This volume of poems was not only tliC last that Dry-
den produced, but it also exhibits liis poetical character in
its vei-y best and most perfect form. He had, through all
his long literary life, been constantly a student, always his
own scholar, always correcting, varying, re-arranging, and
refining. The citations already given will have shown at
what perfection of metre he had by this time arrived.
Good as his early (if not his earliest) works are in this
respect, it must be remembered that it was long before ho
attained his greatest skill. Play-writing in rhyme and
blank verse, practice in stanzas, and Pindarics, and irreg-
ular lyrical measures, all went to furnish him with the ex-
perience he required, and which certainly was not in his
case the school of a fool.

Boo-inninti- with a state of pupilage to masters who were
none of the best, ho subsequently took little instruction,
except of a fragmentary kind, from any living man except
Milton in poetry, and, as he told Congreve, Tillotson in
prose. But he was none the less constantly teaching liim-
self. His vocabulary is naturally a point of great impor-
tance in any consideration of his influence on our literature.
His earliest work exhibits many traces of the scholastic
and pedantic phraseology of his immediate forerunners.
It is p;-obable that in his second period, when his activity
was chiefly dramatic, he might have got rid of this, had
not the tendency been strengthened by the influence of
Milton. At one period, again, the Gallicizing tendencies
of the time led him to a very improper and inexcusable
importation of French words. This, however, lie soon
dropped. In the meridian of his powers, when his great
Batircs were produced, these tendencies, the classical and

•n.

VIII,]

THE FABLES.

171

the Gallioan, in action and rc-action with liis full command
of Enoli,h, vernacular and literary, produced a dialect
which, if not the most graceful that the language has ever
known, is perhaps the strongest and most nervous. Little
change takes place in the last twenty years, though the
tendency to classicism and archaism, strengthened it may
be by the work of translation, not unfrequcntly reappears.
In versitication the great ach(. v ment of Dryden was the
alteration of what may be called the balance of the line,
causing it to run more quickly, and to strike its rhymes
with a sharper and less prolonged sound. One obvious
means of obtaining this end was, as a matter of course, the
isolation of the couplet, and the avoidance of overlapping
the different lines one upon the other. The effect of this
overlapping, by depriving the eye and voice of the expec-
tation of rest at the end of each couplet, is always one of
two things. Either the lines are converted into a sort of
rhythmic prose, made musical by the rhymes rather than
divided by them, or else a considerable pause is invited at
the end of each, or of most lines, and the cadence of the
whole becomes comparatively slow and languid. Both
these forms, as may be seen in the works of Mr. Morris,
as well as in the older writers, are excellently suited for
narration of some consid Table length. They are less well
suited for satire, f.^r argument, and for the' moral reflec-
tions which the age of Dryden loved. ]Ie, therefore, set
Inmself to elaborate the couplet with its sharp point, its
quick delivery, ajul the pistol-like detonation of its rhyme.
But there is an obvious objection, or rather there arc sev-
eral obvious objections which present themselves to the
couplet. It was natural that to one accustomed to the
more varied range of the older rhythm and metre, there
might seem to be a danger of the snip-snap monotony

■h

ii
.1,

f I

ill-

172

DIIYDEX.

[chap.

into wliicli, as wc know, it did actually fall wlirii it passed
out (jf the lianils of its first great prnctitioiu rs. There
inii,'ht also be a fear that it would not always be | ossiblc
to compress the sense of a complete clause within tiic nar-
row limits of twenty syllables. To meet these difllculties
Drydcn resorted to three mechanical devices — the hemi-
stich, the Alexandrine, and the triph t ; all tlnvo of whiru
could be used indifferently to eke out the space or to give
variety (if sound. The use of the hemistich, or fragment-
ary line, appears to have been based partly on the well-
known practice of Virgil, partly on the necessities of
dramatic composition where the unbroken English couplet
is to English ears intolerable. In poetry proper the hemi-
stich is anything but pleasing, and Dryden, becoming con-
vinced of the fact, almost discarded it. The Alexandrine
and the triplet lie always continued to use, and they arc
to this day the most obvious characteristics, to a casual
observer, of his versification. To the Alexandrine, judi-
ciously used, and limited to its proper acceptation of a verse
of twelve syllables, I can sec no objection. The metre,
though a well-known English critic has maltreated it of
late, is a very fine one ; and some of Dryden's own lines
are unmatched examples of that *' energy divine" which
has been attribiri j to him. In an essay .n the Alex-
andrine in Em.:!:' !i poetry, which yet remains to be writ-
ten, and which wnuid be not the least valuable of contri-
butions to pooti. ,;i criticism, this use of tiie verse would
have to be considered, as well as its regular recurrent em-
ployment at the close of the Spenserian stanza, and its
continuous use, of which not many poets besides Drayton
and Mr. lirowning have given us considerable examples.
An examination of the Polyolbhm and of Fifine at the
Fair, side by side, would, I think, reveal capacities some-

[chap.

I it passed
•s. There
e I ossiblc
n llic iiar-
dilllculties
tlie liemi-

of whirli
or to give
'ragmcnt-

tlic well-
jssities uf
sh couplet
the hcini-
ming con-
lexaiulrinc

they are
) a casual
:rine, judi-
of a verse
he metre,
ated it of
own lines
le " which
the Alex-
) be writ-
of contri-
rse would
rrcnt cm-
!», and its
i Drayton
examples.
lie at the
ics soine-

vi"! COPRESPONDKNCE. 178

.vhat uncxpcetod even in this form of arrangement. But
80 far as the occasional Alexandrine is ooncorned, it is not
a hy[.erl>oIe t. say that a number, out of all propArticu f
the best linos in Eiil^'- 1i poetry may be found in the clo
ing versos of the Spt scrian s vo as used by Sponsor ' '•
self, by Sliolloy, and by tho present Laureate, and in t
occasional Alexandi.jca of Dryd'-n. The only thing to
bo said against this latter use is, that it demands a very
skilful ear and hand to adjust the cadenee. So much for
the Alexandrine.

For the triplet I must confess myself t<. be iitirely
without atr tion. Except in the very rare ca.-,oH when its
contents eome in, in point of sense, as a kind of par- n-
thesis or aside, it seems to me to spoil the met anv-

thing could spoil Drydon's verse. That there >me

doubt about it oven in the minds of those wh- d it,
may be inferred from the care they generally touk to ac-
company it in print with the bracket indicator, as if to
invite the eye to break it gently to the ear. So strong
was Drydon's \ >e, so well able to subdue all forms to
its own moasun, that in him it mattered but little; in his
followers its drawbacks at once appeared.

A few personal details not already alluded to remain as
to Drydon's life at this time. To this period belongs the
second and oidy other considerable series of his letters.
They are addressed to Mrs. Steward, a cousin of his,
though of a mucli younger generation. Mrs. Steward w is
the daughter of Mrs. Creed, the already-mentiof.ed inde-
fatigable decorator of Northamptonshire churches and
halls, and she herself was given to the arts of painting anil
poetry. She had married Mr. Elmos Stowat I, a mighty
sportsman, whose house at Cottorstock still exists by the
roadside from Oundle to reterborough. The corrospond-

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174

DRYDEX.

[chap.

ence extends over the last eighteen niontlis of tlio poet's
life, beginning in October, 1698, and not ending till a
week or two before his death in the spring of IVOO. Mrs.
Steward is said to liave been about eight-and-twenty at the
time, and beautiful. The first letter speaks of a visit soon
to be paid to Cotterstock after many invitations, and is
rather formal in style. Thenceforward, however, the epis-
tles, sometimes addressed to Mr. Steward (Dryden not in-
frequently spells it Stewart and Stuart), and sometimes to
his wife, are very cordial, and full of thanks for presents
of country produce. On one occasion Dryden " intends "
that Lady EHzabeth should " taste the plover he had re-
ceived," an incident upon which, if I were a commentator,
I should build a legend of conjugal liappiness quite as
plausible, and probably quite as well founded, as the legend
of conjugal unhappiness which has actually been construct-
ed. Then tliere are injurious allusions to a certain par-
son's wife at Tichmarsh, who is "just the contrary " of Mrs.
Steward. Marrow puddings are next acknowledged, which
it seems were so good that they had quite spoiled Charles
Dryden's taste for any other. Then comes that sentence,
" Old men arc not so insensible of beauty as, it may be,
vou young ladies think," which was elsewhere translated
into eloquent verse, and the same letter describes the
writer as passing Ids time " sometimes with Ovid, some-
times with our old English poet Chaucer." More ac-
knowledgments of presents follow, and then a visit is
promised, with the prayer that Mrs. Steward will have
some small beer brewed for him without hops, or with a
very inconsiderable quantity, because the bitter beer at
Tichmarsh had made him yery ill. The visit came off in
August, 1699, and it is to be hoped that the beer was not
bitter. After his return the poet sends, in the pleasant old

[chap.

VIII.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

116

fashion, a history of his journey back to London, whither
the stage coach took liitn out of his way, whereby, not
passing certain friends' houses, he missed " two couple of
rabbits, and Mr. Cole's Ribaduvia wine," a stirrup cup of
the latter being probably intended. In November occurs
the famous description of himself ns " a man who has
done his best to improve the language, and especially the
poetry," with much literary and political gossip, and occa-
sional complaints of bad health. This letter may perhaps
be quoted as a specimen :

"Nov. 7, 1699.
"Madam, — Even your expostulations are pleasing to me; for
though they show you angry, yet they are not without many expres-
sions of your kindness ; and therefore I am proud to be so chidden.
Yet I cannot so farr abandon my own defence, as to confes.s any idle-
ness or forgetfulncss on my part. What has hind'red me from write-
ing to you was neither ill health, nor, a worse thing, ingratitude ; but
a flood of little businesses, which yet are necessary to my subsist-
ance, and of wl ch I hop'd to have given you a good account before
this time : but the Court rather speaks kindly of me, than does any-
thing for me, though they promise largely ; and perhaps they think
I will advance as they go backward, in which they will be much de-
ceived ; for I can never go an inch beyond my conscience and my
honour. If they will consider me as a man who has done my best to
improve the language, and especially the poetry, and will be content
with ray acquiescence under the present government, and forbearing
satire on it, that I can promise, because I can perform it ; but I can
neither take the oaths, nor forsake my religion ; because I know not
what church to go to, if I leave the Catholique ; they are all so di-
vided amongst themselves in matters of faith necessary to salvation,
and yet all assumeing the name of Protestants. May God be pleased
to open youB eyes, as he haa open'd mine! Truth is but one; and
they who have once heard of it can plead no excuse if they do not
embrace it. But these are things too serious for a trifling letter. If
you desire to hear anything more of my affairs, the Earl of Dorsett
and your cousin Montague have both seen the two poems to the
Duchess of Ormond and my worthy cousin Driden ; anu are of opiii-

'iib ' J

u •

f,'

176

DRYDEN.

[cuAr. VIII.

ion that I never writt better. My other friends are divided in their
judgments which to proferr ; but the greater part are for those to
my dear liinsman ; which I have corrected with so much care, that
they will now be wortliy of his sight, and do neither of us any di':;-
honour after our death.

" There is this uay to be acted a new tragedy, made by Mr. Hop-
kins, and, as I believe, in rhime. He has formeily written a play
m verso, called Boadicea, which j'ou fair ladyes lik'd ; and is a poet
who writes good verses, without knowing how or why ; I mean, he
writes naturally well, without art, or learning, or good sence. Con-
greve is ill <»f the gout at Barnet Wells. I have had the honour of
a vi:5ite from the Earl of Dorsett, and diu'd with him. Matters in
Scotland are in a high ferment, and next door to a breach betwixt
the two nations ; but they say from court that France and we are
hand and glove. 'Tis thought the king will endciwour to keep up a
standing army, and make the stirr in Scotland his pretence for it ; my
cousin iJriden and the country party, I suppos^e, will le against it;
for when a spirit is raised, 'tis hard conjuring him down again. You
sec I am dull by my writeing news; but it may be my cou.sin Creed
may be glad to hear what I believe is true, though not very pleasing.
I hope he recovers health in the country, by his staying so long in it.
My service to nfiy cousin Stuart, and all at Oundle.
" I am, fairc Cousinc,

" Your most obedient servant,

"John Dryden.
" For Mrs. Stewart, Att

Cotterstock, near Oundle,

lu Northamptonshire,

These.
To be left at the Post-honse in Onndle."

CILVPTER IX.

CONCLUSION.

Dryd^n's life lasted but a very short time after the publi-
cation of the Fables. He was, if not a very old man, close
upon his seventieth year. He had worked hard, and had
probably liv^d no more carefully than most of the men of
his time. Gout, o^ravel, and other disorders tormented him
sorely. The Fables were published I'n November, 1699,
and during the wintci he was more or less ill. As has
been mentioned, many letters of his exist i.: reference to
this time, more in proportion than for any otner period of
his life. Besides those to Mrs. Steward, there are some
addressed to Mrs. Thomas, a young and pretty literary
lady, who afterwards fell among ;,ue Philistines, and who
.made use of her brief intimacy with the Dryden family to
romance freely about it, when in her later days she was
indigent, in prison, and, what was worse, in the employ of
Curll. One of these letters contains the frankest and most
graceful of Dryden's many apologies for the looseness
of his writings, accompanied by a caution to " Corinna "
against following the example of the illustrious Aphra
Behn, a caution which was a good deal needed, though un-
fortunately fruitless. In the early spring of IVOO, or, ac-
cording to the calendar of the day, in the last months of
1699, some of Dryden's admirers got up a benefit pcr-

III

h'-i

i : IJ

<l. (i

-**
'i

178

DEYDEN.

[chap.

f;/

, i

formancc for him at the Duke's Theatre. Fletcher's Pil-
fjrini was selected for the occasion, revised by Vanbrugh,
and with the addition of a lyrical scene by Dryden him-
self. He also wrote for the occasion a secular masque to
celebrate the opening of a new century: the controversy
on the point whether 1700 belonged to the seventeenth
century or the eighteenth not having, it seems, arisen.
The performance took place, but the date of it is uncer-
tain, and it has been thought that it was not till after
Dryden's death. This happened in the following wise:
During the months of March and April Dryden was very
ill with gout. One toe became much inflamed, and not be-
ing properly attended to, it mortified. Ilobbs, the surgeon,
was then called in, and advised amputation, but Dryden
refused on the score of his age, and the inutility of pro-
longing a maimed existence. The mortification spreading
farther, it was a case for amputation of the entire leg,
with probably dubious results, or else for certain death.
On the 30th of April the Postlmj announced that "John
Dryden, Esq., the famous poet, lies a-dying," and at three
o'clock the next morning he died very quietly and peace-
fully.

liis funeral was sufficiently splendid. Halifax is said
to have at first offered to discharge tlie whole cost him-
self, but other friends were anxious to share it, among
whom Dorset and Lord Jeffreys, the Chancellor's son, are
specially mentioned. The body was embalmed, and lay
in state at the College of Physicians for some days. On
the 13th of May the actual funeral took place at West-
minster Abbey, with a great procession, preceded at the
College by a Latin oration from Garth, the President, and
by the singing of Excgi Monumcntum to music. Years
afterwards "Corinna" forged for Curll a wild account of

[chap.

IX.]

CONCLUSIOiY.

179

the matter, of which it is sufficient to say that it lacks the
slightest corroboration, and is intrinsically improbable, if
not impossible. It may be found in most of the bioi^ra-
phies, and Malone has devoted his usual patient industry
to its demolition. Some time passed before any monu-
ment was erected to Dryden in Poet's Corner, wheie he
had been buried by Chaucer and Cowley. Pepys tells us
tliat Dorset and Montague were going to do it. But they
did not. Some time later Congreve complimc the

Duke of Newcastle on having given order for a monu-
ment, a compliment which his Grace obtained at a re-
markably clicap rate, for the order, if given, was never
executed. Finally, twenty years after liis death, the Duke
of Buckingliamshire, better known under his former title
of Lord Mulgrave, came to tlie rescue, it is said, owino- to
a reflection of Pope's on Drydcn's "rude and nameless
stone." The monument was not magnificent, but at any
rate it saves the poet from such dishonour as tiiere may
be in a nameless grave. The hymn sung at his funeral
probably puts that matter most sensibly.

Drydcn's wife lived until 1714, and died a very old
woman and insane. Her children, like her husband, had
died before her. Charles, the eldest, was drowned in the
Thames near Datchet, in 1704; John, the second, hardly
outlived his father a year, and died at Rome in 1701 ; the
third, Erasmus Henry, succeeded, in 1710, to the family
honours, but died in the same year. The house of Canons
Ashby is still held by descendants of the family, but in
the female line ; though the name has been unbroken, and
the title has been continued.

Something has already been said about the character of
Lady Elizabeth Dryden. It has to be added here that the
stories alioiit her temper and relations with lier husband

'y I

s ■ I

180

DRYDEN.

[chap,

and liis friends, bear investigation as little as those about
her maidenly conduct. Most of them are mere hearsays,
and some not even that. Dryden, it is said, ir st have
lived unhappily with his wife, for he is always sneering at
matrimony. It is sufficient to say that much the san^ie
might be said of every writer (at least for the stage) be-
tween the Restoration and the accession of Anne. Even
the famous line in Absalom and Achitophel, which has
caused such scandal, is a commonplace as old at least as
Jean de Meung and the Roman de la Hose. When ]\[a-
lone, on the authority of a Lady Dryden who lived a hun-
dred years later, but without a tittle of documentary evi-
dence, tells us that Lady Elizabeth was a shrew, we really
must ask what is the value of such testimony ? There is
one circumstantial legend which has been much relied on.
Dryden, it is said, was at work one day in his study, when
his wife came in, and could not make him listen to some-
thing she had to say. Thereupon said she, in a pet, " I
wish I were a book, and then perhaps you would pay me
some attention." " Then, my dear," replied this graceless
bard, "pray be an almanac, that I may change you at the
end of the year." The joke cannot be said to be brilliant ;
but, taking it as a true story, the notion of founding a
charge of conjugal unhappiness thereon is sufficiently ab-
surd. Mrs. Thomas's roinancings are worthy of no credit,
and even if they were Avorthy of any, do not bear much
upon the question. All that can be said is, that the few
allusions to Lady Elizabeth in the poet's letters are made
in all propriety, and tell no tale of disunion. Of his chil-
dren it is allowed that he was excessively fond, and his per-
sonal amiability is testified to with one consent by all his
friends who have loft testimonies on the subject. Con-
greve and "Granville the Polite" both mention his modest

IX.]

CONCLUSION.

181

and unassumino; demeanour, and the obligingness of his
disposition. Pope, it is true, lias hioiiglit against him tlie
terrible accusation that he was " not a genteel man," be-
ing " intimate with none but poetical men." The fact on
which the charge seems to be based is more than dubious,
and Pope was evidently transferring his own conception of
Grub Street to tlie times when to be a poetical man cer-
tainly was no argument against gentility. Ptoehester, Mul-
grave, Dorset, Sedley, Ethcrege, Koscommon, make a very
odd assortment of ungenteel poetical friends.

It is astonishing, when one comes to examine the mat-
ter, liow vague and shadowy our personal knowledge of
Dryden is. A handful of anecdotes, many of them un-
dated and unauthenticated except at third and fourth hand,
furnish us with almost all that wc do know. That lie was
fond of fishing, and prided Iiimself upon being a better
fisherman than Durfey ; that he took a good deal of snuff;
and that he did not drink much until Addison, in the last
years of his life, induced him to do so, almost exhausts
the lists of such traits which are recorded by others. His
" down look," his plumpness, his fresh coloui are points
in which tradition is pretty well supported by the portraits
which exist, and by such evidence as can be extracted
from the libels against him. The famous picture of him
at Will's, which every one repeats, and wliich Scott has
made classical in the Pirate, is very likely true enough to
fact, and there is no harm in tliinking of Dryden in the
great coffee-house, with his chair in the balcony in sum-
mer, by the fire in winter, passing criticisms and pa , «:^
good-natured compliments on matters literary. He hat',
he tells Mrs. Steward, a very vulgar stomach— thus par-
tially justifying Pope's accusations— and liked a chine of
bacon better than marrow puddings. He dignified Sam-

■Ll

!t|:l

l!i;

!' - m

'i I

182

DRYDEN.

[CIIAP.

f I.

ncl Pcpys with the title of Padron Mio, and was invited
by Saruuol to cat a cold chicken and a salad with him in
return. According to one of the aimless gossipinjj; stories,
whicli are almost all wc possess, he once stayed with Mul-
grave at the great Yorkshire domain whence the title was
derived, and was cheated by Mulgrave at bowls — a story
not so unbelievable as Mr. Bell seems to think, for every-
body cheated at play in those days ; and Mulgrave's dis-
inclination to pay his tradesmen, or in any other way to
get rid of money, was notorious. But even the gossip
Avhicii has come down to us is almost entirely literary.
Thus wc are told that when he allowed certain merits to
"starch Johnny Crowne" — so called because of the unal-
terable stiffness and propriety of his collar and cravat — he
used to add that "his father and Crowne's mother had
been great friends." It is only fair to the reputation of
Erasmus Dryden and of Mrs. Crowne to add that this must
have been pure mischief, inasmuch as it is always said that
the author of Sir Courtly Nice was born in Nova Scotia.
His well-feigned denunciation of Smith and Johnson, his
tormentors, or rather the tormentors of his Eidolon Bayes,
as "the coolest and most insignificant follows" he had
ever seen on the stage, may be also recalled. Again, there
is a legend that Bolingbroke, when a young man, came in
one morning to see him, and found that he had been sit-
ing up all night writing the ode on St. Cecilia's Day. An-
other time Bolingbroke called on him, and was asked to
outstay Jacob Tonson, so as to prevent some apprehended
incivility from the truculent Jacob. The story of his vex-
ation at the liberty taken with him by Prior and Monta-
gue has been already mentioned more than once, but may
be regarded with very considerable suspicion. Most fa-
mous perhaps of all such legends is that which tells of the

[chap.

«.]

CONCLUSION.

188

unlucky speech, " Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet,"
than which never was there anything more true or more
unfortunate. Yet the enmity which, though it has been
exaggerated, the greatest English man of letters in the
next generation felt towards his kinsman ought not to be
wholly regretted, because it has produced one of the most
touching instances of literal devotion which even a com-
mentator ever paid to his idol. Swift, it must be remem-
bered, has injuriously stigmatized Dryden's prefaces as

being

" Merely writ at first for filling,
To raise the volume's price a shilliri'' "

Hereupon Malone lias set to, and has gravely demonstrated
that, as the price at which plays were then issued was fixed
and constant, the insertion of a long preface instead of a
short one, or indeed of any preface at all, could not have
raised the volume's price a penny. Next to Shadwell's
criticism on Macflcchxoe, I think this may be allowed to be
the happiest example recorded in connexion with the life
of Drydon of the spirit of literalism.

Such idle stuff as these legends mostly are is indeed
hardly worth discussion, hardly even worth montionino-.
The quiet scenery of the Nene Valley, in which Dryde'n
passed all the beginning and not a little of the close of his
life ; the park at Charlton ; the river (an imaginary asso-
ciation perhaps, but too striking a one to be lost) on which
Crites and Eugenius and Neander rowed down past the
" great roar of waters " at London Bridge, and heard the
Dutch guns as they talked of dramatic poesy ; the house
in Gerrard Street ; the balcony and coffee-room at Will's ;
the park 'where the kin; wnlked witli the poet; and, last
of all, the Abbey : thes-; a^e the only scenes in which Dry-
den can be pictured even by the most imaginative lover

ri 3ti|

il).

III li

111

18 1

DllYDEN.

[CIIAP.

Hi I J

of the concrete picturesque. Very few days of his life
of nearly -fventy years emerge for \u from the mass by
virtue of any detinite and detailed incident, the account of
whicli we have on trustworthy authority. It is a com-
monplace to say that an author's life is in his works.
But in Dryden's case it is a simple fact, and therefore a
biography of him, let it be repeated at the close as it was
asserted at tha beginning, must consist of little but a dis-
cussion and running comment on those works, and on tiic
characteristics, literary and personal, which are discoverable

in them.

It only now remains to sum up these characteristics,
which it must never be forgotten arc of even more value
because of the representative character of Dryden than
because of his individual eminence. Many as are the
great men of letters who have illustrated English litera-
ture from the beginning to the present day, it may safely
be said that no one so represented his time and so in-
fluenced it as the man of letters whom we have been dis-
cussing. There arc greater names in our literature, no
doubt ; tluM-o are others as great or nearly so. l>ut at no
time that 1 can think of was there any Englishman who,
for a considerable period, was so far in advance of his
contemporaries in almost every branch of literary work
as Dryden was during the last twenty years of the seven-
teenth century. To turn a satiric couplet of his own, by
the alteration of a single word, from an insult to a com-
pliment, we may say that he, at any rate during his last

decade,

" In prose and verse was owned without dispute
Witiiin the realms of English absolute."

But his representative character in relation to the men of
bis time was almost more remarkable than his intellectuai

^'^

[t'lIAP.

o-l

CON'CLUSION.

18S

his life
mass by
icount of
i a coin-
s works,
creforc a
as it was
)ut a dis-
1(1 on tiic
coverablc

ctcristics,
ore value
tlcn than
aro tho
sh litcra-
lay safely
id so in-
bocn dis-
rature, no
l>ut at no
man who,
ce of his
•ary work
Aie scven-
s own, by
to a com-
(T his last

ite

lie men of
ntcllectuai

and artistic superiority to them. Otlicr great men of let-
ters, wit' I perhaps the single exception of Voltaire, have
usually, when they represented their time at all,ro{)resent-
cd but a small part of it. With Dryden this was not the
case. Not only did the immense majority of men of let-
tors in his later days directly imitate him, but both then
and earlier most literary Englishmen, even when they did
not imitate him, worked on the same lines and pursued
the same objects. The eighteen volumes of his works
contain a faithful representation of the whole litoniry
movement in England for the best part of half a century,
and w hat is more, they contain the germs and indicate the
direction of almost the whole literary movement for nearly
a century more.

r>ut Dryden was not only in his literary work a ty[)ical
Englishman of his time, and a favourably typical one ;
he was almost as representative in point of character.
The liiue was not the most showy or attractive in the
moral history of the nation, though perhaps it looks to
us not a little worse than it was. But it must be admit-
ted to have been a tima of shameless coarseness in lan-
guage and manners ; of virulent and bloodthirsty party-
spirit; of almost unparalleled self-seeking and political
dishonesty; and of a flattering servility to which, in the
same way, hardly any parallel can be found. Its chief
redeeming features were, that it was not a cowardly age,
and, for the most part, not a hypocritical cne. Men seem
frequently to have had few convictions, and sometimes to
have changed them with a somewhat startling rapidify;
but when they had them, they had also the courage of
them. They hit out with a vigour and a will which to
this day is refreshing to read of ; and when, as sometimes
happened, they lost the battle, they took their punishment,
No

t i

1.3

186

DRYDEN.

LCHAP.

r F I

as with perhaps some arrogance \vc arc wont to say, like
EnijHshmcn, Drvdcn liad tlie merits and the defects
eminently ; but the defects were, after all, in a mild and
by no means virulent form. His character has had ex-
ceedingly hard measure since. During the last ten years
of his life, and for the most part of the half-century suc-
ceeding his death, his political principles were out of
favour, and this naturally prejudiced many persons against
his conduct even at the time when his literary eminence
was least questioned. In Johnson and in Scott, Drydon
found a brace of the doughtiest champions, as heartily
prepossessed in his favour as J;hey were admirably armed
to iight his battles. But of late years he has again fallen
among the Philistines. It was obviously Lord Macaulay's
game to blacken the greatest literary champion of the
cause he had set himself to attack; and I need not say
with what zest and enci'gy Macaulay was wont to wield
the tar-brush. Some vears later Drvdcn had the jrood
fortune to meet with an admirable editor of his poems.
I venture to think the late Mr. Christie's Globe edition
of our poet one of the very best things of the kind that
has ever been produced. From the purely literary point
of view there is scarcely a fault to be found with it. But
the editor unfortunately seems to liave sworn allegiance
to Shaftesbury before he swore allegiance to Dryden.
He reconciled shese jarring fealties by sacrificing the char-
acter of the latter, while admitting his intellectual great-
ness. An article to which I have more than once referred
in the Qiutrtcrly Review puts the facts once more in a
clear and fair light. But Mr. Green's twice-published his-
tory has followed in the old direction, and lias indeed out-
Macaulaycd Macaulay in reckless abuse. I believe that I
have put the facts at least so that any reader who takes

*. ^,

LCHAP.

IX.]

CONCLUSION.

187

the trouble may judge for lii.uself of the private conduct
ot iJrjden. ILs behaviour as n public man has also been
dea t with pretty fully; and I think we may safely con-
clude that in neither case can the verdict be a really unfa-
vourable one. Dryden, no doubt, was not austerely virtu-
ous. He was not one of the men who lay down a compre-
hensive scheme of moral, political, and intellectual conduct,
and follow out that scheme, come wind, come weather. It
IS probable that he was quite aware of the existence and
ahve to the merits of cakes and ale. He was not an
economical man, and he had no scruple in filling up gaps
in his income with pensions and presents. But all these
things were the way of his world, and he was not exces-
sive in following it. On the other hand, all trustworthv
testimony concurs in praising his amiable and kindly dis-
position, his freedom from literary arrogance, and his' will-
ingness to encourage and assist youthful aspirants in liter-
ature. Mercilessly hard as " hit his antagonists, it must
be remembered that he was rarely the first to strike On
the whole, putting aside hi. licence of language, which is
absolutely inexcusable, but for which it must^^e remem-
bered he not only made an ample apology, but such amends
as were possible by earnestly dissuading others from fd-
owing his example, we shall be safe in saying that, tl.ouo-l»
be was assuredly no saint, there were not so very many
better men then living than John Dryden.

A shorter summary will suffice for the literary aspect of
the matter; for Dryden's peculiarities in this respect have
already been treated fully enough. In one of his own last
etters he states that his life-object had been to improve
the language and especially the poetry. He had accom-
l.l.shed It. With our different estimate of the value of
oid Lnghsh literature, we cannot, indeed, adopt Johnson's

Vil

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', \"

til

Iff

111

1%. ;

.-*'

188

DUYDEN.

[CIIAP.

famous metaphor, and say that *' he found English of brick
and left it of marble." The comparison of Hamlet and
Macbeth to " brick," with Don Sebastian and tlic Spanish
Friar for " marble," would be absurd. But in truth the
terms of the comparison are inappropriate. English as
Dryden found it — and it must be remembered that he
found it not the English of Shakspearc and Bacon, not
even the English of such survivals as Milton and Taylor,
but the EngUsh of persons like Cowley, Davenant, and their
likes— was'^not wholly marble or wholly brick. No such
metaphor can conveniently describe it. It was rather an
instrument or machine which had in times past turned out
splendid work, but work comparatively limited in kind,
and liable to constant flaws and imperfections of more or
less magnitude. In the hands of the men who had lately
worked°it, the good work had been far less in quantity and
inferior in quality ; the faults and flaws had been great
and numerous. Dryden so altered the instrument and its
working that, at its best, it produced a less splendid result
than before, and became less suited for some of the high-
est applications, but at the same time became available for
a far greater variety of ordinary purposes, was far surer
in its working, without extraordinary genius on the part of
the worker, and was almost secure against the grosser im-
perfections. The forty years' work which is at once the
record and the example of this accomplishment is itself
full of faults and blemishes, but they arc always committed
in the eifort to improve. Dryden is always striving, and
consciously striving, to find better literary forms, a better
vocabulary, better metres, better constructions, better style.
lie may in no one branch have attained the entire and
flawless"^ perfection which distinguishes Pope as far as he
goes ; but the range of Dryden is to the range of Pope as

IX.]

CONCLUSIOxX.

189

that of a forest to a shrubbery, and in this case priority
is everything, and the priority is on the side of Dryden.
He is not o- -Greatest poet ; far from it. But there is
one point ir. ■ iiich the superlative may safely be applied
to him. Considerino- what he started witli, what he ac-
complished, and wliat advantages he left to his successors,
he must be pronounced, without exception, the greatest
craftsman in English letters, and as such lie ought to be
regarded with peculiar veneration by all who, in however
humble a capacity, are connected with the craft.

This general estimate, as well as much of the detailed
criticism on which it is based, and which will be found in
the preceding chapters, will no doubt seem exaggerated to
not a few persons, to the judgment of some at least of
whom I should be sorry that it should seem so. The truth
is, that while the criticism of poetry is in sucli a disorderly
state as it is at present in regard to general principles, it
cannot be expected that there should be any agreement
between individual practitioners of it on individual points.
So long as any one holds a definition of poetry which re-
gards it wholly or chiefly from the point of view of its
subject-matter, wide differences are unavoidable. But if
we hold what I venture to think the only Catholic faith
with regard to it, that it consists not in a selection of sub-
jects, but in a method of treatment, then it seems to me
that all difficulty vanishes. We get out of the hopeless
and sterile controversies as to whether Shelley was a great-
er poet than Dryden, or Dryden a greater poet than Shel-
ley. For my part, I yield to no man living in rational ad-
miration for either, but I decline altogether to assign marks
to each in a competitive examination. There are, as it
seems to me, many mansions in poetry, and the great poets
live apart in them. What constitutes a great poet is su-

■! !i

I J«

y I

190

DRYDEN.

[chap.

,■)

'I'

prcmacy in his own line of poetical expression. Such
supioinacy must of course be shown in work of sufficient
bulk and variety, on the principle that one swallow does
not make a summer. We cannot call Lovelace a great
poet, or Barnabc Barnes; perhaps we cannot give the
name to Collins or to Gray. We must be satisfied that
the poet has his faculty of expression well at command,
not merely that it sometimes visits him in a casual man-
ner; and we must know that he 'an apply it in a sufficient
number of different ways. But when we see that he can
under these conditions exhibit pretty constantly the poet-
ical differentia, the power of making the common uncom-
mon by the use of articulate language in metrical arrange-
ment so as to excite indefinite suggestions of beauty, then
he must be acknowledged a master.

When we want to see whether a man is a great poet or
not, let us take him in his commonplaces, and see what he
does with them. Here are four lines which are among
the last that Dryden wrote; they occur in the address to
the Duchess of Ormond, who was, it must be remembered,
by birth Lady Margaret Somerset :

" diiughtor of the rose, whose cheeks unite
The differing titles of the red and white,
Who heaven's alternate beauty well display,
The blush of morning and the milky way."

The ideas contained in these lines are as old, beyond all
doubt, as the practice of love-making between persons of
the Caucasian type of physiognomy, and the images in
which those ideas are expressed are in themselves as well
worn as the stones of the Pyramids. But I maintain that
any poetical critic worth his salt could, withon'., knowing
who wrote them, but merely from the arrangement of the

..x,l

COxN'CLUSIOX.

191

words, the rhythm and cadence of the 'inc, and the manner
in which the images arc presented, write "This is a poet
and probably a great poet," across them, and that he would
be nght in doing- so. When such a critic, in reading the
works of the author of these lines, finds that the same touch
IS, If not invariably, almost always present; that in the
handling of the most unpromising themes, the mots rayon-
nants, the mots de lumiere are never lacking; that the su-.
gested images of beauty never fail for long together; then
he IS just.hed in striking out the "probablv,'' and writing-
This IS a great poet." If he tries to go'farther, and to
rungc his great poets in order of merit, he will almost cer-
tainly fail. He cannot count up the beauties in one, and
then t.ie beauties in the other, and strike the balance ac-
cordingly. He can only say, " There is the faculty of pro-
ducing those beauties ; it is exercised under such condi-
lons, and with such results, that there is no doubt of its
being a native and resident faculty, not a mere casual in-
spiration of the moment; and this being so, I pronounce
tlie man a poet, and a great one." This can be said of
Dryden, as it can be said of Shelley, or Spenser, or Keats
to name only the great English poets who are most dis^
similar to him in subject and in style. All beyond this
IS treacherous speculation. The critic quits the assistance
of a plain and catholic theory of poetry, and developes
all sorts of private judgments, and not improbably private
crotchets The ideas which this poet woL on are' more
congenial to his ideas than the ideas which that poet works
on ; the dialect of one is softer to his ear than the dialect
of another ; very frequently son.e characteristic which has
not the remotest connexion with his poetical merits or
demen s makes the scale turn. Of only one poet can it
be safely said that he is greater than the other grrat poet.

f.' ',

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Ill

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i( \

192

DRYD£N\

IE
i

[chap. IX.

for the reason that in Drydcn's own words ho is larger
and more comprehensive than any of them. But with the
exception of Shtikspeare, the greatest poets in different
styles are, in the eyes of a sound poetical criticism, very
much on an equality. Dryden's peculiar gift, in which no
poet of any language has surpassed him, is the faculty of
treating any subject which he does treat poetically. His
range is enormous, and wherever it is deficient, it is possi-
ble to see that external circumstances had to do with the
apparent limitation. That the author of the tremendous
satire of the political pieces should be the author of the
exquisite lyrics scattered about the plays ; that the special
pleader of RcUgio Laid should be the tale-teller of Pala-
mon and Arcite, are things which, the more carefully I
study other poets and their comparatively limited perfec-
tion, astonish me the more. My natural man may like
Kahla Khan, or the Ode on a Grecian Urn, or the Ode
on Intimations of Immortality, or World! Life!
Time ! with an intcnser liking than that which it feels for
anything of Dryden's. But that arises from the pure ac-
cident that I was born in the first half of the nineteenth
century, and Dryden in the first half of the seventeenth.
The whirligig of time has altered and is altering this re-
lation between poet and reader in every generation. But
what it cannot alter is the fact that the poetical virtue
which is present in Dryden is the same poetical virtue
that is present in Lucretius and in -i:Eschylus, in Shelley
and in Spenser, in Heine and in Hugo.

THE END.

[CIIAP. IX.

is larger
t witli the

different
Liisin, very
wliicli no
faculty of
illy. His
t is possi-
» with tlic
emendous
lor of the
he special

• of Pala-
:arcfiilly I
od perfcc-

may like

• the Ode
> Life/ O
t feels for
e pure ac-
lineteenth
v'enteenth.
\iX this re-
ion. But
leal virtue
ical virtue
in Shelley

POPE

LESLIE STEPHEN

I'M

! !.!

ifii

111:

■«i"(l"

CKHHMiM

( '

PEEFATORY NOTE.

( 5

Ml.

The life and writing!? of Pope have been discussed in a literature
more voluminous than that which exists in the case of almost any
other English man of letters. No biographer, however, has pro-
duced a definitive or exhaustive work. It seems, therefore, desirable
to indicate the main authorities upon which such a biographer would
have to rely, and which have been consulted for the purpose of the
following necessarily brief and imperfect sketch.

Tiie first life of Tope was a catchpenny book, by William Ayre,
published in 1715, and remarkable chiefly as giving the first version
of some demonstrably erroneous statements, unfortunately adopted
by later writers. In 1751, Warburton, as Pope's literary executor,
published the authoritative edition of the poet's works, with notes
containing some biographical matter. In 176'J appeared a life by
Owen Iluffhead, who wrote under Warlnirton's inspiration. This is
a dull and meagre performance, and much of it is devoted to an at-
tack—partly written by Warburton himself— upon the criticisms ad-
vanced in the first volume of Joseph Warton's Essay on Pope. War-
ton's first volume was published in 175G; nnd it seems that the
dread of Warburton's wrath counted for something in the delay of
the second volume, which did not appear till 1782. The Essay con-
tains a good many anecdotes of interest. Warton's edition of Pope
—the notes in which are chiefly drawn from the Essay— was pub-
lished in 1797. The Life by Johnson appeared in 1781; it is ad-
mirable in many ways; but Johnson had taken the least possible
trouble in ascertaining facts. Both Warton and Johnson had be-
fore them the maimscript collections of Joseph Spence, who had
known Pope personally during the last twenty years of his life, and
wanted nothing but literary ability to have become an efficient Bos-

■Mi

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'*' I'll

if'

* I

IV /

^l PREFATORY NOTE.

well Spcuce's anecdotes, which were not pul.lishe.l till 1820, -Ive
the be.t obtainable infonnation upon many points, e>pec.ally ni re-
card to Pope's ehildh..od. This en.ls the list of biographers who
were in anv sense conten,porary with Pope. Their state.nents nn.st
be checked and supplcn-ented by the poet's own letters, and intin-
raerable references to him in the literature of the time. In 1806
appeared the edition of Pope by Bowles, with a life prefixed. Bowles
expressed an unfavourable opinion of n.any points in Pope s eharac-
ti^vind son.e remarl<s by Can.pbell, in his speciuiens of Ln^hsh
poets, led to a controversy (181'.)-182(>) in which Bowles defended
his views against Can.pbell, Byron, Roscoe, and others, and winch m,
cidentallv cleared up son.e dispute.l ..uestions. Roscocstl.e a.Uhor
of the life of Leo X., publishe.l his edition of Pope m 1824. A hlc
is contained in the first volume, but it is a feeble perfcmanee ; and
the notes, many of them directed against Bowles, are of l.ttle value.
A n.ore complete biography was published by K. Carruthc.'s (w.th
an edition of the worl<s), i.. 1854. The second, and much improved
edition appeared \n 18.-i7, and is still the n.ost eonven.ent hfc o
Pope thoucrh Mr. Carrnthers was not fully acquainted w.th the last
resulis of some recent investigations, which have thrown a new light

upon the poc.'s career. _ ., i . Af„

The writer who took the lead in these inquiries was the late Mr.
Dilke Air Dilke published the results of his investigations (which
were partly guided bv the discovery of a previously unpublished
correspondence between Pope and his friend Caryll), in the Athen^nm
and Notes and Queries, at various intervals, from \SU to 18.,(). li.s
eontributions to the subject have been collated in the first yoh.me of
the J'opcrs of a Critic, edite.l by his grandson, the present feir Charles
W Dilke in' 187.5. Meanwhile Mr. Croker had been making an ex-
tensive JoUcction of materials for an exhaustive edition of Pope's
,v„rks, in which he was to be assisted by Mr. Peter Cunmngham.
\fter Croker's death these materials were submitted by Mr. Murray
to Mr Whitwell Elwin, whose own researches have greatly exten.led
our knowledge, and who had also the advantage of Mr. Dilke s ad-
vice Mr Elwin began, in 1871, the publication of the long-promised
edition It was to have occupied ten volumes-five of poems and
live of correspondence, the latter of which was to inclu.le a very
lar^^e proportion of previously unpublished matter. Unfortunately
for" all students of English literature, only two volumes of poetry

riJKFATOKY NOTK.

VII

aruj tliree of corrcspondi'iK-c have appeared. Tlie notes and prefaces,
however, contain a vast amount of inforniMtion, wliich cloers up
many previously disputed points in tiie poet's career; and it is to be
hoped tii , tlie materials collected for the remaining volumes will
not bo ultimately lost. It is easy to dispute some of Mr. Elwin's
critical opinion.s, hut it would be impossible to speak too hij,ddy of
the value of his investigations of facts. Without a study of hi.s
work, no adcfpiate knowledge of Pope is attainal)le.

The ideal biographer of Pope, if lie ever appears, must be endowed
with tlie (jualities of an acute critic and a jjatient antiquarian ; and
it would take years of labour to work out all the minute problems
connected with the subject. All that I can profess to have done is
to have given a short summary of the obvious fact.*!, and of the main
conclusions estalilished by the evidence given at length in the writ-
ings of Mr. Dilke and Mr. Elwin. I have added such criticisms as
seemed desirable in a work of this kind, and I must beg pardon by
anticipation if T have fallen into inaccuracies in relating a story so
full of pitfalls for the unwary.

L. S.

i J

i t

CONTENTS.

CHAl TEK I.
Early Ykars 1

CHAI'TEIt II.
First Period of Pope's Literary Career 21

CHAPTEIt III.
Pope's Homer qi

CHAPTEU IV.
Pope at Twickenham 81

CHAPTEU V.
The War with the Dunxks m

CHAPTER VI.

CORRESPOXDEXCE 136

CHAPTER VII.
The Essay ox xMax 158

CHAPTER VIII.
Epistles axd Satires 180

CHAPTER IX.

'1'"'^ KxD • 205

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POPE.

1 1 f

CHAPTER I.

EARLY YEARS.

The father of Alexander Pope was a London merchant, a
devout Catholic, and not improbably a convert to Cathol-
icism. His mother was one of seventeen children of Wil-
liam Turner, of York ; one of her sisters was the wife of
Cooper, the well-known portrait -painter. Mrs. Cooper
was the poet's godmother; she died when he was five
years old, leaving to her sister, Mrs. Pope, " a grinding-
stone and muller," and their mother's "picture in lim-
ning ;" and to her nephew, the little Alexander, all her
" books, pictures, and medals set in gold or otherwise."

In after-life the poet made some progress in acquiring
the art of painting ; and the bequest suggests the possf-
bility that the precocious child had already given some in-
dications of artistic taste. Affectionate eyes were certain-
ly on the watch for any symptoms of developing talent.
Pope was born on May 21,1688 — the annus mirabilis
which introduced a new political era in England, and was
fata! to the hopes of ardent Catholics. About the same

■t I

ii 1 '

iii

: i

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f.1

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I l l -i. i 'iii,m i<sii

POPE.

[chap.

Ill:

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ill

time, partly, perhaps, in consequence of the catastroplio.
Pope's father retired from business, and settled at Bin-
field, H villao'c two miles from Wokingham and nine from
Windsor. It is near Bracknell, one of Shelley's brief
perching places, and in such a region as poets might love,
if poetic praises of rustic seclusion arc to be taken serious-
ly. To the east were the " forests and green retreats " of
Windsor; and the wild heaths of Bagshot, Chobham, and
Aldershot stretched for miles to the south. Some twelve
miles off in that direction, one may remark, lay Moor
Park, where the sturdy pedestrian. Swift, was living with
Sir W. Temple during great part of Pope's childhood;
but it does not appear that his walks ever took him to
Pope's neighbourhood, nor did he see, till some years later,
the lad with whom he was to form one of the most fa-
mous of literary friendships. The little household was pre-
sumably a very quiet one, and remained fixed at Binfield
for twenty-seven years, till the son liad grown to manhood
and celebrity. From the earliest period he seems to have
been a domestic idol. He was not an only child, for he
had a half-sister, by his father's side, wlio must have been
considerably older than himself, as her mother died nine
years before the poet's birth. But he was the only child
of his mother, and his parents concentrated upon him an
affection which he returned with touching ardour and per-
sistence. They were both forty -six in the year of his
birth. He inherited headaches from his mother, and a
crooked figure from his father. A nurse who shared
their care lived with him for many years, and was buried
by him, with an affectionate epitaph, in 1725. The fam-
ily tradition represents him as a sweet-tempered child, and
says that he was called the " little nightingale " from the
beauty of his voice. As the sickly, solitary, and preco-

EARLY YEARS.

cious infant of elderly parents, we may guess that he was
not a little spoilt, if only in the technical sense.

The religion of the family made their seclusion from
the world the more rigid, and by consequence must have
strengthened their mutual adhesiveness. Catholics were
then harassed by a legislation which would be condemned
by any modern standard as intolerably tyrannical. What-
ever apology may be urged for the legislators on the score
of contemporary prejudices or special circumstances, their
best excuse is that their laws were rather intended to sat-
isfy constituents, and to supply a potential means of de-
fence, than to be carried into actual execution. It does
not appear that the Popes had to fear any active molesta-
tion in the quiet observance of their religious duties. Yet
a Catholi(^ was not only a member of a Jiated minority, re-
garded by the rest of his countrymen as representing the
evil principle in politics and religion, but was rigorously
excluded from a public career, and from every position of
lionour or authority. In times of excitement the severer
laws might be put in force. The public exercise of the
Catholic religion was forbidden, and to be a Catholic was
to be predisposed to the various Jacobite intrigues which
still had many chances in their favour. When the Pre-
tender was expected in 1744, a proclamation, to wliich
Pope thought it decent to pay obedience, forbade the ap-
pearance of Catholics within ten miles of London ; and in
1730 we find him making interest on behalf of a nephew,
who had been prevented from becoming an attorney be-
cause the judges were rigidly enforcing the oaths of su-
premacy and allegiance.

The Catholics had to pay double taxes, and were pro-
liibited from acquiring real property. The elder Pope,
according to a certainly inaccurate story, had a conscien-

POPE.

[chap.

tious objection to investing his money in the funds of
a Protestant crovernn'ent, and, therefore, liaving converted
his capital into coin, put it in a strong-box, and took it
out as he ^\ anted it, Tlie old merchant was not quite so
lielpless, for we know that he had investments in the
French rentes, besides other sources of income ; but tlie
■story probably reHocts the fact that his religious disquali-
fications hampered even his financial position.

Pope's character was affected in many ways by the fact
of his belonging to a sect thus harassed and restrained.
Persecution, like bodily infirmity, has an ambiguous iu-
iluencc. If it soni'^times generates in its victims a heroic
hatred of oppression, it sometimes predisposes them to
the use of the weapons of intrigue and falsehood, by
which the weak evade the tyranny of the strong. If
under that discipline Pope learnt to love toleration, he
wtis not untouched Dy the more demoralizing influences
of a life passed in an atmosphere of incessant plotting
and evasion. A more direct consequence was his ex-
clusion from the ordinary schools. The spirit of the
rickety lad might have been broken by the rough train-
ing of Eton or Westminster in those days; as, on the
other hand, he might have profited by acquiring a live-
lier perception of the meaning of that virtue of fair-
play, the appreciation of which is held to be a set-off
against the brutalizing influences of our system of pub-
lic education. As it was. Pope was condemned to a
des'iltory education. He picked up some rudiments of
learning from the family priest; he was sent to a school
at Twyford, where lie is said to have got into trouble
for writing a lampoon upon his master; he went for a
short time to another in London, where he gave a more
creditable if less characteristic proof of his poetical precoc-

«■]

EARLY YEARS.

ity. Like other lads of genius, he put too(.tl,er a kind of
play — a combination, it seems, of the speeches in Ogilbv's
Iliad— and got it acted by his schoolfellows. These brief
snatches of school itig, however, counted for little. Pope
settled at home at the early age of twelve, and plunged
into the delights of miscellaneous reading with the ardour
of precocious talent. Ue read so eagerly that liis feeble
constitution threatened to break down, and when about
seventeen, he despaired of recovery, and wrote a farewell
to his friends. One of them, an Abbe Southcote, applied
for advice to the celebrated Dr. Kadcliffe, who judiciously
l)rescribed idleness and exercise. Pope soon recovered,
and, it is pleasant to add, showed his gratitude long af-
terwards by obtaining for Southcote, through Sir Robert
Walpole, a desirable piece of French preferment. Self-
guided studies have their advantages, as I'opc himself ob-
served, but they do not lead a youth through iiw dry
places of literature, or stimulate him to severe intellectual
training. Pope seems to have made some hasty raids
into philosophy and theology; he dipped into Locke, and
found him " insipid ;" he went through a collection of the
controversial literature of the reign of James IL, Avhich
seems to have constituted the paternal library, and was
alternately Protestant and Catholic, according to the last
book which he had read. But it was upon poetry and
pure literature that he flung himself with a genuine appe-
tite. He learnt languages to get at tiic story, unless a
translation offered an easier path, and followed wherever
fancy led, " like a boy gathering flowers in the fields and
woods."

It is needless to say that he never became a scholar in
the strict sense of the term. Voltaire declared that ho
could hardly read or speak a word of French ; and his

}■

I ! , 1

yucmnjn

^ I, !'

ill

POPE.

[chap.

knowledge of Greelc would have satisfied Bcntley aa lit-
tle as his French satisfied Voltaire. Yet he must have
been fairly conversant with the best known French liter-
ature of the time, and he could probably stumble througii
Homer with the help of a crib and a .guess at the gener-
al meaning. He says himself that at this early period
he went through all the best critics ; all the French, Eng-
lish and Latin poems of any name; "Homer and some
of the greater Greek poets in the original," and Tasso and
Ariosto in translations.

Pope, at any rate, acquired a wide knowledge of Eng-
lish poetry. Waller, Spenser, and Oryden were, he says,
his great fiivourites in the order named, till he was twelve.
Like so many other poets, he took mfinite delight in the
Faerj/ Queen ; but Dryden, the great poetical luminary
of his own day, naturally exercised a predominant influ-
ence upon his mind. lie declared that he had learnt
versification wholly from Dryden's works, and always
mentioned his name with reverence. Many scit.tered re-
raarks reported by Spence,and the still more conclusive
evidence of frequent appropriation, show him to have
been familiar with the poetry of the preceding century,
and with much that had gone out of fashion in his time,
to a degree in which he was probably excelled by none of
his successors, with the exception of Gray. Like Gray,
he contemplated at one time the history of English poe-
trv, which was in some sense executed by Warton. It is
characteristic, too, that he early showed a critical spirit.
From a boy, he says, he could distinguish between sweet-
ness and softness of numbers— Dryden exemplifying soft-
ness, and Waller sweetness ; and the remark, whatever its
value, shows that he had been analysing his impressions
and reflecting upon the technical secrets of his art.

».]

EARLY YEARS.

Such study naturally suggests the trembling aspiration,
" 1, too, an. a poet." Pope adopts with apparent sinceri-
ty the Ovidian phrase,

"As yet 11 cliild, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in iimiibers, for tlie numbers cauie."

Ilis father corrected his early performances, and, when
not satisfied, sent him back with the phrase, " These are
not good rhymes." Ho translated any passages that
struck liim in his reading, excited by the examples of
Ogilby's Homer and Sandys' Ovid. His boyish ambition
prompted him, before he was fifteen, to attempt an epic
poem ; the subject was Meander, Prince of Rhodes, driven
from his home by Deucalion, father of Minos ; and the
work was modestly intended to emulate in different pas-
sages the beauties of Milton, Cowlev, Spenser, Statius,
Homer, Virgil, Ovid, and Claudian. Four books of this
poem survived for a long time, for Pope had a more than
parental fondness for all the children of his brain, and al-
ways had an eye to possible reproduction. Scraps from
this early epic were worked into the Essay on Criticism
and the Dunciad. Tirs couplet, for example, from the
last work comes straight, wc are told, from Alcandcr,—

" As man's MtTaiuIcrs to the vital spring
Roll all their tides, then hack their circles brin" "

Another couplet, preserved by Spense, will give a suffi-
cient taste of its quality : —

" Shields, helms, and swords all jangle as they hang,
And sound formidiiious with anstrv elan"-""

After this we shall hardly censure Atterbury for ap-
proving (perhaps suggesting) its destruction in later years.

-^->l

POPE.

[ciur.

Pope lonsjf iiicdltatod nnotlicr epic, relating the foundation
of the English tjoverninent by Brutus of Troy, witli u su-
porabundant display of didactic morality and iclij^ion.
Happily this dreary conception, though it occupied much
thought, never came to the birtli.

The time soon came when these tentative fliglits were
to be superseded by more serious eiforts. Pope's ambi-
tion was directed into the same channel by his innate
propensities, and by the accidents of his position. No
man ever displayed a more exclusive devotion to litera-
ture, or wa,s more tremblingly sensitive to the charm of
literary glor}'. His zeal was never distracted by any
rival emotion. Almost from his cradle to his grave his
eye was fixed unrenjittingly upon the sole purpose of his
life. The whole energies of his mind were absorbed in
the struggle to place his name as high as possible in that
temple of fame, which he painted after Chaucer in </nc
of his early poems. External conditions pointed to let-
ters as the sole path to eminence, but it was precisely the
path for which he had admirable qualiiications. The
sickly son of the Popish tradesman was cut ofi from the
Bar, tlie Senate, and the Church. Physically contemptible,
politically ostracized, and in a himible social position, he
could yet win this dazzling prize and i->ree his way with
his pen to the highest pinnacle of cnr.temporary fame.
Without adventitious favour, and in spite of many bitter
antipathies, he was to become the acknowledged head of
English literature, and the welcome companion of all the
most eminent men of his time. Though he could not
foresee liis career from the start, he worked as vigorously
as if the goal had already been in sight ; and each suc-
cessive victory in the field of letters was realized the more
keenly from his sense of the disadvantages in face of

KAULV YEAK8.

wliicl) it had boon won. In tracing l.i.s rapid ascent, u
shall certainly find reas.,,, tc doubt hi.s proud assertion,—

I. 'I

' That, if lie pleased, lie pleased by manly ways;"

but it is iuipussible for any lover of literature to o-rudiro
admiration to this sinojular triumph of pun- intellect over
external disadvanta<res, and the still more depressing influ-
ences of incessant physical suffering.

Pope had, indeed, certain special advantages svhich he
was not slow in turning to account. In one" respect even
his religion helped him to emerge into fame. There was
naturally a certain free-masonry amongst the Catholics al-
lied by fjllow-feeling under the general antipathy. The
lelations between Pope and his co-religionists exeVciscd a
material influence upon his later life. Within a few miles
of Binfleld lived the Blounts of Mapledurham, a fine old
Klizabethan mansion on the banks of the Thames, n^ar
Reading, which had been held by a royalist Blount in the
civd war against a parliamentary assault. It was a more
interesting circumstance to Pope that Mr. Lister Blount
the then representative of the family, liad two fair dauo-h-
ters, Teresa and Martha, of about the poet'-s age. Another
of Pope's (.'atholic accjuaintances was John ( aryll, of West
Grinstcad in Sussex, nephew of a Carvll who had'been the
representative of James II. at the Court of Rome, and
who, following his master into exile, received the honours
of a titular peerage and held office in the melancholy court
of the Pretender. In such circles Pope might have been
expected to imbibe a Jacobite and Catholic horror of
^Vlngs and freethinkers. I„ fact, however, he belon.red
from his youth to the followers of Gallio, and seems" to
have paid to religious duties just as much attention as
would satisfy his parents. His mind was really given to

<' : I

i^aniiiiii iniffii

rui'E.

[chap.

, I

I I

litcratnro; sin<l he fuiuul his earliest patron in his ininic.
(liute neifrhboiirliood. This was Sir W, Trumbnll, wlio
liad retired to liis native village of Easlhanipstead in 1007,
after being ambassador at the Porte nrder James II,, and
Seerctary of State tinder William III. Sir William made
acquaintance with the Popes, praised the father's artichokes,
and was delighted with the precocious son. The old di-
plomatist and the young poet soon became fast friends,
took constant rides together, and talked over classic and
modern poetry. Pope made Trumbnll acquainted with
Milton's juvenile poems, and Trumbull encouraged Pope
to follow in Milton's steps. lie gave, it seems, the first
suggestion to Pope that he should translate Homer; and
he exhorted his young friend to preserve his health by fly-
ing from tavern company — tanqnam rx inccndto. Another
early patron was William Walsh, a Worcestershire country
gentleman of fortune and fashion, who condescended to
dabble in poetry after the manner of Waller, and to write
remonstrances upon Celia's cruelty, verses to his mistress
against marriage, epigrams, and pastoral eclogues. He was
better known, however, as a critic, and had been declared
by Dryden to bo, without flattery, the best in the nation,
^^'ope received from 'm one piece of advice which luis
become famous. \\«. lad had great poets — so said the
"knowing Walsh," as Pope calls him — "but never one
groat poet that was correct ;" and he accordingly recom-
mended Pope to make correctness his great aim. The ad-
vice doubtless impressed the young man as the echo of his
own convictions. Walsh died (1708) before the effect of
his suggestion had become fully perceptible.

The acquaintance with Walsh was due to Wychcrley,
who had submitted Pope's Pastorals to his recognized crit-
ical authority. Pope's intercourse with Wychcrley and

■X

i:i 'u

[chap.

Ills imniC'
bull, who
iiii 1097,
}s II., and
iam inado
.rtichokt's,
he old di-
st frlonds,
lassie and
titod with
god Pope
«, the first
)incr; and
,1th by fly-
Anothor
re country
cendod to
d to write
is mistress
He was
II declared
he nation.
Avhich has
io said the
never one
tvly recom-
, ' The ad-
}cho of his
le effect of

kVycherley,
];nized crit-
herley and

«■]

KAltLV VKAK^.

another early friend, Henry Cromwell, had a more impor-
tant bearing iip.m |,is early career. He kept up a corre-
spondenee with . ach of these ..ds, whilst he was still
passing through his probationary period; and the lettiTs
published long afterwards under singular cireumstances to
be hereafter related, give the fullest revelation of his char-
acter and i.os:ti.jn at this time. Doth Wvcherley and
Cromwell wen known to the Engletields of Whiteknights,
near Heading, a Catholic family, in which Pope first made
the acipiaintance of Martha IJlount, whose mother was a
daughter of the old Mr. Englefield of the day. It was pos-
sibly, therefore, through this connexion that Pope owed his
first introduction to the literary circles of London. Pope,
already thirsting for literary fame, was delighted to form'
a connexion wliich must have been far from satisfactory
to his indulgent parents, if they understood the characteV
of liis new associates.

Henry Cromwell, a remote cousin of the Protector, is
known to other tlian minute investigators of contemporary
literature by nothing except his friendship with Pope.
He was nearly thirty years older than Pope, and, thougli
heir to an estate in the countr)^ was at this time a gay,
though rather elderly, man about town. Vague intima-
tions are preserved of Ids personal appearance.' Gay calls
him " honest, hatlcss Cromwell with red breeches;" and
Johnson could learn about him tlie single fact that he used
to ride a-hunting in a tie-wig. The interpretatioji of these
outward signs may not be very obvious to modern readers ;
but it is plain from other indications that he was one of
the frequenters of coffee-liouses, aimed at being something
of a rake and a wit, was on speaking terms with Dryden^
and familiar with tlie smaller celebrities of literature, a reo-'
ular attendant at theatres, a friend of actresses, and able

I i

N J, I

.lit!

f^-

\ I)

ill
if

POPE.

[chap.

to present himself in fashionable circles and devote com-
plimentary verses to the reiti-ning beauties at the Bath.
When he studied the Spectator he might recognize some
of his features reflected in the portrait of Will Honeycomb.
Pope was proud enough for tln' moment at being taken by
the hand by this elderly buck, though, as Pope himself
rose in the litei-ary scale and could estimate literary repu-
tations more accurately, he became, it would seem, a lit-
tle ashamed of his early enthusiasm, and, at any rate, the
friendship dropped. The letters which passed between
the pair during four or five years, down to the end of 1711,
show Pope in his earliest manhood. They are characteristic
of that period of development in which a youth of literary
genius takes literary fame in the most desperately serious
sense. Pope is evidently putting his best foot forward,
and never for a moment forgets that he is a young author
writing to a recognized critic — except, indeed, when he
takes the airs of an experienced rake. We might speak
of the absurd affectation displayed in the letters, were it
not that such affectation is the most genuine nature in a
clever boy. Unluckily, it became so ingrained in Pope
as to survive his yonthfiiJ follies. Pope complacently in-
dulges in elaborate paradoxes and epigrams of the conven-
tional epistolary style ; he is painfully anxious to be alter-
nately sparkling and playful ; his head must be full of lit-
erature; he indulges in an elaborate criticism of Statins,
and points out what a sudden fall that author makes at
one place from extravagant bombast; he communicates
the latest efforts of his muse, and tiios, one regrets to say,
to get more credit for precocity and originality than fairly
belongs to him ; he accidentally alludes to his dog that he
may bring in a translation from the Odyssey, quote Plu-
tarch, and introduce an anecdote which lie has heard from

EARLY YEARS.

Trmnbiill ahont CliaHos T. ; lie elaboratoly discusses Crom-
well's classical translations, adduces authorities, ventures to
censure Mr. Rowe's amplifications of Lucan, and, in this re-
spect, thinks that Breba'uf, the famous P'rench translator, is
equally a sinner, and writes a long letter as to the proper
use of the cfcsura and the hiatus in English verse. There
are signs that the mutual criticisms became a little trying
to the tempers of the correspondents. Pope seems to be
inclined to ridicule Cromwell's pedantry, and when he af-
fects satisfaction at learning that Cromwell has detected
him in appropriating a rondeau from Voiture, we feel that
the tension is becoming serious. Probably he found out
that Cromwell was not only a bit of a prig, but a person
not likely to reflect much glory upon his friends, and the
correspondence came to an end, when Pope found a better
market for his wares.

Pope speaks more than once in these letters of his coun-
try retirement, where he could enjoy the company of the
muses, but where, on the other hand, he was forced to
be grave and godly, instead of drunk and scandalous as
he could be in town. The jolly hunting and drinking
squires round Binfield thought him. he says, a well-dis-
posed person, but unluckily disqualified for their rough
modes of enjoyment by his sickly health. With them he
has not been able to make one Latin quotation, but has
learnt a song of Tom Durfey's, the sole representative of
literature, it appears, at the "toping -tables" of these
thick-witted fox-hunters. Pope naturally longed for the
more refined, or at least more fashionable indulgences
of London life. Besides the literary affectation, he some-
times adopts the more offensive affectation — unfortunately
not peculiar to any period — of the youth who wishes to
pass himself off as deep in the knowledge of the world.

«sa--

jiiliMii

POPE.

[chap.

Pope, as may l>o here said once for all, could be at times
grossly indecent; and in these letters there are passages
offensive upon this score, though the offence is far graver
when the same tendency appears, as it sometimes does, in
his letters to women. There is no proof that Pope was
ever licentious in practice. He was probably more tem-
perate than most of his companions, and could bo accused
of fewer lapses from strict morality tlian, for example, the
excellent but thoughtless Steele. For this there was the
very good reason that liis " little, tender, crazy carcass,"
as Wycherley calls it, was utterly unfit for such excesses as
his companions could practise with comparative impunity.
He was bound under lieavy penalties to be through life a
valetudinarian, and such doses of wine as the respectable
Addison used regularly to absorb would have brought
speedy punishment. Pope's loose talk probably meant
little enough in the way of actual vice, though, as I have
already said, Trumbull saw reasons for friendly warning.
But some of his writings are stained by pruriency and
downright obscenity ; whilst the same fault may bo con-
nected with a painful absence of that chivalrous feeling
towards women which redeems Steele's errors of conduct
in our estimate of his character. Pope always takes a
lov/, sometimes a brutal view of the relation between the
sexes.

Enough, however, has been said upon this point. If
Pope erred, he was certainly unfortunate in the objects of
his youthful hero-worship. Cromwell seems to have been
but a pedantic hanger-on of literary circles. His other
great friend, Wycherley, had stronger claims upon his re-
spect, but certainly was not likely to raise his standard
of delicacy. Wycherley was a relic of a past literary
epoch. He was nearly fifty years older than Pope. His

[chap.

!•]

EARLY YEARS.

last play, tlie Plain Dealer, ^lad boon produced in 1G77,
eleven years before Pope's butli. The Plahi Dealer ami
the Country Wife, his chief performances, arc conspicuous
amongst the comedies of the Restoration dramatists for
sheer brutality. During Pope's boyhood he was an elder-
ly rake about town, having squandered his intellectual as
well as his pecuniary resources, but still scribbling bad
verses and maxims on the model of Ptochefoucauld. I'ope
had a very excusable, perhaps wc may say creditable, cn-
tluisiasm for the acknowledged representatives of literarv
glory. Before he was tweh'e years old he had persuaded
some one to take him to Will's, that he might have a sight,
of the venerable Dryden ; and in the first published lettl-r'
to AVycherley he refers to this brief glimpse, and warmly
thanks AVycherley for some conversation about the elder
poet. And thus, when lie came to know Wycherley, ho
was enraptured with the 4ionour. He followed the great
man about, as he tells us, like a dog; and, doubtless, re-
ceived with profound respect the anecdotes of literary life
which fell from the old gentleman's lips. Soon a corre-
spondence began, in which Pope adopts a less jaunty air
than that of his letters to Cromwell, but which is conduct-
ed on both sides in the laboured complimentarv stvlo
which was not unnatural in the days when Congrevc's
comedy was taken to represent the conversation of fash-
ionable life. Presently, l.owever, the letters began to turn
upon an obviously dangerous topic. Pope was only seven-
teen when it occurred to his friend to turn him to account
as a literary assistant. The lad had already shown con-
siderable powers of versification, and was soon employing
them in the revision of some of the numerous composi-

* The letter is, unluckily, of doubtful authenticity ; but it repre-
sents Pope's probable sentiments.
Q 15

Uf I

i i iPW jI ii l i I I

POPE.

[chap.

'r '

tions ■which amused Wychcrlcy's leisure. It would have
required, one niiglit have thouglit, less than Wychcrlcy's
experience to foresee the natural end of such an alliance.
Pope, in fact, set to work with great vigour in his favour-
ite occupation of correcting. He hacked and hewed right
and left ; omitted, compressed, rearranged, and occasional-
ly inserted additions of his own devising. Wycherley's
memory had been enfeebled by illness, and now played
him strange tricks, lie was in the habit of reading him-
self to sleep with Montaigne, Itochefoucauld, and Racine.
Next morning he would, with enure unconsciousness, write
down as his own the thoughts of his author, or repeat al-
most word for word some previous composition of his
own. To remove such repetitions thoroughly would re-
quire a very free application of the knife, and Pope would
not be slow to discover that he was wasting talents fit
for orio-inal work in botching* and tinkering a mass of
rubbish.

Any man of ripe years would have predicted the obvi-
ous consequences ; and, according to the ordinary story,
those consequences followed. Pope became more plain-
speaking, and at last almost insulting in his language.
"NVychcrlcy ended by demanding the return of his manu-
scripts, in a letter showing Lis annoyance under a veil of
civility ; and Pope sent them back with a smart reply,
recommending Wycherley to adopt a previous suggestion
and turn his poetry into maxims after the manner of
Kochefoucauld. The "old scribbler," says Johnson, " was
angry to see his pages defaced, and felt more pain from
the criticism than content from the amendment of his
faults." The story is told at length, and with his usual
brilliance, by IMacaulay, and has hitherto passed muster
with all Pope's biographers ; and, indeed, it is so natural

EARLY YEARS.

. i

a story, and is so far confirmed by other statements of
Pope, that it seems a pity to spoil it. And yet it must be
at least modified, for we have ah-eady reached one of those
perplexities which force a biographer of Pope to be con-
stantly looking to his footsteps. So numerous are the
contradictions which surround almost every incident of
the poet's career, that one is constantly in danger of stum-
bling into some pitfall, or bound to cross it in gingerly
fashion on the stepping-stone of a cautions " perhaps."
The letters which are the authority for this story have
undergone a manipulation from Pope himself, under cir-
cumstances to be hereafter noticed ; and recent researches
liave shown that a very false colouring has been put upon
this as upon other passages. The nature of this strange
perversion is a curious illustration of Pope's absorbing
vanity.

Pope, in fact, was evidently ashamed of the attitude
which he had not unnaturally adopted to his correspond-
ent. The first man of letters of his day could not bear to
reveal the full degree in which he had fawned upon the
decayed dramatist, whose inferiority to himself was now
plainly recognized. He altered the whole tone of the cor-
respondence by omission, and still worse by addition. lie
did not publish a letter in which Wycherley gentlv remon-
strates with his young admirer for excessive adulation ; he
omitted from his own letters the phrase which had pro-
voked the remonstrance ; and, with more daring falsifica-
tion, he manufactured an imaginary letter to Wycherley
out of a letter really addressed to his friend Caryll. In
this letter Pope had himself addressed to Caryll a remon-
strance similar to that which he had received from Wych-
erley. When published as a letter to Wycherley, it gives
the impression that Pope, at the age of seventeen, was al-

tmn

'i ' t. i

t :l L.

"5g

y I

roPE.

[CIIAP.

ready rojcctini^ pxoossive compliments addressed to him
by his ex[)ei'ienced friend. By tliesc audacious perver-
sions of the truth, I'opc is enabled to heighten his youth-
ful independence, and to represent himself as already
exhibiting a graceful superiority to the reception or the
olfering of incense; Avhilst he thus ])recisely inverts the
relation which really existed between himself and his cor-
respondent.

The letters, again, when read with a due attention to
dates, shows that Wycherlcy's proncness to take offence
has at least been exaggerated. Pope's services to Wydi-
crley were rendered on two separate occasions. The tirst
set of poems were corrected during 170G and iTuT; and
Wyeherloy, in speaking of this revision, far from showing
symptoms of annoyance, speaks with gratitude of Pope's
kindness, and returns the expressions of good-will which
accompanied his criticisms, lioth these expressions, and
Wycherley's acknowledgment of them, Avere omitted in
Pope's publication. More than two years elapsed, wlien
(in April, 1710) Wycherley submitted a new set of niam.i-
scr-pts to Pope's nntlinching severity; and it is from the
letters which passed in regard to this last batch that the
general impression as to the nature of the quarrel has been
derived. P>ut these letters, again, have been mutilated, and
so mutilated as to increase the apparent tartness of the
mutual retorts ; and it must therefore remain doubtful liow
far the coolness which ensued was really due to the cause
assigned. Pope, writing at the time to Cromwell, expresses
his vexation at the difference, and professes himself unable
to account for it, though he thinks that his corrections
may have been the cause of the rupture. An alternative
rumour,' it seems, accused Pope of having written some

' Sco Elwiii's I'opi', vol. i.,cxxxv.

'•]

EAKLY YEARS.

satirical verses upon his friend. To discover the risrlits
and \vn)nn;s of the quarrel is now impossible, though,
unfortunately, one thing is clear, namely, that Tope was
guilty of grossly sacriHciiig truth in the interests of his
own vanity. AVe may, indeed, assume, without much risk
of error, that Tope had become too conscious of his own
importance to find pleasure or pride in doctoring another
man's verses. It must remain uncertain how far he show-
ed this resentment to Wychcrley openly, or gratified it by
some covert means; and how far, again, he succeeded in
calming Wycher'.y's susceptibility by his compliments, or
aroused his wrath by more or less contemptuous treatment
of his verses.

A year after the quarrel, Cromwell reported that Wycli-
crley had again been speaking in friendly terms of Pope,
and Pope expressed his pleasure with eagerness, lie must,
he said, be more agreeable to himself when agreeable to
Wychcrley, as the earth was brighter when the sun was
less overcast. AVycherley, it may be remarked, took I'ope's
advice by turning some of his verses into prose maxims;
and they seem to liave been at last upon more or less
friendly terms. The final scene of Wycherley's question-
able career, some four years later, is given by Pope in a
letter to his friend, Edward Blount. The old man, he says,
joined the sacraments of marriage and extreme unction.
By one he supposed himself to gain some advantage of
his soul ; by the other, he had the pleasure of saddling his
hated heir and nephew with the jointure of his widow.
When dying, he begged his wife to grant him a last re-
quest, and, upon her consent, explained it to be that she
would never again marry an old man. Sickness, says l*opc
in comment, often destroys wit and wisdom, but has sel-
dom the power to remove humour. Wycherley's joke, re-

i !

f- ; ■

roPE.

[chap. I,

'\i

plies a critic, is contemptible ; and yet one feels that the
death scene, with this strange mixture of cynicism, spite,
and superstition, lialf redeemed by imperturbable tjood
temper, would not be unworthy of a place in Wycherley's
own school of comedy. One could wish that Pope liad
shown a little more perception of the tragic side of such a
conclusion.

I'ope was still almost a boy when he broke with Wych-
erley; but he was already beginning to attract attention,
and within a surprisingly short time he was becoming
known as one of the first writers of the day. I must now
turn to the poems by which this reputation was gained,
and the incidents connected with their publication. In
j Pope's life, almost more than in that of any other poet,
' the history of the author is the history of the man.

CHAPTER II.

FIRST PERIOD OF POPe's LITERARY CAREER.

Pope's rupture with Wyclierley took place in the summer
of 1710, when Pope, therefore, was just twenty-two. He
was at this timo only known as the contributor of some
small poems tu a Miscellany. Three years afterwards
(1713) he was receiving such patronage in his great under-
taking, the translation of Homer, as to prove conclusively
that he was regarded by the leaders of literature as a poet
of very high promise; and two years later (1715) the ap-
pearance of the first volume of his translation entitled him
to rank as the first poet of the day. So ra{)id a rise to
fame has had few parallels, and was certainly not ap-
proached until Byron woke and found himself famous at
twenty-four. Pope was eager for the praise of remarkable
precocity, and was weak and insincere rnough to alter the
dates of some of his writings in order to ,t lengthen his
claim. Yet, even when we accept the corrected accounts
of recent enquirers, there is no doubt that he gave proofs
at a very early age of an extraordinary command of the
resources of his art. It is still more evident that liis mer-
its were promptly and frankly recognized by his contem-
poraries. Great men and distinguished authors held out
friendly liands to him ; and he never had to undergo, even
for a brief period, the dreary ordeal of neglect tlirough

1 1*

li '•

iiJ^v

n^J

''&

— iSinssESBsarasBiB!

j^esi .

22 POPE. [cap.

wliich men of loftier but less popular genius, have been so
often compelled to pass. Ami yet it unfortunately Iiai)-
pened that, even in this early time, when success followed

success, and the youui-' man's irritable nerves mij^ht well
liave been soothed by tluf <;-eneral chorus of admiration, he
excited and returned bitter antipathies, some of which
lasted through liis life.

Pope's works belong to three distinct periods. The
translation of Homer was the great work of the middle
period of his life. In his later years he wn^te tl, moral
and satirical poems by which he is now best known. Tlie
earlier period, with which 1 have now to deal, was one of
experimental excursions into various fields of poetry, with
varying success and rather uncertain aim. I'ope had al-
ready, as we have seen, gone through the process of '' fill-
ing his basket." He had written the epic poem which
happily found its way into the Hames. He had translated
many passages that struck his fancy in the classics, es-
pecially considerable fragments of Ovid and Statins. Fol-
lowing Dryden, he hail turned some of Chaucer into mod-
ern Knglish ; and, adopting a fashion which had not as
yet (piite died of inanition, he had composed certain pas-
torals in the manner of Theocritus and Virgil. These
early productions had been written under the eye of Trum-
bull; they had been handed abou^ in manuscript; Wyeh-
crley, as already noticed, had sho\vn them to AVal>li, him-
self an oli'ender of tho same class, (iriunillc, afterwanls
Lord Lansdowne, another small poet, read them, and pro-
fessed to sec in Tope another Virgil; whilst Congreve,
Garth, 8omers, Halifax, and other men of weight conde-
scended to read, admire, and criticise. Old Tonson, who
had published for Dryden, wrote a polite note to I'ope,
then only soventcen, saying that he had seen one of the

*ff

II.] I'JHST I'EIilOD OF POPE'S LITERAliV V.umill. 23

Pastorals in tlio hands of Cono;revc and Walsh, " vvhicli
was extremely tine," and reqnestiiii. the honour of printin.r
it. Three years afterwards it aeeordin-ly apj.cared in
'ionson's Miscellany, a kind of annual, of whicl. tlie first
numbers had been e.lited by Dryden. Such n.iseellanies
more or less dischari,^cd the function of a modern iwvn^-
zmc. The plan, said I'opc to Wycherley, is very usefuUo
the poets, " who, like other thieves, escape l^. gettino- into
a crowd." The volume contained contributions "from
Buckinol.am, ( Jarth, iuid Howe ; it closed with Pope's Pas-
torals, and opened with another set of pastorals by Am-
brose Philips— a combination which, as we shall see.'led to
one of Pope's first quarrels.

Tlie Pa.storals liave been seriously criticised; but they
are, in trutb, mere school- boy exercises; they represent
rotliuig more than so many experiments in versification.
The pastoral form had doubtless been used in earlier hands
to embody true poetic feeling; but in Pope's time it had
become hopelessly threadbare. The fine ge.itlemen in wi<.-3
and laced coats amused themselves by writin- about
nymphs and "conscious swains," by way of asserthio- their
clanns to elegance of taste. Pope, as a boy, took tlfe mat-
ter seriously, and always retained a natural fondness for a
juvenile performance upon which he had expended oroat
labour, and which was the chief proof of his extreme'^pre-
cocity. He invites attention to liis own merits, and claims
especially the virtue of propriety. He does not, he tells
us, like some other people, make his roses and daffodils
bloom in the same season, and cause his nightino-ales to
sing in November; and he takes particular credit for hav-
ing remembered that there were no wolves in England, and
having accordingly excised a passage in which Alexis
prophesied that those animals would grow milder as they

« & ' ;

J t

III

l! ir

..ii mr

POPE.

[i lur.

listened to the strains of his favourite nynipli. When a
man has <rot so far as to hrini^ to I'^njrlatitl all tlie papin
deities, and rival sheplierds ciHitendiiij^ for bowls and lambs
in alternate stroplies, these niceties seem a little out of
place. After swallowing such a camel of an anachronism
as is contained in the following lines, it is ridiculous to
pride oncsel. upon straining at a gnat: —
Inspire me, says Strephon,

" Inspire mo, Pha'bus, in my Delia's praise
With Waller's stiains or (iranville's niovini; lays.
A milk-white Inill shall at your altars stand,
That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand."

Granville would certainly not have felt more surprised at
meeting a wolf than at seeing a milk-white bull sacriliced
to riuL'bus on the banks of the Thames. It would be a
more serious complaint that Pope, who can thus admit
anachronisms as daring as any of those which provoked
Johnson in Lycidas, shows none of that exquisite feeling
for rural scenery Avhich is one of the superlative charms
of Milton's early poems. Though country -bred, he talks
about country sights and sounds as if he had been brought
up at Christ's Hospital, and read of them only in Virgil.
Bat, in truth, it is absurd to dwell upon such points. The
sole point worth notice in the Pastorals is the general
sweetness of the versification. Many corrections show
how carefully Pope had elaborated these early lines, and
by what patient toil he was acquiring the peculiar quali-
ties of style in which he was to become pre-i aiinent. We
may agree with Johnson that Pope performing upon a
pastoral pipe is rather a ludicrous person, but for mere
practice even nonsense verses have been found useful.
The young gentleman was soon to give a far more char-

ir.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 25

actcristic specimen of l.is peculiar powers. Poets, accord-
"i.y: to the ordinary rule, should bej;in by exuberant fancy,
and learn to prune and refine as the reasoiiinir faculties de-
velopf |],it JN.pe was from the first a conscious and de-
liberate artist. He bad road the fashionable critics of his
time, and had accepted their canons as an embodiment of
irrefrapible reason. Jlis head was full of maxims, some
of which strike us as palpable truisms, and others as typ-
ical specimens of wooden pedantry, Dryden had set the
example of lookin-,^ upon the French critics as authoritative
lawirivers in poetry. Boileau's art of poetry was carefully
studied, as bits of it were judiciously a[)pr..priated, by
Tope. Another authority was the threat IJossu, wh.. wrote
in 1075 a treatise on epic poetry; and the m,)deni reader
may best judi^e of the doctrines characteristic of the
school by the naive pedantry with which Addison, the typ-
ical wim of taste of his time, invokes the authority ..f Jiossu
and Aristotle, in his exposition of I'aradise Lost.'" Knolish
writers were trcadin- in the steps of Boilcau and Horace.
Roscommon selected for a poem the lively topic of " trans-
lated verse ;" and Shelfield had written with Dryden an es-
say upon satire, and afterwards a more elaboratoV^ ^av upon
poetry. To these masterpieces, said Addison, ar . er mas-
terpiece was now added by Pope's Essay upon ^'riticism.
X.)t only did Addison applaud, but later critics have spoken
of their wonder at the P^^uetral ion, learning, and taste ex-
liibitcd by so youncr ^ n.an. The essay was carefuliv fin-
ished. Written a^.parently in 1709, it was published in
1711. This was as sliort a time, said 1' -pe to Spence, as
he ever let anvthing of his lie by him ; he un duubt e'm-

' Any poet who followed Bossu's rules, said Voltaire, might be
(•ortain th.t no one would read him; happily it was impossible to
follow tluiii.

\l\i

i' i i

POPE.

[chap.

ployctl it, accordiiiL'' to liis custom, in correct in <>• and revis-
ing, and lie had prepared himself by carefully digesting
the whole in prose. It is, liowever, written without any
elaborate logical plan, tliough it is quite sufliciently cohe-
rent for its purpose. The maxims on which I'ope chiefly
dwells are, for the most part, tlic obvious rules which have
been the common property of all generations of critics.
One would scarcely ask for originality in such a case, any
jnore than one would desire a writer on ethics to invent
new laws of morality. We reijuire neither Pope nor Aris-
totle to tell us that critics should not be pert nor prt'ju-
diced ; that fancy should be regulated by judgment ; tliat
apparent facility comes by long traininii-; that the sound
should have some conformity to the meaning; that genius
is often envied ; and that dulness is frequently beyond the
reach of reproof. We might even guess, without the au-
thority of Pope, backed by Kacon, that there are some
beauties which cannot be taught by method, but must be
reached "by a kind of felicity." It is not the less inter-
esting to notice I'ope's skill in polisliing these rather rusty
sayings into the appearance of novelty. In a familiar lino
Pope gives us the view which ho would himself apply
in sucli cases.

" True wit is nature to advantage dressVl,
AVhiit oft was tliouglit, l)ut ne'er so well cxprossM."

The only fair question, in short, is whether I'ope lias
managed to give a lasting form to some of the floating
commonplaces which have more or less suggested them-
selves to every writer. If we apply this test, we must ad-
mit that if the essay upon criticism does not show deep
thought, it shows singular skill in putting old truths.
Pope umh'niably succeeded in liitting olf many phrases
of marked felicity. lie already showed the power, in

'^1

11.] FIRST PEKIOD OF TOPE'S LITERARY CAREER.

wljich lie Avas probably iiiicquallcd, of coining aphorisms
out of coninionplace. Few people read the essay now, but
everybody i.s aware tliat " fools rush in where angels fear
to tread," and has heard the warning —

" A little loarniiij^ i.s a dungeroiis thing,
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:"

maxims which may not commend themselves as strictly
accurate to a scientific reasoner, but which have as much
truth as one can demand from an epigrau). And besides
many sayings Avhich share in some degree their merit,
there are occasional passages which ri.se, at least, to the
height of graceful rhetoric if they arc scarcely to be called
poetical. One simile was long famous, and was called by
Johnson the best in the language. It is that in which
the sanguine youth, overwhelmed by a growing percep.
tion of the boundlessness of possible attainments, is com-
pared to the traveller crossing the mountains, and seeino-—

" Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise."

The poor simile is pretty well forgotten, but is really a
good specimen of Pope's brilliant declamation.

The essay, however, is not uniformly polished. Be-
tween the happier passages we have to cross stretches of
flat pro.sc twisted into rhyme ; Pope seems to have inten-
tionally pitched his style at a prosaic level as fitter for
didactic purposes; but besides this we here and there
come upon phra.ses which are not only elliptical and
slovenly, but defy all grammatical construction. This was
a blemish to wl.ich Pope was always .strangely liable. It
was perhaps due in part to over-correction, when the con-
text was forgotten and the subject had lost its freshness.
Critics, again, have remarked upon the poverty of the

I !

( !l

?? ..

+ n.

roPE.

[chap.

,'.-.

rhymes, and observed that lie makes ten rliymes to
" wit " and twelve to " sense." The freqnent reeurrence
of the words is the more awkward because they are
curiously ambiguous. " Wit " was beginning to receive
its modern meaning; but Pope uses it vaguely as some-
times equivalent to intelligence in general, sometimes to
the poetic faculty, and sometimes to the erratic fancy,
which the true poet restrains by sense. Pope would
have been still more puzzled if asked to define precise-
ly what he meant by the antithesis between nature and
art. They are somehow opposed, yet art turns out to be
only " nature methodized.'' AVe have, indeed, a clue for
our guidance ; to study nature, we are told, is the same
thing as to study Homer, and Homer should be read day
and night, with Virgil for a comment and yVristotle for
an expositor. Nature, good sense, Homer, Virgil, and the
Stagyrite all, it seems, come to much the same thing.

It would be very easy to pick holes in this very loose
theory. P>nt it is better to try to understand the point
of view indicated ; for, in truth. Pope is really stating the
assumptions which guided his whole career. No one will
accept his position at the present time ; but any one who
is incapable of, at least, a provisional sympathy, may as
well tiirow Pope aside at once, and with Pope most con-
temporary litorature.

The dominant figure in Pope's day was the Wit. The
wit — taken personally — was the man who represented
what we now describe by culture or the spirit of the
age. Bright, clear, common sense wa., for once having
its own way, and tyrannizing over the faculties from
which it too often suffers violence. The favoured fac-
ulty never doubted its own qualification for sii[>remacy
in every department. In metaphysics it was triumphing

II.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 29

witli Ilobbos and Locke over the remnants of scholasti-
cism ; under Tillotson, it was expelliiii? mystery from re-
ligion ; and in art it was declaring- war against the extrav-
agant, the romantic, the mystic, and the Gothic— a word
then used as a simple term of abuse. Wit and sense are
but diflferent avatars of the same spirit; wit was the form
in which it showed itself in coffee-houses, and sense that
in which it appeared in the pulpit or parliament. AVhcn
^Valsh told Pope to be correct, he was virtually advising
him to carry the same spirit into poetry. The classicism
of the time was the natural corollary ; for the classical
models were the historical symbols of the movement
which Tope represented. He states his view very tersely
in the essay. Classical cnltiire had been overwhohiied by
the barbarians, and the monks "finished what the Goths ^
began." Letters revived when the study of classical
models again gave an impulse and supplied a guidance.

•'At length Erasmus, that great injured name,
The glory of the priesthood and tlieh- shame'
Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barbarous age',
And drove these holy Vandals off the stage."'

Th. ciassicalism of Tope's time was no doubt very dif-
ferent from that of the period of Erasmus; but in his
view It differed only because the contemporaries of Dry-
den had more thoroughly dispersed the mists of the bar-
barism which still obscured the Shakspearean a-o, and
from which even Milton or Cowley had not Cuumletely ,
escaped. Pryden and Boileau and the French critics,
with their interpreters, lloscoinmon, Sheffield, and Walsh'
Avho found rules in Aristotle, and drew their precedents
from Ilomcr, were at last ^tating the pure canons of un-
adulterated sense. To thii school wit, and sense, and nat-

f '

f 'I

l! i!i

I ^1

♦ft

( '*

ropE.

[chap.

I I

uro, and the classics, all iiieant pretty much the same.
That was pronounced to be unnatural which was too
silly, or too far-fetched, or too exalted, to approve itself
to the good sense of a wit; and the very incarnation
and eternal type of good sense and nature was to be
found in the classics. The test of thorough polish and
retinement Avas the power of ornamenting a speech with
an appropriate plirasc from Horace or Virgil, or prefixing
a Greek motto to an essay in the Sjwctator. If it was
necessary to give to any utterance an air of i)hilosophical
autjjority, a reference to Longinus or Aristotle was the
natural device. Perhaps the acipiaintance with classics
might not be very profound ; but the classics supplied
at least a convenient symbol for the spirit which had
triumphed against Gothic barbarism and scholastic ped-
antry.

Even the priggish wits of that day were capable of
being bored by didactic poetry, and especially by sucli
didactic poetrv as resolved itself too easily into a striuiC
of maxims not more poetical in substance than the im-
mortal "'Tis a siu to steal a pin." The essay — i)ublislii!d
anonymously — did not make any vn\nd success till Pojie
sent round copies to well-known critics. Addison's praise
and Dennis's abuse helped, as we shall presently sec, to
give it notoriety. Pope, howevei', returned from criticism
to poetry, and his next performaTicc was in some degree a
rresh, but far less puerile, perforuiance upon the pastoral
pipe.' Nothing could be more natural than fi)r the young-
poet to take for a text the forcsi in which he lived. Dull
as the natives might be, their dwelling-place Avas historical,

• TIkto is the usual contradiction as to tlie date of composition
of ]]'i>nf.soy Foirtit. Part seems to have been written early (Pope
says 1704), and part certainly not before 1712.

II.] FIRST PERIOD OF TOPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 31

and there was an excellent precedent for such a perform-
ance. Pope, as we liave seen, was familiar with Milton's
juvenile poems; but such works as the Allegro and Pen-
seroso were l,oo full of the genuine country spirit to suit
his probable audience. Wycherlcy, whom he frequently
invited to come to Binfield, would undoubtedly liavc
found Milton a bore. But Sir John Denham, a thor-
oughly masculine, if not, as Pope calls him, a majestic
poet, was a guide whom the Wycherleys woul.l respect.
His Cooper^s Hill (in 1642) was the first example of
vvliat Johnson calls local poetry-poetry, tliat is, devoted
to the celebration of a particular place ; and, moreover, it
M-as one of the early models of the rhythm which became
triumphant in the hands of Dryden. One couplet is still
familiar:

" Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull ;
Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing, full."

The poem lias some vigorous descriptive touches, but is in
the main a forcible expression of the moral and political
reflections which would be approved by the admirers of
good sense in poetry.

_ Pope's Windsor Forest, which appeared in the begin-
ning of 1713, is closely and avowedly modelled upon this
original. There is still a considerable infusion of the
puerile classicism of the Pastorals, which contrasts awk-
wardly with Donham's strength, and a silly episode about
the nymph Lodona changwl into the river Loddon by Di-
ana, to save her from the pursuit of Pan. But the 'style
IS animated, and the descriptions, though seldom orio-jnal
show Pope's frequent felicity of language. Wordsworth'
indeed, was pleased to say that Pope had here introduced
almost the only " new images of internal nature " to be

Jtl

! i

( '<

POPE.

[chap.

found between Milton and ThomsT5n. Probably the good
Wordsworth was wishing to do a little bit of excessive
candour. Pope will not introduce his scenery without a
turn suited to the taste of the town : —

"Here waving groves a cliequer'd scene display,
And part admit and part exclude the day ;
As some coy nymph her lover's fond address,
Nor quite indulges nor can quite repress."

He has some well-turned lines upon the sports of the for-
est, though they are clearly not the lines of a sportsman.
They betray something of the sensitive lad's shrinkino- from
the rough squires whose only literature consisted of Dur-
fey's songs, and who would have heartily laughed at his
sympathy for a dying pheasant. I may observe in pass-
ing that Pope always showed the true poet's tenderness
for the lower animals, and disgust at bloodshed. He loved
his dog, and said that he would liave inscribed over his
grave, " O rare Bounce," but for the appearance of ridicul-
ing " rare Ben Jonson." lie spoke with horror of a con-
temporary dissector of live dogs, and the pleasantest of his
papers in the Guardian is a warm remonstrance against
cruelty to animals. He "dares not" attack huntino-, he
says — and, indeed, such an attack requires some courage
even at the present day — but he evidently has no sympa-
thy with huntsmen, and has to borrow his description from
Statins, which was hardly the way to get the true local
colour. Windsor F< , however, like Cooper's Hill,
speedily diverges into Historical and political reflections.
The barbarity of the old forest laws, the poets Denham
and Cowley and Surrey, who had sung on the banks of the
Thames, and the hero( s who made Windsor illustrious,
suggest obvious thoughts, put into verses often brilliant,

k^^ ' I

iij FIRST PEKIOD OF rOPE'S LITEHARY CAREER. 33

though sometimes affected, varied by a compliment to
Irumbull and an excessive euloiry of Granville, to whom
the poem is inscribed. The whole is skilfully adapted to
the time by a brilliant eulogy upon the peace which was
concluded just as the poem was published. Tlic Wliiir
poet Tickell, soon to be Pope's rival, was celebrating the
same "lofty theme" on his "artless reed," and introduc-
ing a pretty little compliment to Pope. To readers who
have lost the taste for poetry of this class one poem may
seem about as good as ihe other; but Pope's superiority
IS plam enougli to a reader who will condescend to distin-
guisli. His verses are an excellent specimen of his declam-
atory style— polished, epigrammatic, and well expressed-
and, though keeping far below the regions of true poetry'
preservmg just tliat level which would commend them to *
the literary statesmen and the politicians at Will's and
Button's. Perhaps some advocate of Free Trade might
try upon a modern audience tlie lines in wliich Pope "ex-
presses his aspiration in a foot-note that London may one
day become a " Free Port." There is at least not one
antiquated or obscure phrase in the whole. Here are half
a dozen lines : —

"The time shall come, when, free as seas and wind,
Unbour.d. d Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but Join the regions they divide ;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old."

In the next few years Pope found other themes for the
display of his declamatory powers. Of the Temple of
Fame (1715), a frigid 'mitation of Chaucer, I need only
say that it is one of Pope's least successful i)erformances ;
but I must notice more fully two rhetorical poems which

» 'If

POPE.

[chap.

J I)

,^if'

II,

appeared in 1717. These were the Flcfftj to the Memonj
of an Unfortunate Lady and the Eloisa to Ahclanl. Both
poems, and especially tlie last, have received the warmest
praises from Pope's critics, and even from critics who
were most opposed to his school. Thoy are, in fact, his
chief performances of the sentimental kind. Written in
his youth, and yet when his powers of versification had
reached their fullest maturity, they represent an element
generally absent from his poetry. Pope was at the period
in which, if ever, a poet should sing of love, and in which
we expect the richest glow and fervour of youthful imagi-
nation. Pope was neither a Darns, nor a Byron, nor a
Keats ; but here, if anywhere, we should find those quali-
ties in which he has most affinity to the poets of passioh
or of sensuous emotion, not soured by experience or pu-
rified by reflection. The motives of the two poems were
skilfully chosen. Pope — as has already appeared to some
extent — was rarely original in his designs; he liked to
have the outlines at least drawn for him, to be filled with
his own colouring. The Eloisa to Abelard was founded
upon a translation from the French, publislied in 1714 by
Hughes (author of the Sicf^e of Damascus), which is itself
a manipulated translation from the famous Latin originals.
Pope, it appears, kept very closely to the words of the
English translation, and in some places has done little
more than versify the prose, though, of course, it is com-
pressed, rearranged, and modified. The Unfortunate Lady
has been the cause of a good deal of controversy. Pope's
elegy implies, vaguely enough, that she had been cruelly
treated by lier guardians, and had committed suicide in
some foreign country. The verses, as commentators de-
cided, showed such genuine feeling, that the story narrated
in them must have been authentic, and one of his own

n.J FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 86

correspondents rCaryll) begjred l.im for an explanation of
the facts. Pope gave no answer, but left a posthumous
note to an edition of his letters calculated, perhaps intend-
ed, to mystify future inquirers. The lady, a Mrs. Weston,
to whom the note pointed, did not die till" 1724, and could
therefore not have committed suicide in 1717. The mys-
tification was childish enough, though, if Pope had com-
mitted no worsp crime of the kind, one would not consider
him to be a very grievous offender. The inquiries of Mr.
Dilke, who cleared up this puzzle, show that there were, in
fact, two ladies— Mrs. Weston and a Mrs. Cope— known to
Pope about this time, both of whom suffered under some
domestic persecution. Pope seems to have taken up their
cause with energy, and sent money to Mrs. Cope when, at
a later period, she was dying abroad in great distress. His
zeal seems to have been sincere and generous, and it is pos-
sible enough that the elegy was a reflection of his feelings,
though it suggested an imaginary state of facts. If this
be so, the reference to the lady in his posthumous note
contained some relation to the truth, though if taken too
literally it would be misleading.

The poems themselves are, beyond all doubt, impres-
sive compositions. They are vivid and admirably worked.
" Here," says Johnson of the Ehisa to Abclard, the most
important of the two, "is particularly observable the curi-
osa fellcitas, a fruitful soil and careful cultivation. Here
IS no crudeness of sense, nor asperity of language." So far
there can be no dispute. The style has the^'highest de-
gree of technical perfection, and it is generally added that
the poems are as pathetic as they are exquisitely written.
Bowles, no hearty lover of Pope, declared the Uloisa to be
" infinitely superior to everything of the kind, ancient or
modern." The tears shed, says Ilazlitt of the same poem,

ill

/ ••

POPE.

[chap.

f I

" are drops gusljlng from the heart ; the words are burn-
ing sighs breathed from the soul of love." And De Qiiin-
coy ends an eloquent criticism by declaring that the " lyr-
ical tumult of the changes, the hope, the tears, the rapture,
the penitence, the despair, place the reader in tumultuous
sympathy with the poor distracted nun." The pathos of
the (Jnfortunatc Lady lias been almost equally praised,
and I may quote from it a famous passage which Mackin-
tosh repeated with emotion to repel a ciiarge of coldness
brought against Pope : —

" By foreign hands thy dying eves were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave ndorn'd,
By strangers hononiM uid by strangers mourn'd !
Wh.it though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and tlie public show ?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room.
Nor hallow'd dirge bemutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie liglitly on thy breast ;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow.
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made."

The more elaborate poetry of the Eloisa is equally polish-
ed throughout, and too much praise cannot easily be be-
stowed upon the skill with wliich the romantic scenery of
the convent is indicated in the background, and the force
with which Pope lias given the revulsions of feeling of
his unfortunate heroine from earthly to heavenly love, and

II.] FIRST I'ERIOD OF TOPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 87

from keen remorse to renewed gusts of overpowering pas-
sion. All this may be .said, and without opposing liigli
critical authority. And yet, I must also .say, whether wiUi
or without authority, that I, at least, can read the poems
without the least " disposition to cry," and that a single
pathetic touch of Cowper or Wordsworth strikes incom-
parably deeper. And if I seek for a reason, it seems to
be simply that Pope never crosses* the undcfinable, but yet
ineffaceable, line which separates true poetry from rheto-
ric. The Eloisu ends rather flatly by one of Pope's char-
acteristic a{)horisms. " He best can paint them (tho woes,
that is, of f:ioisa) who shall feel them most;" and it is
characteristic, by the way, that even in these his most im-
passioned verses, the lines which one remembers are of the
same cpigramtnatic stamp, c.^y.;

" A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art and all the proud shall be t

"I mourn the lover, not lament the fault.

" How happy is the blameless vestal's lot.
The world forgetting, by the world forgot."

The worker in moral ap^'orisms cannot forg-et liinTself even
in the full swing of his fervid declamation. I have no
doubt that Pope so far exemplified his own doctrine that
he truly felt whilst he was writing. His feelings make
Inm eloquent, but they do not enable him to " snatch a
grace beyond the reach of art," to blind us for a moment
to the presence of the consummate workman, ji'diciou.sly
blending his colours, heightening his effects, and skilfully
managing his transitions or consciously introducing an
abrupt outburst of a new mood. The smoothness of the
verses imposes monotony even upon the varying passions
which are supposcil to struggle in Eloisa's brea.st.. It is

■ :M

I s:

•t

POPE.

[CIIAP.

I /

IJ^ il

not merely our knowledge tliat Pope is speakin.rj rlraniat-
ically which prevents iis from receiving the same kind of
impressions as wo receive from poetry— sucii, for example,
as some r f Cowper's minor pieces— into which we know
that a man is really putting liis whole licart. The com-
parison would not be fair, fur in such cases wc arc moved
by knowledge of external facts as well as by the poetic
power. JJiit it is simply that Pope always resembles an
orator whose gestures are studied, and wljo thinks, while
he is speaking, of the fall of his robes and the attitude
of liis hands, lie is throughout academical ; and though
knowing with admirable nicety how grief should be r'p-
resented, and what have been the expedients of his best
predecessors, he misses the one essential touch of sponta-
neous impulse.

One other blemish is perhaps more fatal to the popu-
larity of the Uloisa. There is a taint of something un-
wholesome and effeminate. Pope, it is true. \ only fol-
lowing the language of the original in the most offensive
passages ; but we see too plainly that he has dwelt too
fondly upon those pa.ssages, and worked them up with es-
pecial care. We need not be prudish in our judgment of
impassioned poetry ; but when the passion has this false
ring, the ethical coincides with the ivsthotic objection.

I have mcntionori those poems here, because they seem
to be the development of the rhetorical vein which ap-
peared in the earlier work. But 1 have passed over an-
other work which has sometimes been regarded as his
masterpiece. A Lord Petre liad offended a Miss Fermor
by stealing a lock of her hair. She thought that he
showed more gallantr- than courtesy, and some unpleas-
ant feeling resulted between the families. Pope's friend,
Caryll, thought that it might be appeased if the young

ii.J FIKST PERIOD ' POPE'S LITERARY CARELH. 39

poet would turn the whole affair into fricndh ri.iicule.
Nobody, it mijrl.t well he supposed, l.ad a more" dexterous
touch ; and a brilliant trifle from his hands, just fitted for
the atmosphere of drawiiifr-rooms, would be a convenient
peace-offering, and was the very thinor in which he might
be expected to succeed. Tope accordingly set to work" at
a dainty little mock-licroie, in which he describes, in play-
ful mockery of the conventional style, t'ne fatal coffee-
drinking at Hampton, in which the too daring peer appro-
priated the lock. The poem received the praise which it
well deserved; for certainly the young poet had executed
his task to a nicety. No more brilliant, sparkling, viva-
cious trifle is to bo found in our literature than the liape
of the Lock, even in this early form. Pope received per-
mission from the lady to pubPsh it in LintoCs Miscelluw/
in 1712, and i wider cirr,: auii. -d it, though it seems
that the lady and her fa. lily bogai to think that young
Mr. Pope was making r<.'li'- too ree with her name.
Pope meanwhile, animated b h\, aj.'icss, hit upon a sin-
gularly happy conception, by which ]ie thon^it that the
poem might be rendered more in»portant. The solid
critics of those days were much occupied with the ma-
chinery of epic poems ; the machinery being composed of
the gods and goddesses who, from the days of Homer,
had attended to the fortunes of lieroes. He had hit upon
a curious French book, the Comte de Gahulis, which pro-
fesses to reveal the mysteries of the Rosicrucians, and it
occurred to him that the elemental sylj.hs and gnomes
would serve his purpose admirably. He spoke of his new
device to Addison, who administered— and tliere is not
the slightest reason for doubting his perfect sincerity and
good meaning— a little dose of cold water. The poem,
as it stood, was a "delicious little i\nm''—merum sal—
D 3

* ii

! i

POPE.

[chap.

and it would be a pity to alter it. Pope, however, ad-
iicrcd to his plan, niade a splendid success, and thought
that Addison must have been prompted by some mean
motive. The Bape of the Lock appeared in its new form,
with syl})hs and gnojnes, and an ingenious account of a
game at cards and other improvements, in 1714. Pope
declared, and critics have agreed, that he never showed
more skill than in the remodelling of this poem; and it
has ever since held a kind of recognized supremacy amongst
the productions of the drawing-room muse.

The reader must retnember that the so-called heroic
style of Pope's period is now lio[)elessly effete. No hu-
man being would care about machinery and the rules of
Bossu, or read without utter weariness the mechanical im-
itations of Homer and Virgil which were occasionally at-
tempted by the Blackmores and other less ponderous ver-
sifiers. The shadow grows dim with the substance. The
burlesque loses its point when we care nothing for the
original ; and, so far. Pope's bit of filigree-work, as Ilaz-
litt calls it, has become tarnished. The very mention of
beaux and belles suggests the kind of feeling with which
we disinter fragments of old-world finery from the depths
of an ancient cabinet, and even the wit is apt to sound
wearisome. And further, it must be allowed to some
hostile critics that Pope has a worse defect. The poem
is, in effect, a satire upon feminine frivolity. It continues
the strain of mockery against hoops and patches and their
wearers, which supplied Addison and his colleagues with
the materials of so many Spectators. I think that even
in Addison there is something which rather jars upon us.
His persiflage is full of humour and kindliness, but under-
lying it there is a tone of superiority to women which is
sometimes offensive. It is taken for granted that a wom-

II.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 41

an is a fool, or at least should be flattered if any man
condescends to talk sense to her. With Pope this tone
becomes harsher, and the merciless satirist begins to show
himself. In truth, Pope can be inimitably pungent, but
he can never be simply playful. Addison was too conde-
scending with his pretty pupils; but under Pope's courte-
sy there lurks contempt, and his smile has a disagreeable
likeness to a sneer. If Addison's manner sometimes sug-
gests the blandness of a don who classes women with the
inferior beings unworthy of the Latin grammar. Pope sug-
gests the brilliant wit whose contempt has a keener edge
from his resentment against fine ladies blinded to his gen-
ius by Jiis personal deformity.

Even in his dedication, Pope, with unconscioi- imper-
tinence, insults his heroine for her presumable ignorance
of his critical jargon. His smart epigrams want but a
slight change of tone to become satire. It is the same
writer who begins an essay on women's characters by tell-
ing a woman that her sex is a compound of

" Matter too soft a lasting mask to bear ;
And best distinguislied by black, brown, or fair,"

and communicates to her the pleasant truth that

" Every woman is at heart a rake."

Women, in short, are all frivolous beings, whose one gen-
uine interest is in love-making. The same sentiment is
really implied in the more playful lines in the Rape of the
Lock. The sylphs are warned by omens that some mis-
fortune impends ; but they don't know what.

" Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,
Or some fiail eliina jar receive a flaw ;
Or stain her honour or her new brocade,
Forget her prayers or miss a masquerade;

'«S

}f *

'I I

*2 POPE. [CHAP.

Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball,

Or whether heaven has dooin'd that Shock must full."

We can understand that Miss Fernior would feci such
raillery to bo equivocal. It may be added, that an equal
want of delicacy is implied in the mock-heroic battle at
the end, wlicre tlie ladies arc gifted with an excess of
screaming power : —

" ' Restore the lock !' she cries, and al! around
' Restore the lock,' the vaulted roofs rebound-
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain."

These faults, tliough far from trifling, are yet felt only
as blemishes in the admirable beauty and brillia'^ce of the
poem. The successive scenes are given with so firm and
clear a touch— there is such a sense of form, the language
is such a dexterous elevation of the ordinary social twaddle
into the mock-heroic, that it is impossible not to recognize
a consummate artistic power. The dazzling display of
true wit and fancy blinds us for the time to the want of
that real tenderness and humour which would have soft-
ened some harsh passages, and given a more enduring
charm to the poetry. It has, in short, the merit that be*
Jongs to any work of art which expresses in the most fin-
ished form the sentiment characteristic of a given social
phase ; one deficient in many of the most ennobling in-
fluences, but yet one in which the arts of converse repre-
sent a very high development of shrewd sense refined into
vivid wit. And we may, I think, admit that there is some
foundation for the genealogy that traces Pope's Ariel back
to his more elevated ancestor in the Tcmjjest. The later
Ariel, indeed, is regarded as the soul of a coquette, and is
almost an allegory of the spirit of poetic fancy in slavi ry
to polished society.

n.j FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 43

"Gums and pomatums shall liis flight restrain
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain."

Pope's Ariel is a parody of the ethereal beinir into
whom Siiakspearo had refined the ancient fairy ; but it is
a parody wliich still preserves a sense of the delicate and
ii-racefiil. The ancient race, which appeared for the la«t
tnne in this travesty of the fashion of Queen Anne, still
showed some touch of its ancient beauty. Since that
tune no fairy has appeared without being liopelessly child-
ish or affected.

Let us now turn from the poems to the author's person-
al career during the same period. In the remarkable au-
tobiographic poem called the JiJpistle to Arbuthnot, Pope
speaks of his early patrons and friends, and adds—

" Soft were my numbers ; who eould take offence
When pu.o description held tiie place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my How'ry theme,
A painted mistress or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal (pilll—
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd,— I was not in debt."

Pope's view of his own career suggests the curious
problem : how it came to pass that so harmless a man
should be the butt of so many hostilities? How could
any man bo angry with a writer of gentle pastorals and
versified love-letters? The answer of Pope was, that this
was the normal state of things. " The life of a wit," he
says, in the preface to his works, " is a warfare upon
earth;" and the warfare results f.om the hatred of men
of genius natural to the dull. Had any one else made
such a statement, Pope would have seen its resemblance to
the complaint of the one reasonable juryman overpow-

'■M'.h

POPE.

[chap.

k.ti

1 '

I ''I

ered by eleven obstinate fellows. But we may admit that
an intensely sensitive nature is a bad qualification for a
public career. A man who ventures into the throng of
competitors without a skin will be tortured by every
touch, and suffer the more if he turns to retaliate.

I'ope's first literary performances had not been so harm-
less as he suggests. Amongst the minor men of letters of
the day was the surly John Dennis, lie was some thirty
years Pope's senior; a writer of dreary tragedies which
had gained a certain success by their Whiggish tenden-
cies, and of ponderous disquisitions upon critical questions,
not much cruder in substance though heavier in form
than many utterances of Addison or Steele, He could,
however, snarl out some shrewd things when provoked,
and was known to the most famous wits of the day. lie
had corresponded with Dryden, Congreve, and Wycher-
ley, and published some of their letters. Pope, it seems,
had been introduced to him by Cromwell, but they had
met only two or three times. When l\)pe had become
ashamed of following Wycherlcy about like a dog, he
would soon find out that a Dennis did not deserve the
homage of a rising genius. Possibly Dennis had said
something of Pope's Pastorals, and Pope had probably
been a witness, perhaps more than a mere witness, to
some passage of arms in which Dennis lost his temper.
In mere youthful impertinence he introduced an offensive
touch in the Bssay upon Criticism. It would be well, he
said, if critics could advise authors freelv. —

" Rut Appius reddens at ciu-li word yon speak,
And stiirt's, tromcndous, with a three toning cjo,
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestrj-."

The name Appius referred to Dennis's tragedy of Ap-

T- : 5

n.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 45

2nus and Virginia, a piece now recollected solely by tlio
fact that poov Dennis hail invented some new thunder for
the performance ; and by his piteous complaint against
the actors for afterwards " stealing his thunder," had
started a proverbial expression. Pope's reference stung
Dennis to the quick. He replied by a savage pamphlet^
pulling Pope's essay to pieces, and hitting some real blots,
but diverging into the coarsest personal abuse. Xot con-
tent with saying in his preface that he was attacked with
the 'utmost falsehood and calumny by a little affected hyp-
ocrite, who had nothing in his mouth but truth, candour,
and good-nature, he reviled Pope for his personal defects!
insinuated that he was a hunch- backed toad; declared
that he was the very shape of the bow of the god Df love ;
that he might bo thankful that he was born a modern*
for, had he been born of Greek parents. Ids life would havJ
been no longer than that of one of his poems, namely,
half a day; and that his outward form, however like 'I
monkey's, could not deviate more from the average of
humanity than his mind. These amenities gave Pope his
first taste of good, savage, slashing abuse. The rcven.ro
was out of all proportion to the offence. Pope, at firlt,
seemed to take the assault judiciously. He kept silence,'
and simply marked some of the faults exposed by Dennis
for alteration. But the wound rankled, and when an op-
portunity presently offered itself, Pope struck savagely at
his enemy. To show how this came to pass, I must rise
from poor old Dennis to a more exalted literary sphere.

The literary world, in which Dryden had recently been,
and I'opo was soon to be, the most conspicuous 'figure,'
was for the present -mder the mild dictatorship of Addi'
son. We know Addison as one of the most kindly and
delicate of humourists, and we can perceive the gentleness

v ■ '{

It Jri, I

POPE.

[chap.

.1 (

whioli made him one of tlic most cliarining of companions
in a small society. His sense of the ludicrous saved him
from the disagreeaMe ostentation of powers which were
never applied to cx}>ress bitterness of feeling or to ed'^-e
ftu^ry satire. The reserve of his sensitive nature made ac-
cess diflficult, but he was so transparently modest and un-
assuming that his shyness was not, as is too often tiu; case,
mistaken for pride. It is easy to understand tiic p«,sihu-
mous affection which Macaulay has so eloquent! v <'\cress-
ed, and the contemjtorary popularity which, ac'"rding to
Swift, would have mjide people unwilling to refuse hhn
liad he asked to be king. And yot I think that one can-
not read Addison's prai-i.^ without a certain recalcitration,
like that which one foels in the case of tlie mode} boy
who wins all the prizes, including tl at fa goou conduct.
It is hard to foel very enthusiastic about a virtue wliosc
dictates coincide so precisely with the demands of doco-
rum. ,ind \v5iich leads by so easy a path to reputation and
success. Proiilarity h more often significant of the tact
which i!»ol. c^ a iiiun avoid giving offence, than of the
warm iii);>al:es of a generous nature, A go'>d man who
mi.xes svith the world ought to be hated, if not to hate.
But, whatever we may say against his excessivt. goodness,
Addison deserved and received universal esteem, which in
some cases became enthusiastic. Foremost amongst his
admirers was the warm-hearted, reckless, impetuous Steele,
the typical Irishman ; and amongst other members of his
little senate — as Pope called it — were An)brose I'hilips
and Tickell, young men of letters and sound "Whig poli-
tics, and more or Jess competitors of Pope in literature.
"VVIu'n Pope was first becoming known in London the
Whigs were out of power ; Addison and liis friends were
generally to be found at Button's Coffee-house in the af-

«.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 47

tornoon, and were represented to the society of the time
by tlie Spectator, ^^\ndx began in March, l7ll,and appear-
cd da.ly to the end of 1712. Xaturally, the young Pope
would be anxious to approach this famous clique, thoucrh
his connexions lay, in the first instance, amongst the Jaco-
bite and Catholic families. Steele, too, would be glad to
welcome so promising a contributor to the Spectator and
Its successor, the Guardian.

Pope, we may therefore believe, was heartilv delicrhted
wnen, some months after Dennis's attack, a notice of his
E^saynpon Criticism appeared in the 6>ctator, December
20, 171 1. The reviewer censured some attacks upon con-
temporaries— a reference obviously to the lines upon Den-
nis— which the author had admitted into his « very fine
poem;" but there were compliments enough to overbal-
ance this slight reproof. Pope wrote a letter of acknowl-
edgment to Steele, overflowing with the sinccrest gratitude
of a young poet on his first recognition by a high author-
ity. Steele, in reply, disclaimed the article, and promised
to introduce Pope to its real author, the great Addison him-
self It does not seem that the acquaintance thus opened
with the Addisonians -ripened very rapidly, or led to any
considerable results. Pope, indeed, is said to have written
some Spectators. He certainly sent to Steele his Messiah
a sacred eclogue in imitation of Virgil's Pollio. It ap-
peared on May 14, 1712, and is one of Pope's dexterous
pieces of workmanship, in which phrases from Isaiah are
so strung together as to form a good imitation of the fa-
mous poem which was once supposed to entitle Virgil to
some place among the inspired heralds of Christianity
Pope sent another letter of two to Steele, which look very
nuich like intended contributions to the Spectator, and a
short letter about Hadrian's verses to his soul, which an-

i :*

'-III' ft

vwm
' t*i I'll

:: y

rorE.

i V

If i

[chap.

pearcd in November, 1 T 1 2. Wlicn, in 1 7 1 3, the Guardian
succeeded the Spectator, Pope was one of Steele's contrib-
utors, and a paper by liini upon dedications appeared as
tlie fourth number. lie soon gave a more remarkable
proof of his friendly relations witli Addison.

It is probable that no first performance of a play upon
the I^nsjlish stage ever excited so much interest as that of
Addison's Cato. It was not only the work of the first man
of letters of the day, but it had, or was taken to have, a
certain political significance. "The time was come," says
Johnson, " when those who affected to think liberty in
danger, affected likewise to think that a stage-play might
preserve it." Addison, after exhibiting more than the
usual display of reluctance, prepared his play for represen-
tation, and it was undoubtedly taken to be in some sense
a Whig manifesto. It was, therefore, remarkable that he
should have applied to Pope for a prologue, though Pope's
connexions were entirely of the anti-Whiggish kind, and a
passage in Windsor Forest,]m last new poem (it appeared
in March, 1713), indicated pretty plainly a refusal to accept
the AVhig shibboleths. In the Forest ho was enthusiastic
for the peace, and sneered at the Revolution. Pope after-
wards declared that Addison had disavowed all party in-
tentions at the time, and he accused him of insincerity for
afterwards taking credit (in a poetical dedication of Cato)
for the services rendered by his play to the cause of liber-
ty. I'ope's assertion is worthless in any case where he
could exalt his own character for consistency at another
man's expense, but it is true that both parties were in-
clined to equivocate. It is, indeed, diflicult to understand
how, if any " stage-play could preserve liberty," such a play
as Cato should do the work. The polished declamation is
made up of the platitudes common to Whigs and Tories;

n.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 49

and Bolintjbroke gave the cue to his own party wlien lie
presented fifty guineas to Cnto's representatives for defend-
ing the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dicta-
tor. The Whigs, said Pope, design a second present when
they can contrive as good a saying. Bolingbroke was, of
course, aiming at Marlborough, and his interpretation waa
intrinsically as plausible as any that could have been de-
vised by his antagonists. Each side could adopt Cato as
easily as rival sects can quote the Bible ; and it seems pos-
sible that Addison may have suggested to Pope that noth-
ingjn Calo could really offend his principles. Addison,
as Pope also tells us, thought the prologue ambiguous, and
altered "Britons, arise T to "Britons, iittmd T lest the
phrase should be thought to hint at a new revolution.
Addison advised Pope about this time not to be content
with the applause of " half the nation," and perhaps re-
garded liim as one who, by the fact of his external position
with regard to parties, would be a more appropriate spon-
sor for the play.

Whatever the intrinsic significance of Cato, circum-
stances gave it a political colour; and Pope, in a lively de-
scription of the first triumphant night to his friend Caryll,
says, that as author of the successful and very spirited pro-
logue, he was clapped into a Whig, sorely against his will,
at every two lines. Shortly before, he had spoken in the
warmest terms to the same correspondent of the admira-
ble moral tendency of the work ; and perhaps he had not
realized the full party significance till he became conscious
of the impression produced upon the audience. Xot long
afterwards (letter of June 12, 1713) we find him complain-
ing that his connexion with Steele and the Guardian was
giving offence to some lionest Jacobites. Had they known
the nature of the connexion, they need hardly have

i ■ I

POPE.

[chap.

^•rHdged Steele liis contributor. His next proceedinjrs
possibly sujrgi-sted the piece of advice which Addison
Uiive to Lady M. \V. Montagu ; " Leave Pope as soon as
you can; he will certainly plav \ou some devilish trick

else."

His first trirk was calculated to vex an editor's soul.
Ambrose l'hilif>s, ,. . T have said, had published certain pas-
torals in the siu.'j vo!n,P- \/ith Pope's. Philips, tliough he
seems to have been ic^ss rewarded than most of his com-
panions, \v,-\s certainly accepted as an attached member of
Addison's " little senate ;" and that body Avas not more
free than other mutual admiration societies from the de-
sire to impose its own proji; '" , the public. When
Phiiips's D'lHtresml Mother, a close imitation ot Racine's
And)'omague,\\i\» preparing for the stage, the Spectator
nas taken by Will Honeycomb to a reheaisal {Spectator,
January 31, 1712), and Sir Roger de Coverley himself at-
tended one of the performances {lb., March 25), and was
profoundly affected by its pathos. The last paper was of
course by Addison, and is a r >al triumph of art as a most
delicate application of humour to the slightly unworthy
purpose of puffing a friend and disciple. Addison had
again praised Phiiips's Pastorals in the Spectator (Octoher
30, 1712) ; and amongst the early numbers of the Guardian
were a short series of papers upon pastoral poetry, in which
the fortunate Ambrose was again held up as a model,
whilst no notice was taken of Pope's rival performance.
Pope, one may believe, liad a contempt fo Philips, whoso
pastoral inanities, whrther better or worse than his own,
had not the excuse of being youthful j roductions. Phil-
ips has beqi.. ;ithed t-. our lai' uage the phrase "N.i.nby-
l)amby," impc.od upon him by Henry Carey (author of
Sal/// in our Aliet/,tmd the clever farce Chrononhotontho

1 i;

n ] FIRST I'EUIOD OF TOPE'S LITEKAUY CAHEEK. 61

lofjos), and years after this he wrote a poem to Miss Pultc-
ncy in the nursery, bej,'inning, —

"Dimply damsel, 8weeti\ smilin"-"

which may sufficiently interpret the moaning of his nick-
name. Popt' irritable vanity was vexed at the liberal
praises bestowed on such a rival, and he revenjred himself
by an artifice more ingenious than p. nipulous. He sent
an anonymous article to Steele for the Guardian. It is a
professed continuation of the previous papers on pastorals,
and is ostensibly intended to remove the appearance of
partiality arising from the omission of I»ope's name. In
the first paragraphs the design is sufficiently concealed to
mislead an unwary reader into the belief that Philips is
preferred to Pope; but the irony soon becomes transpar-
ent, and Philips's anti.|uated affeciation is contrasted with
the polish of Pope, who i, said even to " deviate into down-
right poetry." Steele, it is j, was so far mystified as to
ask Pope's permission to publish the criticism. Pope gen-
erously permitted, and, accordingly, Steele printed what he
must soon have discovered to be a shrewd attack uoon his
old friend and ally. Some writers have found a difficul-
ty in understanding how Steele could have so blundered.
One might, perhaps, whi<per in confidence to the discreet,
that even editors are mortal, and that St<-elc was conceiva-
bly capable of the enormity of rea.ling papers carelessly.
! tulips was furious, and hung up a birch in Button's Cof-
fce-liou decl iring that lie would apply it to hi. torment-
or sho !o ever sli.>w his nose in the room. As Philips
was celehrat* 'or skill with the sword, the mode of ven-
geance was certainly unmanly, and stung the soul of his
adversary, always morbidly sensitive to all attacks, and es-
pecially to attacks upon hi-^ person. The hatred thi ' n-

''\'.

(i-l

POPE.

[chap.

died was never quenclicd, and breathes in some of IVpe's
bitterest line.s.

If not a "devilish trick," this little performance was
enouirh to make Pope's relations to the Addi.son set de-
cidedly unpleasant. Addison is said (but the story is very
improbable') to have enjoyed the joke. If so, a vexatious
incident must liavc ehanc,^cd his view of Pope's pleasant-
ries, though Pope professedly appeared as his defender.
Poor old Thersitcs-Dennis published, during the summer,
a very bitter attack upon Addison's Cato. lie said after-
wards—though, onsidering the relations of the men, some
misunderstanding is probable — that Pope had indirectly
instigated this attack through the bookseller, Liiitot. If
so,lV>pe mu.st have deliberately contrived the trap for the
unh'cky Dennis; and, at any rate, he fell upon Dennis as
soon as the trap was sprung. Though Dennis was a hot-
headed Whig, he had quarrelled with Addison and Steele,
and was probably jealous, as the author of tragedies in-
tended, like Cato, to propagate Whig principles, perhaps
to turn Whig prejudices to account, lie writes with the
bitterness of a disappointed and unlucky man, but he
makes some x.ry fair points against his enemy. Pope's
retaliation took the form of an anonymous " Narrative of
the Frenzy of John Dennis.'" It is written in that style
of coarse personal satire of whi h Swift was a master, but
for which Pope was very ill litted. All his neatness of
style seems to desert him when he tries this tone, and
nothing is left but a brutal explosion of contemptuous
hatred. Dennis is described in his garret, pouring forth
insane ravings prompted by his disgust at the success of

' Mr. Dilkc, it is'pcrhaps right to say, lias given some reasons for
floubting Pope's authorship of this squib ; but the autiienticity seems
to be established, and Mr. Dillce himself hesitates.

Ji.] HIIST PEKIUJ) OF POPK'S fJTEUARY CAREER. 53

Cato; but not a woni 's said in reply to Dennis's criti-
cisms. It was plain cnoniih that tho author, whoever lio
ini^ht he, was iiion; jinxioiis to satisfy ;v ijnidjre against
Dennis than to defend Dennis's victim. It is no't i>ii"'h of
a compliment to Addison to say that he had onougii good
feeling to scorn sucii a mode of retaliation, and" perspi-
cuity enough to s.'e that it would bo little to his credit.
Accordingly, in his majestic way, he caused Steele to write
a note to Lintot (August 4, 1713), disavowing all complic-
ity, and saying that if even he noticed Mr. Dennis's criti-
cisms, it should be in such a way as to give Mr. Dennis no
cause of con,plaint. He added that lie had refused to see
tile pamphlet when it was offered for his inspection, and
had cxprcssetl his disapproval of such a mode of attack.
Nothing could be more becoming; and it does not appear
that Addison knew, wlien writing this note, that Pope was
tlie author of the anonymous assault. If, as the biogra-
phers say, Addison's action was not kindly to l»o{)c, it was
bare justice to poor Dennis. I'ope undoultedly must liave
been bitterly vexed at the implied rebuff, and not the less
because it was perfectly just. He seems always to have
regarded men of Dennis's type as outside the pale of hu-
manity. Their abuse stung him as keenly as if they had
been entitled to speak with authority, and yet he retorted
it as though they were not entitled to common decency.
He would, to all appearance, have regarded an nnpcal for
mercy to a Grub-street author much as Dandie Dinmont
regarded Brown's tenderness to a " brock "—as a proof of
incredible imbecility, or, rather, of want of proper antipa-
thy to vermin. Dennis, like Philips, was inscribed on the
long list of liis hatreds; and was pursued almost to the
end of his unfortunate life. Pope, it is true, took great
credit to himself for helping his UMserable enemy when

1 1 ' . (.

in'ii:

POPE.

[chap.

i'l

■:il|l.

).:

dying in distress, and wrote a prologue to a play acted for
his benefit. Yet even this prologue is a sneer, and one is
glad to think that Dennis was past understanding it. We
hardly know whether to pity or to eondemn the unfortu-
nate i)oet, whose unworthy hatreds made liiui suffer far
worse torments than those which he could intlict upon
their objects.

By this time we may suppose that Pope must Iiavc been
regarded with anything but favour in the Addison circle;
and, in fact, he was passing into the opposite camp, and
forming a friendship with Swift and Swift's patrons. No
open rupture followed with Addison for the present ; but
a quarrel was approaching which is, perhaps, the most cele-
brated in our literary history. Unfortunately, the more
closely we look, the more difficult it becomes to give any
definite account of it. The statements upon which ac-
counts have been based have been chiefly those of I'ope
liimself ; and these involve inconsistencies and demonstra-
bly inaccurate statements. Pope was anxious in later life
to show that he had enjoyed the friendship of a man so
generally beloved, and was equally anxious to show that
lie had behaved generously and been treated with injus-
tice and, indeed, with downright treachery. And yet, after
reading the various statements made by the original au-
thorities, one begins to doubt whether there was any real
(juarrel at all ; or rather, if one may say so, whether it was
not a quarrel upon one side.

It is, indeed, plain that a coolness had sprung up be-
tween Pope and Addison. Considering Pope's offences
against the senate, his ridicule of Pliilips, his imposition of
that ridicule upon Steele, and his indefensible use of Addi-
son's fame as a stalking-horse in the attack upon Dennis,
it is not surprising that he should have been kept at arm's

[chap.

11.3 FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 55

lonifth. If the rod suspended by Philips at Button's bo
authentic (as seems probable), the talk about Pope, in the
shadow of such an ornament, is eiisily imaginable. Some
attempts seem to have been made at a reconciliation.
Jervas, Pope's teacher in painting — a bad artist, but a
kindly man — tells Pope on August 20, 1714, of a conver-
sation with Addison. It would have been wurth while, he
says, for I'ope to have been hidden behind a wainscot or a
half-length picture to have heard it. Addison expressed a
wish for friendly relations, was glad that Pope had not
been " carried too far among the enemy " by Swift, and
hoped to be of use to him at Court — for Queen Anne died
on August 1st; the wheel had turned; and the Whigs
were once more the distributors of patronage. Pope's an-
swer to Jervas is in the dignified tone; he attributes Addi-
son's coolness to the ill otHces of Philips, and is ready to
be on friendly terms whenever Addison recognises his true
character and independence of party. Another letter fol-
lows, as addressed by Pope to Addison himself ; but here,
alas ! if not in the preceding letters, we are upon doubtful
ground. In fact, it is impossible to doubt that the letter
has been manipulated after Pope's fashion, if not actually
fabricated. It is so dignified as to be insulting. It is
like a box on the ear administered by a pedagogue to a re-
pentant but not quite pardoned pupil. Po[)e has heard
(from Jervas, it is implied) of Addison's ])rofessit)n ; he is
glad to hope that the effect of some " late malevolences "
is disappearing ; he will not believe (that is, he is strongly
inclined to believe) that the author of Cato could mean
one thing and say anotiier; he will show Addison his first
two books of Homer as a proof of this confidence, and
hopes that it will not be abused ; he challenges Addison
to point out the ill nature in the Essay upon Criticism ;

V \ W\

\y >

POPE.

[chap.

and winds up by making an uttorl}^ irrelevant cliarge (as a
proof, lie says, of his own sincerity) of phi<;iarisni against
one of Addison's Spectators. Had such a letter been act-
ually sent as it now stands, Addison's good nature could
scarcely have held out. As it is, we can only assume that
during 1714 Pope was on such terms with the clicjuc at
Button's, that a quarrel would be a natiwal result. Ac-
ct)rding to the ordinary account the occasion presented it-
self in the next year.

A translation of the first Iliad by Tickell appeared (in.
June, 1715) simultaneously with Pope's first volume. Pope
Lad no right to complain. No man could be supposed to
have a monopoly in the translation of Homer. Tickeli
had the same right to try his hand as I'ope; and Pope
fully understood this himself. He described to Spence a
conversation in which Addison told him of Tickell's in-
tended work. Pope replied that Tickell was perfectly jus-
tified. Addison having looked over Tickell's translation
of the first book, said that he would prefer not to see
Pope's, as it might suggest double dealing; but consented
to read Pope's second book, and praised it warmly. In
all ihis, by Pope's own sliowing, Addison seems to have
beeri scrupulously fair ; and if he and the little senate pre-
fci.v^^d Tickell's work on its first appe.-irauce, they had a
full right to their opinion, and I 'ope triumphed easily
enough to pardon tliem. " He was meditating a criticisuj
upon Tickell," says Johnson, " when his adversary sank
before him withoirt a blow." Pope's performance was
universally prefenv 1, and even Tickell himself yielded by
anticipation. He said, in a short preface, that he had
abandoned a ftlan of translating the whole Iliad on finding
that a much abler hand nad undertaken the work, and that
he only i>ublished this specimen to bespeak favtuir for a

t' i: ! I i

[chap.

II.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER. 57

translation of the Odyssey. It was, say Pope's apoloui8t^,
an awkward circumstance that Tickell should publish at
the same time as Pope, and that is about all that they can
say. It was, we may rrpiy in Steplierson's phrase, very
awkward — for Tickell. In all this, in tact, it seems im-
pos.siblc for any reasonable man to discover anything of
which l*ope had the sliglitest ground of complaint; but
his amazingly irritable nature was not to be calmed by
reason. The bare fact that a translation of Homer ap-
j)eared contemporaneously witli his own, and that it came
from one of Addison's court, made him furious. He
brooded over it, suspected some dark conspiracy against
his fame, and gradually mistook his morbid fancies for
solid inference. He thought that Tickell had been put
up by Addison as liis rival, and gradually worked liiniself
into the further belief that Addison liimself had actually
written the translation which passed under Tiekell's name.
It does not appear, so far as I know, wlien or how this sus-
picion became current. Some time after Addison's death,
in 1719, a quarrel took place between Tickell, his literary
executor, and Steele. Tickell seemed to insinuate that
Steele had not sufficiently acknowledged his obligations to
Addison, and Steele, in an angry retort, called Tickell the
" reputed translator" of the first Iliad, and challenged him
to translate another book successfully. The innuendo
shows that Steele, who certainly had some means of know-
ing, was willing to suppose that Tickell had been hel[^ed
by Addison, The manuscript of Tiekell's work, which has
been preserved, is said to prove this to be an error, and in
any case there is no real ground for supposing that Addi-
son did anything more than he admittedly told Pope, that
is, read Tiekell's manuscript and suggest corrections.
To ar^uc seriously about other sn-called proofs would

i '

I '^'

li'S.

POPE.

[chap.

•I

be waste of tiitio. Tlicy provo notliing except Pope's ex-
treme anxiety to justify jiis wild liypothcsis of a dark con-
spiracy. Pope was jealous, spiteful, and credulous. He
was driven to fury by Tickeli's publication, whicli bad tbe
appearance of a competition. I>ut angry as be was, be
could lind no real cause of complaint, except by imagining
a fictitious conspiracy ; and tbis complaint was never pub-
licly uttered till long after Addison's deatb. Addison
knew, no doubt, of Pope's wratli, but probably cared little
for it, except to keep liimself clear of so dangerous a com-
panion. He seems to bave remained on terms of civility
witb bis antagonist, and no one would bave been mf>re sur-
prised tban be to bear of tbe quarrel, upon wbicb so niucb
controversy lias been expended.

Tbe wbole affair, so far as Addison's cbaracter is con-
cerned, tbus appears to be a gigantic mare's nest. Tbere
is no proof, or even tbe sligbtest presumption, tbat Addi-
son or Addison's friends ever injured Pope, tbougb il s
clear tbat tbey did not love bim. It would bave been
marvellous if tbey bad. I'ope's suspicions are a proof
tbat in tbis case be was almost subject to tbe illusion
cbaracteristic of actual insanity. Tbe belief that a man is
persecuted by liidden conspirators is one of tbe comnjon
symptoms in sucb cases ; and Pope would seem to bave
been almost in tbe initial stage of mental disease. His
madm»ss, indeed, was not sucb as would lead us to call bim
morally irresponsible, nor was it tbe kind of madness
wbicb is to be found in a good many people wbo well de-
serve criminal prosecution ; but it was a stat(> of mind so
morbid as to justify some compassion for the unhappy
offender.

Oiu! result besides tbe illustration of Pope's cbaracter
remains to be noticed. According to I'ope's assertion it

I !

ir.] FIRST PERIOD OF POPE'S LITERARY CAREER.

was a communication from Lord Warwick which led Iiim
to write his celebrated copy of verses upon Addison. Wav-
wick (afterwards Addison's step-son) accused Addison of
payinj; (iildon for a gross libel upon Pope. Pope wrote
to Addison, he says, the next day. He said in this Icttor
that he knew of Addison's behaviour — and that, unwill-
hi<^ to take a revenge of the same kind, he would rather
tell Addison fairly of his faults in plain words. If he
had to take such a step, it would be in some such wav
as followed, and he subjoined the first sketch of the fa-
mous lines. Addison, says Tope, used him very civilly
ever afterwards. Indeed, if the account be true, Addison
showed his Christian spirit by paying a compliment in
one of his Freeholders (May 17, 1710) to Pope's Homer.
Macauiay, taking the story for granted, praises Addi-
son's magnanimity, which, I must confess, I should be
hardly Christian enough to admire. It was, however, as-
serted at the time that Pojie had not written the verses
which have made the vjuarrel memorable till after Addi-
son's death. They were not published till I7u>3, and are
not mentioned by any independent authority till 1722,
though IV.pe afterwards appealed to Burlinuton as a
witness to their earlier composition. The fact seems to
be confirmed by the evidence of Lady M. W. Montagu,
but it (hies not follow that Addison ever suw the verses.
He knew that Pope disliked him; but he probably did
not suspect the extent of the hostility. Pope himself ap-
pears not to have devised the worst part of the storv

that of Addison having used Tickell's name— till some

vears later,

Ad(

ison was sufKciently magnanimous

praisinn; his spiteful little antagonist as it was; he little
knew how det'[»ly that antagonist would seek to injure liis
reputation.

{

■ \

• .''III

w- 1

POPE.

[chap. II.

'fl

And here, before passing to the work which afforded
the main pretext of tlie quarrel, it may be well to quote
OBce more the celebrated satire. It may be remarked
tlmt its excellence is due in part to the fact that, iur once,
Pope docs not lose his temper. His attack is qualified
and really sharpened by an admission of Addison's excel-
lence. It is, therefore, a real masterpiece of satire, not a
simple lampoon. That it is an cxagp;eration is undenia-
ble, and yet its very keenness gives a presumption that it
is not altogether without foundation.

" Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires
True genius knidles and fair fame inspires ;
Blest with each talent and each art to i)lease,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
Should such a man, too t'ond to rule alone,
Ik'ar, like the Turk, no l)rother near the throne:
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes.
And hate for arts that caused iiimself to rise ;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
.\nd, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike ;
.lust hint a fault and hesitate dislike ;
Alike reserved to praise or to commend,
A timorous foe and a suspicious friend ;
Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieged.
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws.
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise ;
Who would not laugh if such a man there bo?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?"

\i.

i \M 1 1

CIIArTER III.
pope's homer.

Pope's uneasy relations witli the wits at Button's were
no obstacle to liis success elsewlicre. Swift, now at the
height of his power, was pleased by his Windsor Forest,
recommended it to Stella, and soon made the author's ac-
quaintance. The first letter in their long correspondence
is a laboured but fairly successful piece of pleasantry ir>m
Pope, upon Swift's having offered twenty guineas to the
young Papist to change his religion. It is dated Decem-
ber 8, 1713. In the preceding month Bishop Kennet saw
Swift in all his glory, and wrote an often quoted descrip-
tion of the scene. Swift was bustling about in the royal
antechamber, swelling with conscious importance, distrib-
uting advice, promising patronage, whispering to ministers,
and filling the whole room with his presence. lie finally
"instructed a y(in\7^ nrbleman that the best poet in Eng-
land was Mr. Pope, .■ i'.ipist, who had begun a translation
of Homer into English verso, for which he must have them
all subscribe; 'for,' says he, 'the ainluc shall not begin
to print till I have a thousand j^ui ;"as for lutn !'" Swift
introduced Pope to some of the i^ndei-s of ihe ministry,
and he was soon acquainted with ' >.v-ord, Bolingbroke,
Atterbury, and many other men of high position. Pope
was not disinclined to pride himself upon his familiarity

'II hi
M

POPE.

[chap.

•/' 1

» ^ m-

i i

, »,

;" '■

•1

with the great, tliough boasting at the same time of his
indo{)en(loncc. In truth, the morbid vanity which was liis
cardinal weakness seems to have partaken siitlicicntly of
the nature of genuine self-respect to preserve liim from
any unworthy concessions. If he flattered, it was as one
wlio expected to ^c repaid in kind ; and thougli his posi-
tion was ealcuhited to turn the head of a youtli of fivc-and-
twenty, he took his phice as a riglit without humiliating
liis own dignity. Whether frou) principle or prudence, ho
judiciously kept himself free from identification with either
party, and both sides took a pride in supporting the great
literary undertaking which he had now announced.

When I'opc first circulated his proposals for translating
Homer, Oxford and Bolingbroke were fellow-ministers, and
Swift was their most effective organ in the press. At the-
time at which his first volume appeared, Bolingbroke was
in exile, Oxford under impeachment, and Swift had retired,
savagely and sullenly, to his deanery. Yet, through all the
intervening political tempest, the subscription list grew and
flourished. The pecuniary result was splendid. No author
had ever made anything approaching the sum which Pope
received, and very few authors, even in the present age of
gold, would despise such payment. The details of the
magnificent bargain have been handed down, and give the
pecujiiary measure of Tope's reputation.

The Iliad was to be published in six volumes. For each
volume Lintot was to pay 200/. ; and, besides this, he was
to supply Pope gratuitously with the copies for liis sub-
scribers. The subscribers paid a guinea a volume, and, as
,575 subscribers took 654 copies, Pope received altogether
5.^20/. 4s. at the regular price, whilst some royal and dis-
tinguislied subscribers paid larger sums. By the publica-
tion of the Oilyssey Pope seems to have made about 3500/.

Mill

[chap.

n..]

rOPEH HOMER.

more,' after payinjr his assistants. The result was, there-
fore, a total profit at least approacliing 9000/. The last
volume of the Odyssey did not appear till 1V'20, and the
payments were thus spread over eleven years. I'ope, how-
ever, saved cnou,<,'h to be more than comfortable. In the
South Sea excitement he ventured to speculate; but thoui^h
for a time he fancied himself to have made a larjre sum, he
seems to have retired rKa,..v a loser than a j^ainer. But
he could say with perfect truth that, "thanks to Homer,"
lie "could live and thrive, indebted to no prince or peer
alive." The money success is, however, of Ivss interest to
us than the literary. Pope put his best work into the
translation of the Iliad. Ilis responsibility, he said, woi<rhed
upon him terribly on startinj?. He used to dream of being
on a long journey, uncertain which way to go, and doubt-
ing whether he would ever get to the end. Gradually he
foil into the habit of translating thirty or forty verses be-
fore getting up, and then "piddling with it" for the rest
of tlie morning; and the regular performance of his task
made it tolerable. He used, he snid at another time, to
take advantage of the "first heat," then correct by the
original and other translations; and finally to "give it a
reading for the versification only." The statenusnt must
be partly modified by tlie suggestion that the translations
wore probably consulted before the original. Tope's igno-
rance of Greek — an awkward qualification for a translator
of Homer — is undeniable. Gilbert Wakefichl, who was, I
believe, a fair scholar, and certainly a great admirer of
Pope, declares his conviction to l)o, after a more careful
examination of tlio Homer than any one is now likely to
give, that Pope "collected the general purport of everv

' See Elwin'a Tope, Correspondence, vol. iii. p. 129.
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passage from some of bis predecessors — Drydcn" (who
only trajislatcd tlie first Iliad), "Daoier, <'hapman, or Ogil-
by." Tic thinks that Pope would have be( ti puzzled to
catch at otice the ineaninij oven of the Latin translation,
and points out proofs of his iixnoranco of both lanijuages,
and of *' i^iioiiiinious and puerile mistakes."

It ia hard to understand at the present day the aidacity
which could lead a man so ill <]ualified in pi>int of classical
acijuireincnts to undertake such a task. And yet Pope un-
doubtedly achieved, in some true sense, an astonishing suc-
cess. Ill >u(!ceeded commercially; for Liritot, alter sup-
plying the subscription copies gratuitously, and so losing
the cream of the probable purchasers, made a fortune by
the remaining sale. lie succeeded in the judgment 1 )th
of the critics and of the public of the next generation.
Johnson calls the Homer " the noblest version of poetry
tlie world has ever seen." Gray declared that no other
translation would ever equal it, and Gibbon that it iiad
every merit except that of faithfulness to the original.
This merit of fidelity, indeed, was scarcely claimed by any
one. I>entley's phrase — " a pretty poem, Mr. Pope, but
you must not call it Homer" — expresses the uniform view
taken from the first by all who could read both. Its
fame, liov< ver, survived into the pre < nt century. Byron
speaks- 'id speaks, I think, with genuine feeling — of
the r;i|''.i't, with which he first read Po[)e as a boy, and
says this' n) one will ever lay him down except for the
original, indeed, the testimonies of opponents are as sig-
nificant as those of admirers. Johnson remarks that the
Homer "may be said to have tuned the English tongue,"
and that no writer since its appearance has wanted mel-
ody. Coleridge virtually admits the fact, though draw-
ing a different conclusion, wlien he says that the trans-

[chap.

Ml.]

POPE'S HOMER.

lation of Homer lias bci n one of the main sources of tliat
" pseudo-poetic diction " wliich he and Wordsworth were
htrugglini,^ to put uut of credit. Cow per, the earli, st rep-
resentative of tlx' same movement, tried to suppl.mt
Homer by his vn, and ' ■< attempt proved at , i uic
position hel<l in general . miction by his rival. f, in
fact, ro{)e'8 H iier was a rocugnized model for jiear m
century, we may dislike the style, but we must admit thu
power implii'd in a performance which thus became the
accepted standard of style for the best part of a ■ ontury.
How, then, should we estimate the merits of this remark-
able vork? T give my own opinion upon the subject
with dithdence, for it has been discussed by eminenth
(jualified critics. The conditions of a satisf ♦■ .v uansla
tion of Homer have been amply canvassed, lany ex-

periujcnts have been made by accomplisli oats who
have — what Pope certainly had not — a closi icquaintanco
witli the original, and a fine appreciation of its supcHativt
beauties. From the point of view now generally adopted,
the task o n of criticism requires this double qualifica-
tion. Not only can no man translate Homer, but no man
can even criticise a translation of Homer, without being at
once a poet and a fine classical scholar. So far as this is
true, I can only apologize for speaking at all, and should
be content to refer my readers to such able guides as Mr.
Matthew Arnold and the late Professor Conington. And
yet I think that something remains to be said which
has a bearing upon Pope, however little it may cun*ern
Homer.

We — if " we " means modern writers of some classical
culture — can claim to appreciate Homer far better than
the contemporaries of Pope. P.iit om appreciation in.
Volvos a clear recognition of the vast difference between

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POPE.

[chap.

:|(r

V f

ourselves and the ancient Greeks. AVc sec the Homeric
poems in their true perspective tlirough the dim vista of
shadowy centuries. We regard tliem as the growth of a
king past stage in the historical evolution ; implying a
different social order — a different ideal of life — an archaic
conception of the world and its forces, only to be recon-
structed for the imagination by help of long training and
serious study. The multiplicity of the laws imposed upon
the translator is the consequence of this perception. They
amount to saying that a man nmst manage to project
himself into a distant period, and saturate his mind with
the corresponding modes of life. If the feat is possible
at all, it requires a great and conscious effort, and the at-
tainment of a state of mind which can only be preserved
by constant attention. The translator has to wear a
mask which is always in danger of being rudely shattered.
Such an intellectual feat is likely to produce what, in the
most obvious sense, one would call highly artificial work.
Modern classicism must be fine-spun, and smell rather of
the hot-house than the open air. Undoubtedly some ex-
quisite literary achievements have been accomplished in
this spirit ; but they are, after all, calculated for the small
circle of cultivated minds, and many of their merits can
be appreciated only by professors qualified by special
training. Most frequently we can hope for pretty play-
things, or, at best, for skilful restorations which show
learning and taste far more distinctly than a glowing im-
agination. But even if an original poet can breathe some
spirit into classical poems, the poor translator, with the
dread of philologists and antiquarians in the background,
is so fettered that free movement becomes almost impos-
sible. No one, I should venture to prophesy, will really
succeed in such work unless he frankly accepts the im-

1.^

m.]

POPE'S UOMER.

possibility of roproducitif; the original, and aims only at
an equivalent for some of its aspects. The perception of
this change will enable us to realize Pope's mode of ap-
proaching tlie problem. The condemnatory epithet most
frequently applied to him is " artificial ;" and yet, as I
have just said, a modern translator is surely more artifi-
cial, so far as he is attempting a more radical transforma-
tion of his own thoughts into the forms of a past epoch.
But we can easily see in what sense Pope's work fairly
deserves the name. The poets of an older period frank-
ly adopted the classical mythology without any apparent
sense of incongruity. They mix heathen deities with
Christian saints, and the ancient heroes adopt the man-
ners of chivalrous romance without the slightest difficulty.
The freedom was still granted to the writers of the renais-
sance. Milton makes Phoebus and St. Peter discourse in
successive stanzas, as if they belonged to tlie same pan-
theon. For poetical purposes the old gods are simply
canonized as Christian saints, as in a more theological
frame of mind they are regarded as devils. In the reign
of common sense this was no longer possible. The incon-
gruity was recognized and condemned. The gods were
vanishing under the clearer light, as modern thought be-
gan more consciously to assert its independence. "^ the
unreality of the old mvthologv is not felt to be an\ ob-
jection to their use as conventional symbols. Homer's
gods, says Pope in his preface, are still the gods of poetry.
Their vitality was nearly extinct, but they were regarded
as convenient personifications of abstract qualities, ma-
chines for epic poetry, or figures to be used in allegory.
In the absence of a true historical perception, the same
view was attributed to Homer. Homer, as Pope admits,
did not invent the gods, but he was the "first who

I ■

•i I

roPE.

[chap.

1 If I

brought them into a system of machinen- for poetry,"
and showed his fertile imagination by clothing the proj)-
erties of the elements, and the virtues and vices in forms
and persons. And thus Pope does not feel that he is
diverging from the spirit of the old mythology when lie
regards the gods, not as the spontaneous growth of the
primitive imagination, but as deliberate contrivances in-
tended to convey moral truth in allegorical fables, and
probably devised by sages for the good of the vulgar.

The old gods, then, were made into stiff mechanical
figures, as dreary as Justice with her scales, or I'ame blow-
ing a trumpet on a monument. They belonged to that
family of dismal personifications which it was customary
to mark with the help of capital letters. Certainly they
are a dismal and frigid set of beings, though they still
lead a shivering existence on the tops of public monu-
ments, and hold an occasional wreath over the head of a
IJritish grenadier. To identify the Homeric gods with
these wearisome constructions was to have a more serious
dis(jualification for fully entering into Homer's spirit than
even an imperfect acquaintance with Greek, and Pope is
greatly exercised in his mind by their eating, and drink-
ing, and fighti' g, and uncompromising anthropomorphism.
He apologizes for his author, and tries to excuse him
for unwilling compliance with popular prejudices. The
Homeric theology, he urges, was still substantially sound,
and Homer had always a distinct moral and political pur-
pose. The Iliad, for example, was meant to show the
wickedness of quarrelling, and '' •; evil results of an insa-
tiable thirst for glory, thougl- m persons ha.e thought
that Homer only thought to ple^.^e.

The artificial diction about which so much has been
said is the natural vehicle of this treatment. The set of

ni.]

POPE'S IIOMEB

phrases, and the peculiar mould into which his sentences
were cast, was already the accepted type for poetry which
aimed at dignity. lie was following- Drydcn, as his own
performance became the law for the next generation. The
style in which a woman is called a nymph — and women
generally are " the fair " — in which shepherds are con-
scious swains, and a poet invokes the muses and strikes
a lyre, and breathes on a reed, and a nightingale singing
becomes Philomel " pouring her throat;" represents a
fashion as worn out as hoops and wigs. By the time of
Wordsworth it was a mere survival — a dead form remain-
ing after its true function had entirely vanished. The
proposal to return to the language of common life was the
natural revolt of one who desired poetry to be above all
things the genuine expression of real emotion. Yet it is,
I think, impossible to maintain that the diction of poetry
should be simply that of common life.

The true principle wouM rather seem to bo that any
style beconics bad when it dies; when it is used merely
as a tradition, and not as the best mode of producing the
desired impression ; and when, therefore, it represents a
rule imposed from without, and is not an expression of
tiie spontaneous working of minds in whicli the corre-
sponding impulse is liiurouglily incarnated. In such a
case, no doubt, the diction becomes a burden, and a man
is apt to fancy himself a poet because he is the slave of
the external form, instead of using it as the most familiar
instrument. By Wordsworth's time the Pope style was
thus effete ; what ought to be the dress of thought had
become the rigid armour into which thought was forcibly
compressed, and a revolt was inevitable. We may agree,
too, that his peculiar stylo was in a sense artificial, oven
in the days of Pope. It had come into existence during

I ;

( ;,

i I

POPE.

[chap.

M :

IH I Mi

the reign of tlio Restoration wits, under the influence of
foreign models, not as the spontaneous outgrowth of a
gradual development, and had therefore something me-
chanical and conscious, even when it flourished most vig-
orously. It came in with the periwigs, to which it is so
often compared, and, like the artificial head-gear, was an
attempt to give a dignified or full-dress appearance to the
average prosaic human being. Having tliis innate weak-
ness of pomposity and exaggeration, it naturally expired,
and became altogether ridiculous, with the generation to
which it belonged. As the wit or man of the world had
at bottom a very inadequate conception of epic poetry, he
became inevitably strained and contorted when lie tried to
give himself the airs of a poet.

After making all such deductions, it would still seem
tliat the bare fact that he was working in a generally ac-
cepted style gave Pope a very definite advantage. He
spoke more or less in a falsetto, but he could at once strike
a key intelligible to his audience. An earlier poet would
simply annex Homer's gods and fix them with a mediicval
framework. A more modern poet tries to find some style
which will correspond to the Homeric as closely as possi-
ble, and feels that he is making an experiment beset with
all manner of difficulties. Pope needed no more to both-
er himself about such matters than about grammatical or
philological refinements. He found a ready-made style
which was assumed to be correct ; he had to write in regu-
lar rhymed couplets, as neatly rhymed and tersely express-
ed as might be; and the diction was equally settled. He
was to keep to Homer for the substance, but he could
throw in any little ornaments to suit the taste of his read-
■"rs; and if they found out a want of scrupulous fidelity,
he might freely say that he did not aim at such details.

[chap.

in.]

rorE'S HOMER.

AVorking, tlierefore, upon the given data, he could enjoy a
considerable amount of freedom, and throw his whole en-
ergy into the task ci" forcible expression without feeling
himself trammelled at every step. The result would cer-
tainly not be Homer, but it might be a fine epic poem as
epic poetry was understood in the days of Anne and George
I- — a hybrid genus, at the best ; something without enough
constitutional vigour to be valuable when really original,
but not witliout a merit of its own wiien modelled upon
tlic lines laid down in the great archetype.

When we look at Pope'.s Iliad upon t1-" ■ understandintr,
we cannot fail, I think, to admit that it has merits which
make its great success intelligible. If we read it as a
purely English poem, the sustained vivacity and emphasis
of the style give it a decisive superiority over its rivals.
It has become the fashion to quote Chapman since the
noble sonnet in which Keats, in testifying to the power
of the Elizabethan translator, testifies rather to his own
exquisite perception. Chapman was a poet worthy of our
great poetic period, and Pope himself testifies to the " dar-
ing fiery spirit" which animates his translation, and says
that it is not unlike what Homer himself might have writ-
ten in his youth — surely not a grudging praise. But
though this is true, I will venture to assert that Chapman
also sins, not merely by his love of quaintness, but by con-
stantly indulging in sheer doggerel, If his lines do not
stagnate, tlicy foam and fret like a mountain brook, in-
stead of flowing continuously and majestically like a great
river. He surpasses Pope chiefly, as it seems to me, where
Pope's conventional verbiage smothers and conceals some
vivid image from nature. Pope, of course, was a thorough
man of forms, and when he lias to speak of sea, or sky, or
mountain, generally draws upon the current coin of poetic
F 4*

■ir

POPE.

[cHAr.

[tliraseology, which has lost all sharpness of impression in
its long circulation. Here, for example, is Pope's version
of a simile in the fourth book: —

" As whon tlie wiiiiis, uscending by degrees,
First move the whitening suk face of the seas,
The billows flout in order to the shore.
The waves behind roll on the waves before,
Till with the growing storm the deeps arise.
Foam o'er the rocks, and thunder to the skies."

Each phrase is either wrong or escapes from error by vague-
ness, and one would swear that Pope had never seen the
sea. Chapman says, —

" And as when with the west wind flaws, the sea thrusts up her
waves
One after other, thick and high, upon the groaning shores.
First in herself loud, but opposed with banks and rocks she roars^
And all her back in bristles set, spits every way her foam."

This is both clumsy and introduces the quaint and unaU'
thorized image of a pig, but it is unmistakably vivid.
Pope is equally troubled when he has to deal with Ho-
mer's downright vernacular. He sometimes ventures apol-
ogetically to give the original word. He allows Achilles to
speak pretty vigorously to Agamemnon in the first book : —

"0 monster! mix'd of insolence and fear,
Thou dog in forehead, but in heart a deer 1"

Chapman translates the phrase more fully, but adds a char-
acteristic quibble : —

" Thou ever steep'd in wine.
Dog's face, with heart but of a hart."

Tickell manages the imputation of drink, but has to slur
o\ er the dog and the deer : —

[chap.

m.] POPES UOMER. 18

" Valiant with wine and furious from the bowl,
Thou fierce-look'd taliier, with a coward soul."

Elsewhere Pope liesitates in the use of such plain speak-
ing, lie allows Teuccr to call Hector a dog, but apologises
in a note. " This is literal from the Greek," he says, " and
I have ventured it ;" though he quotes Milton's " dogs of
hell" to back himself with a precedent. But he cannot
quite stand Homer's downright comparison of Ajax to an
ass, and speaks of him in gingerly fashion as —

" The slow beast with heavy strength endued."

Pope himself thinks the pas.sagc "inimitably just and
beautiful ;" but on the whole, he says, " a translator owes
so much to the taste of the age in which he lives as not to
make too great a conipliment to the former [age] ; and
this induced me to omit the mention of the word ass in
the translation." Boileau and Longinus, he tells us, would
approve the omission of moan and vulgar words. "Ass"
is the vilest word imaginable in English or Latin, but of
dignity enough in Greek and Hebrew to be employed "on
the most magnificent occasions."

The Homeric phrase is thus often muffled and deadened
by Pope's verbiage. Dignity of a kind is gained at the
cost of energy. If such changes admit of some apology
as an attempt to preserve what is undoubtedly a Homeric
characteristic, we must admit that the "dignity" is often
false; it rests upon mere mouthing instead of simplicity
and directness, and suggests that Pope might have ap-
proved the famous emendation " he died in indigent cir-
cumstances," for " he died poor." The same weakness is
perhaps more annoying when it leads t ins of commis-
sion. Pope never scruples to amend Ilonii r by little epi-
grammatic amplifications, which are characteristic of the

A,li

POPE.

[cnAP.

t*^

' li

J,i

contemporary rhetoric. A single illustnition of a fault
suflioiently notorious will be sufficient. "When Nestor, in
the eleventh haok, rouses Dionied at night, I'ope naturally
smoothes down the testy remark of the sleepy warrior;
but he tries to improve Nestor's directions. Nestor tells
Diomed, in most direct terms, that the need is great, and
that he must go at once and rouse Ajax. In Pope's trans-
lation wc liave —

" Each single Greek in this conclusive strife
Stiuuls on the feliarpest edge of death or life ;
Yet if my years thy kind regard engage,
Employ thy youth as I employ my age ;
Succeed to these my cares, and rouse the rest ;
He serves me most who serves his country best."

The false air of epigram which Pope gives to the fourtli
line is characteristic ; and the concluding tag, which is
quite unauthorized, reminds us irresistibly of one of the
rhymes which an actor always spouted to the audience by
way of winding up an act in the contemporary drama.
Such embroidery is profusely applied by Pope wherever
he thinks that Homer, like Diomed, is slumbering too
(h'cply. And, of course, that is not the way in which
Nestor roused Diomed or Homer keeps liis readers awake.
Such faults have been so fully exposed that we need not
dwell upon them further. They come to this, that Pope
■was really a wit of the days of Queen Anne, and saw only
that aspect of Homer which was visible to his kind. The
poetic mood was not for liim a fine frenzy — for good sense
must condemn all frenzy — but a deliberate elevation of the
bard by high-heeled slioes and a full-bottomed wig. Seas
and mountains, being invisible from Button's, could only
be described by worn phrases from the Latin granmiar.
Even his narrative must be full of epigrams to avoid the

POPE'S HOMER.

one deadly sin of dulness, and liis iangnage must be dec-
orous oven at the price of being sometimes emasculated.
But accept these conditions, and much still remains. After
all, a wit was still a human being, and mudi more nearly
related to us than an ancif^nt Greek. I'ope's style, when
he is at his best, has the merit of being thoroughly alive ;
there arc no dead masses of useless verbiage; every ex-
crescence has been carefully pruned away ; slo-enly para-
phrases and indistinct slurrings over of the meaning have
disa{)peared. lie corrected carefully and scrupulously, as
his own statement implies, not with a view of transferring
as large a portion as possible of his author's meaning to
!.is own verses, but in order to make the versification as
smooth and the sense as transparent as possible. Wr> have
the pleasure which we receive from really polished oratory;
every point is made to tell ; if the emphasis is too often
poi!ited by some showy antithesis, we arc at least never un-
certain as to the meaning; and if the versification is often
monotonous, it is articulate and easily caught at first sight.
Those are the essential merits of good declamation, and it
is in the true declamatory passages that Pope is at his
best. The speeches of his heroes are often admirable, full
of spirit, well balanced and skilfully arranged pieces of
rhetoric — not a mere inorganic series of observations.
Undoubtedly the warriors are a little too epigrammatic
and too consciously didactic; and we feel almost scan-
dalized when they take to downright blows, as though
Walpole and St. John were interrupting a debate in the
House of Commons by fisticuffs. They would be better
in the senate than the field. But the brilliant rhetoric im-
plies also a sense of dignity which is not mere artificial
mouthing. Pope, as it seems to me, rises to a level of sus-
tained eloqu,-, ■■■', when he has to act as interpreter for the

,;.l

Hi!

tmA

I'orE.

[CUAP.

■

(i ifir

direct expression of broad, niagnaniinous sentiment. Clas-
sical critics may explain by what shades of feeling the
aristocratic j^randeiir of soul of an En<,'lish noble differed
from the analogous quality in heroic Greece, and find the
difference reflected in the "grand style" of Pope as com-
pared with that of Homer, IJut Pope could at least as-
sume with aihnirable readiness the lofty air of superiority
to personal fears, and patriotic devotion to a great cause,
which is common to the type in every age. His tendency
to didactic platitudes is at least out of place in ich cases,
and his dread of vulgarity and quaintness, with his genuine
feeling for breadth of effect, frequently enables him to be
realiy dignitied and impressive. It will, perhaps, be sufH-
cient illustration of these «]ualities if I conclude these re-
marks by giving his translation of Hector's speech to
Polydamas in the twelfth book, with its famous th olioivg
iipifTTog ufivyeadai iripi Trarpijc.

"To him then Hector with disdain rcturn'd;
(Fierce as he spoke, his eyes with fury burii'd) —
Are tliese the faithful counsels of thy tongue V
Thy will is partial, not thy reason wrong ;
Or if the purpose of thy heart thou sent,
Suie Heaven resumes the little sense it lent —
What coward counsels would thy madness move
Ar;ainst the word, the will reveal'd of Jove?
The leading sign, the irrevocable nod
And ha[)py thunders of the favouring God ?
These shall I slight ? And guide my wavering mind
By wand'ring birds that flit with every wind ?
Ye vagrants of the sky ! your wings extend
Or where the suns arise or wliere descend ;
To right or left, unheeded take your way,
While I the dictates of high heaven obey.
Without a sigh his sword the brave man draws.
And asks no omen but his country's cause.

111.]

rOPE'S HOMER.

But why .should'st thou suspect the war's success ?

None fears it more, as none promote* it less.

Tiio' all our shi|)s aniiil yon ships expire,

Trust thy own eowanliee to escape the fire.

Troy and her sons may find a j^eneral grave,

Hut thou canst live, for thou canst he a slave.

Yet shoiilil the fears that wary mind suggests

Spread their cold poison throuf^li our soldiers' breasts,

My javelin can revenge so base a part,

And free the soul that quivers in thy heart."

The six volumes of the Iliad were published during the
years 1715-1720, and were closed by a dedication to Con-
greve, wlio, as an eminent man of letters, not too closely
connected with cither Whigs or Tories, was the most ap-
propriate recipient of such a com[ limcnt. Pope was en-
riched by his success, and no doubt wearied by his labours.
But his restless intellect would never leave him to indulge
in prolonged repose, and, though not avaricious, he was
not more averse than other men to increasing his for-
tune. lie soon undertook two sufficiently laborious
works. The first was an edition of Shakspearo I'or
which lie only received 217/. 10.v., and which seems to
have been regarded as a failure. It led, like liis other
publications, to a quarrel to be hereafter mentioned, but
need not detain us at present. It ai)peared in 1725, when
he was already deep in another project. The success of
the Iliad naturally suggested an attempt npon the Odyssey.
Pope, however, was tired of translating, and he arranged f<ir
assistance. He took into alliance a couple of Cambridge
men, who were small poets cap.ible of fairly adopting his
versification. One of tliem was "NViiliain Broome, a cler-
gyman who held several livings and married a /ich widow.
Unfortunately his independence did not restrain him from
writing poetry, for vvhich want of means would have been

POPE.

[chap.

t«

1' .

tlic only sufficient excuse. lie was a man uf sonio class-
ical attainments, and had helped Pope in conipilino- notes
to the Iliad from Eustathius, an author whom Pope
would have been scarcely able to read without such as-
sistance. Elijah Fenton, his other assistant, was a Cam-
brid^ie man who had sacrificed his claims of preferment
by becoming a non-juror, and picked up a liviny; partly
by writing and chiefly by acting as tutoi- to Lord Orrery,
and afterwards in the family of Trumball's widow. Pope,
who introduced him to Lady Trumball, had also intro-
duced him to Ci'aggs, who, when Secretary of State, felt
his want of a decent education, and wished to be "polished
by some competent person. He seems to have been a
kindly, idle, honourable man, who died, says Pope, of in-
dolence, and more immediately, it appears, of the gout.
The alliance thus formed was rather a delicate one, and
was embittered by some of Pope's usual trickery. In is-
suing his proposals he spoke in ambiguous terms of two
friends who were to render him some undefined assist-
ance, and did not claim to be the translator, but to have
undertaken the translation. The assistants, in fact, did
half the work, Broome translating eight, and Fenton four,
out of the twenty -four books. Pope was unwilling to
acknowledge the full amount of their contributions ; he
persuaded Broome — a weak, good-natured man — to set
his hand to a postscript to the Odyssey, in which only
three books are given to Broome himself, and only two
to Fenton. When Pope was attacked for passing off
other people's verses as his own, he boldly appealed to this
statement to prove that he had only received Broome's
help in three books, and at the same time stated tlic
whole amount which he had paid for the eight, as though
it had been paid for the three. When Broome, in spite

' I"'

in.]

roPE'S hOMER.

of his subservience, became a little restive under this treat-
ment, Pope indirectly admitted the truth by claimino; only
twelve books in an advertisement to his works, and in a
note to the Dunciad, but did not explicitly retract the
other statement. ]5roome could not effectively rebuke
his fellow-sinner. He had, in fact, conspired with J'ope
to attract the public by the use of the most popular
name, and could not even claim his own afterwards, lie
had, indeed, talked too much, according to Pope ; and the
poet's morality is oddly illustrated in a letter, in which he
complains of Broome's indiscretion for letting out the se-
cret ; and explains that, as the facts are so far known, it
would now be "unjust and dishonourable" to continue
the concealment. It would be impossible to accept more
frankly the theory that lying is wrong when it is found
out. Meanwhile Pope's conduct to his victims or accom-
plices was not over-generous. lie made over 3500/. after
paying liroome 500/. (including 1 00/. for notes) and Fen-
ton 200/. — that is, 50/. a book. The rate of pay was as
high as the work was wortli, and as much as it would
fetch in the opr. -narket. The large sum was entirely
due to Pope's reputation, though obtained, so far as the
true authorship was concealed, upon something like false
pretences. Still, we could have wislied that lie had been
a little more liberal with his share of the plunder. A
coolness ensued between the principal and liis partners in
consequence of these questionable dealings. Fenton seems
never to have been reconciled to Pope, though they did not
openly quarrel, and Pope wrote a laudatory epitaph for him
on his death in 1730. Broome — a weaker man— though
insulted by Pope in the Dunciad and the Miscellanies, ac-
cepted a reconciliation, for wliich Pope seems to have been

^ m

POPE.

[CIIAP. III.

' if: ,

]

1 1;

M '

!■:

,(/ '

eager, perhaps feeling some touch of remorse for the inju-
ries which he had inflicted.

The shares of tlie three colleagues in tlie Odyssey are
not to be easily distinguished by internal evidence. On
trying the experiment by a cursory reading, I confess
(though a critic does not willingly admit his fallibility)
that I took some of Broome's work for Pope's, and,
though closer study or an acuter perception might dis-
criminate more accurately, I do not think that the dis-
tinction would be easy. This may be taken to confirm
the common theory that Pope's versification was a mere
mechanical trick. "Without admitting this, it must be ad-
mitted that the external characteristics of his manner were
easily caught ; and that it was not hard for a clever versi-
fier to produce something closely resembling his inferior
•work, especially when following the same original. But
it may be added that Pope's Odyssey was really inferior
to the Iliad, both because liis declamatory style is more
out of place in its romantic narrative, and because he was
weary and languid, and glad to turn his fame to account
without more labour than necessary. The Odyssey, I
may say, in conclusion, led to one incidental advantage.
It was criticised by Spence, a mild and cultivated scholar,
who was professor of poetry at Oxford. His observations,
according to Johnson, were candid, though not indicative
of a powerful mind. Pope, he adds, had in Spence the
first experience of a critic "who censured with respect
and praised with alacrity." Pope made Spence's acquaint-
ance, recommended him to patrons, and was repaid with
warm admiration."

! » i

CHAPTER IV.

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

When Pope finished liis translation of the Iliad, lio was
congratulated by liis friend Gay in a pleasant copy of
verses marked by the usual bonhomie of the fat, kindly
man. Gay supposes himself to be welcoming his friend
on the return from his long expedition.

" Did I not see thee when thou first sctt'st sail,
To seek adventures fair in Homer's land ?

Did I not see thy sinliing spirits fail,

And wish thy bark had never left the strand ?

Even in mid ocean often didst thou quail,
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand.

Praying to virgin dear and saintly cLun-

Back to the port to bring thy bark entire."

And now the bark is sailing up the Thames, with bells
ringing, bonfires blazing, and " bones and cleavers " clash-
ing. So splendid a show suggests Lord Mayor's Day, bnt,
in fact, it is only the crowd of Pope's friends come to
welcome him on his successful achievement ; and a long
catalogue follows, in which each is indicated by some ap-
propriate epithet. The list includes some doubtful sym-
pathizers, such as Gildon, who comes " hearing thou hast
riches," and even Dennis, who, in fact, continued to growl
out criticisms against the triumphant poet. Steele, too,
andTickell,—

■/ V'

4 )

!:1iin

:.i'^'ti::.i

ft ) \

11 1 '

)

1 '■ ■ •

1 '■ ' ■ ,

^1^
A

- £

ropE.

[CIU'.

" Wliose skiff (in partnership they say)
Set forth for Greece but foiindcr'd on the way,"

would not applaud very cordially. Addison, their com-
n)on hero, was beyond the reach of satire or praise. Par-
ncll, who had contributed a life of Homer, died in I7l8;
and Rowc and Garth, sound Whio's, but friends and often
boon companions of the little papist, had followed. Swift
was breathing " Ba'otian air" in his deanery, and St. John
was "confined t6 foreign climates" for very sutHcient rea-
sons. Any such I'oll-call of friends must show melan-
choly gaps, and sometimes the gaps arc more significant
than the names. Yet Popo could boast of a numerous
body of men, many of them of high distinction, who wore
ready lo give him a warm welcome. There were, indeed,
few eminent persons of the time, cither in the political or
literary Avorlds, with whom this sensitive and restless little
invalid did not come into contact, hostile or friendly, at
sonie part of his career. His friendships were keen and
his hostilities more than proportionally bitter. "We see
liis fragile fig'iii'e, glancing rapidly from one hospitable
circle to another, but always standing a little apart ; now
paying court to some conspicuous wit, or pliilosopher, or
statesman, or beauty ; now taking deadly offence for some
utterly inexplicable reason ; writhing with agony under
clumsy blows which a robuster nature would have met
with contemi)tuous laughter; racking his wits to contrive
exquisite C(uu{)liments, and suddenly exploding in sheer
]iil!ingsgate; making a mountain of every mole-hill in his
pilgrimage; always preoccupied with his last literary proj-
ect ; and yet finding time for innumerable intrigues, for
carrying out schemes of vengeance for wounded vanity,
and for introducing himself into every quarrel that was
going on around him. In all his multifarious schemes

i h :

IV.]

rOPE AT TWICKEXIIAM.

and occupations lie found it convenient to cover himself
by elaborate mystifications, and was as anxious (it would
seem) to deceive posterity as to impose upon contempora-
ries ; and hence it is as difncult clearly to discntano;le the
twisted threads of his complex history as to give an in-
tellio-ible picture of the result of tlie investigation. The
publication of the Iliad, however, marks a kind of central
point in his history. Pope lias reached independence,
and become the acknowledged head of the literary world ;
and it will be convenient here to take a brief survey of
his position, before following out two or three different
series of events, which can scarcely be given in chronolog-
ical order. Pope, when he first came to town and follow-
ed Wychcrley about like a dog, had tried to assume the
airs of a rake. The same tone is adopted in many of his
earlier letters. At Binfield he became demure, correct,
and respectful to the religious scruples of his parents. In
his visits to London and Bath he is little better than one
of the wicked. In a copy of verses (not too decent) writ-
ten in 1715, as a " Farewell to London," he gives us to
understand that he has been hearing the chimes at mid-
night, and knows where the bona-robas dwell. lie is
forced to leave his jovial friends and his worrying pub-
lishers "for Homer (danm him!) calls." lie is, so he

assures us,

" Still idle, with a busy air

Deep whimsies to contrive ;

The gayest valetudinairc,

Most thinking rake alive."

And he takes a sad leave of London pleasures.

" Luxurious lobster nights, farewell,
For sober, studious days !
Anc' Burlington's delicious meal
For salads, tarts, and pease."

r i! '1

'1* I

POPE.

[chap.

Writing from Butli a little earlier, to Teresa and Martlia
Ijlount, he employs the same jaunty strain. " Every one,"
he says, " values Mr. I'ope, but every one for a different
reason. One for his adherence to the Catholic faith, an-
other for his neglect of Popish superstition ; one for liis
good behaviour, another for his whimsicalities ; Mr. Tit-
oomb for his pretty atheistical jests; Mr. Gary 11 for his
moral and Christian sentences; Mrs. Teresa for liis reflec-
tions on Mrs. Patty ; Mrs. Patty for his reflections on Mrs.
Teresa." lie is an " agreeable rattle ;" the accomplished
rake, drinking with the wits, though above boozintr with
the squire, and capable of alleging his drunkenness as an
excuse for writing very questionable letters to ladies.

Pope was too sickly and too serious to indulge long in
such youthful fopperies. lie had no fund of liigh spii'its
to draw upon, and his playfulness was too near deadly ear-
nest for the comedy of common life. He had too much
intellect to be a mere fribble, and had not the strong ani-
mal passions of the thorough debauchee. Age came upon
him rapidly, and he had sown his wild oats, such as they
were, while still a young man. Meanwhile his reputation
and his circle of acquaintances were rapidly spreading, and
in spite of all his disqualifications for the coarser forms of
conviviality, he took the keenest possible interest in the
life that went on around him. A satirist may not be a
pleasant companion, but he must frequent society ; he
must be on the watch for his natural prey ; he must de-
scribe the gossip of the day, for it is the raw material
from which he spins his finished fabric. Pope, as his
writings show, was an eager recipient of all current ru-
Uiours, whether they affected his aristocratic friends or the
humble denizens of Grub-street. Fully to elucidate his
poems, a commentator requires to have at his fingers' ends

^^gm----tii,isss=xr~

IV.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

the whole chronique scandaleuse of the day. With such
tastes, it was natural that, as the subscriptions for his
Homer began to pour in, he should be anxious to move
nearer the great social centre, London itself might be too
exciting for his health and too destructive of literary lei-
sure. Accordingly, in 1716, the little property at Biufield
was sold, and the Po{)e family Tnovcd to Mawson's New
Buildings, on the bank of the river at Chiswick, and "un-
der the wing of my Lord Burlington." He seems to have
beeu a little ashamed of the residence ; the name of it
is certainly neither aristocratic nor [)octical. Two years
later, on the death of his father, he moved up. the river to
the villa at Twickenham, which has always been associated
with his name, and was his home for the last twenty-tivc
years of his life. There he had the advantage of being
just on the boundary of the great world. He was within
easy reach of Hampton Court, Richmond, and Kew ; places
which, during Pope's residence, were frequently glorified
by the presence of George H. and his heir and natural
enemy, Frederick, Prince of Wales. Pope, indeed, did not
enjoy the honour of any personal interview with royalty.
George is said to have called him a very honest man after
reading his Dunciad ; but Pope's references to his Sover-
eign were not complimentary. There was a report, refer-
red to by Swift, that Pope had purposely avoided a visit
from Queen Caroline. He was on very friendly terms
with jNIrs. Howard — afterwards Lady Suffolk — the pow-
erless mistress, who was intimate with two of his chief
friends, Bathurst and Peterborough, and who settled at
Marble Villa, in Twickenham. Pope and Batluir?t helped
to lay out her grounds, and she stayed there to become a
friendly neighbour of Horace Walpole, who, unluckily for
lovers of gossip, did not become a Twickenhamite until

li^

POPE.

[chap.

':il^

■1

tliree years after Pope's deatli. Pope was naturally more
allied with tlic Prince of Wales, wlio occasionally vibited
liiin, and became intimate with the band of patriots and
enthusiasts who saw in the heir to the throne the coniinij;'
"patriot kinj;-/' ]3olino;broke, too, the great inspircr of
the opposition, and I'ope's most revered friend, was for
ten years at Dawley, within an easy drive. London was
easily accessible by road and by the river wliich bounded
his lawn. Ilis waterman appears to have been one of the
regular members of liis liousehold. There he liad every
opportunity for the indulgence of his favourite tastes.
The villa was on one of the loveliest reaches of the Thames,
not yet polluted by the encroachments of London. The
house itself was destroyed in the beginning of this centu-
ry ; and the garden (if we may trust Horace Walpole) had
been previously spoilt. This garden, says Walpole, was a
little bit of ground of five acres, enclosed by three lanes.
"Pope had twisted and twirled and rhymed and harmo-
nized this, till it appeared two or three sweet little lawns,
opening and opening beyond one another, and the whole
surrounded with impenetrable woods." These, it appears,
were hacked and hewed into mere desolation by the next
proprietor. Pope was, indeed, an ardent lover of the ris-
ing art of landscape gardening; he w-as familiar with
Bridgeman and Kent, the great authorities of the time,
and his example and precepts helped to promote the de-
velopment of a less formal style. His theories are partly
indicated in the description of Timon's villa.

" His gardens next your admiration call,
On every side you loolv, behold the wall !
No pleasing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other."

...^■■.-.*— 'I?:?.;

IT.]

rOPE AT TWICKENHAM.

Pope's taste, indeed, tolerated various old-fashioned ex-
crescences whicli we profess to despise. ]Ie admired mock
classical temples and obelisks erected judiciously at the
ends of vistas. His most famous piece of handiwork, the
grotto at Twickenham, still remains, and is, in fact, a short
tunnel under the hifjli road to connect his ^ruunds with
the lawn which slopes to the river. lie describes, in a let-
ter to one of liis friends, his " temple wholly comprised of
sliells in the rustic manner," and his famous grotto so pro-
vided with mirrors that when the doors are shut it be-
comes a camera obscura, reflecting hills, river, and boats,
and when lighted up glitters with rays refiocted from bits
of looking-glass in angular form. His friends pleased him
by sending pieces of spar from the mines of Cornwall and
Derbysliire, petrifactions, marble, coral, crystals, and hum-
ming-birds' nests. It was, in fact, a gorgeous example of
the kind of architecture with which the cit delighted to
adorn his country box. The hobby, whetlier in good taste
or not, gave Tope never-ceasing amusement ; and he wrote
some characteristic verses in its praise.

In his grotto, as lie declares in another place, he could
sit in peace with his friends, undisturbed by the distant
din of the world.

" There my retreat the best companions grace,
Cliiofs out of war, and statesmen out of place ;
Tlicre St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
Tiie feast of reason and tlie flow of soul ;
And he whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines
Now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines,
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."

The grotto, one would fear, was better fitted for frogs than
for philosophers capable of rheumatic twinges. But de-
G 5

:i i ,

'.^ 1 !■

1 .\l

H '

POPE.

[chap.

\ I

ducting wliat we please from such utterances on the score
of affectation, the i)icture of Pope amusing himself with
his grotto and his plantations, directing old John Searle,
liis gardener, and conversing with the friends whom he
compliments so gracefully, is, perhaps, the pleasantest in
his history. He was far too restless and too keenly inter-
ested in society and literature to resign himself pennanent-
ly to any such retreat.

Pope's constitutional irritability kept him constantly on
the wing. Though little interested in politics, he liked to
be on the edge of any political commotion. lie appeared
in London on the death of Queen Caroline, in 1737 ; and
Bathurst remarked that " he was as sure to be there in a
bustle as a porpoise in a storm." " Our friend Pope,"
said Jervas not long before, " is off and on, here and there,
everywhere and nowhere, a son ordinaire, and, therefore as
well as we can hope for a carcase so crazy." The Twick-
enham villa, though nominally dedicated to repose, became,
of course, a centre of attraction for the interviewers of the
day. The opening lines of the Prologue to the Satires
give a vivacious description of the crowds of authors who
rushed to "Twitnam," to obtain his patronage or counte-
nance, in a day when editors were not the natural scape-
goats of such aspirants.

" What walls can guard mo, or what shades can hide ?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
liy land, ])y water, they renew the charge ;
They stop the chariot and they Ijoard the barge :
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me."

Ana even at an earlier period he occasionally retreated
*vom the bustle to find time for his Homer. Lord Har-

.-!aiEt:-.L3E.":i.-_

[chap.

IV.]

POPE AT TWICKEXHAM.

court, the Chancellor in the last years of Queen Anne, al-
lowed him to take up his residence in his old house of
Stanton llarcourt, in Oxfordshire. He inscribed on a
pane of <>;las3 in an upper room, " In the yej-r 1718 Al-
exander I'opc finished hero the fifth volume of Homer,"
In his earlier days he was often rambling about on horse-
back. A letter from Jervas gives the plan of one such
jaunt (in 1715), with Arbuthnot and Disney for com-
panions. Arbuthnot is to be commander-in-chief, and
allows only a shirt and a cravat to be carried in each
traveller's po(;ket. They are to make a moderate jour-
ney each day, and stay at the liouscs of various friends,
ending ultimately at Dath. Another letter of about the
same date describes a ride to Oxford, in which Pope is
overtaken by his publisher, Lintot, who lets him into vari-
ous secrets of the trade, and proposes that Pope should
turn an ode of Horace whilst sitting under the trees to
rest. "Lord, if you pleased, what a clever miscellany
might you make at leisure hours !" exclaims the man
of business ; and though Pope laughed at the advice, we
might fancy that he took it to heart. He always had
bits of verse on the anvil, ready to be hammered and pol-
ished at any moment. But even Pope could not be always
writing, and the mere mention of these rambles suggests
pleasant lounging through old-world country lanes of the
quiet century. We think of the roadside life seen by
Parson Adams or Humphry Clinker, and of which Mr.
Borrow caught the last glimpse when dwelling in the
tents of the Romany. In later days Pope had to put
his "crazy carcase" into a carriage, and occasionally came
in for less pleasant experiences. Whilst driving home one
night from Dawley, in Bolingbroke's carriage and six, he
was upset in a stream. He escaped drowning, though the

■ iir

'ii

\ ■

// \

I'Ol'E.

[ciup.

water was " up to the knots of his periwig," but lie was
so cut by the broken glass that lie nearly lost the use of his
riirlit hand. On aiiotlicr occasion Spencc was dclinhtcd by
the sudden ai)pearance of the poet at Oxford, " dreadful-
ly fatigued;" he had good-naturedly lent his own chariot
tu a lady wiio liad been hurt in an upset, and had walked
three miles to Oxford on a sultry day.

A man of sutli brilHant wit, familiar with so many social
circles, should have been a charming ('ouii)anion. It must,
liowcvf I', be admitted that the accounts which have como
down to ■* do not contirm such iireconcoived impressions.
Like his great rival, Addison, though for other reasons, he
was generally disappointing in society. l*ope, as may be
guessed from Spence's reports, had a large fund of intov-
csting literary talk, such as youthful aspirants to fame
would be delighted to receive with reverence; he had
the rei)utation for telling anecdotes skilfully, and v^o may
suppose that wlien he felt at ease, with a respectful and
safe companion, he could do himself justice, liut he must
have been very trying to his hosts, lie could seldom lay
aside his self-consciousness sufficiently to write an easy let-
ter; and the same fault probably ^poilt his conversation.
Swift complains of him as a silent and inattentive com-
panion, lie went to sleep at his own table, says Johnson,
when the Prince of Wales was talking poetry to him —
certainly a severe trial, lie would, we may guess, be silent
till he had something to say worthy of the great Pope, and
would then doubt whether it was not wise to treasure it
up for preservation in a couplet. His sister declared that
she had never seen him laugh heartily ; and Spencc, who
records the saying, is surprised, because Pope was said to
have been very lively in his youth ; but admits that in
later years he never went beyond a " particular easy

[chap.

XV.]

rOPE AT TWICKENHAM.

smile." A lioarty lauo;h would have sounded stnuifrely
fr')in the touchy, moody, iiitrii,'uiiijj; little man, who could
" hurdly drink tea without a stiataj;em." His sensitive-
ness, indeed, iiinoarinif by his oftei> ,li i iuij^ when he read
moviiio- passaji,! , hut we can liarJl-. :.na<jine him as ever
capable of ^oninl self-abimdonment.

His unsocial habits, indeed, were a natural consequence
of ill-healtli. He never '^ems to have been thorouj^hly
well ft>r many days together. JIc implied no more than
the truth when lie sp. aks of liis Muse ;is lielping him
through tluit "long disease, his life." Writing t<. Hath-
urst in 1728, he says that lie does not expect to enjoy any
health for four days together; and, not long after, JJath-
tirst remonstrates with him for. his carelessness, askino-
him whether it is not enough to have the headache for
four days in the week and be sick for the other three. It
is no small proof of intellectual energy that he managed
to do so much thorough work under such disadvantaires.
and his letters show less of the invalid's qu'M-ulous spirit
than we might well have pardoned. Johnson gives a
painful account of his physical defects, on tuc authority
of an old servant of Lord Oxford, who frecjuontly saw
him in his later years. He was so weak as to be unable
to rise to dress himself without help. He wa- so sensi-
tive to cold that he had to wear a kind of fur doublet
under a coarse linen shirt; one of his sides was con-
tracted, and he could scarcely stand upright till he was
laced into a boddice made of stiff canvas ; his leus were
so slender that he had to wear three pairs of sto kinfrs.
which he was unable to draw on and off withou help.
His seat had to bo raised to bring him to a lev( with
common tables. In one of his papers in the Guo dian
he describes himself apparently as Dick Distich : " a live-

■'

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.ii

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*^P^ ■•■.■'!^

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POPE.

[chap.

.f,i i

[•

^fy!

f,i

III

ly little creature, with long legs and arms; a spider' is
no ill emblem of him ; he has been taken at a distance
for a small windmill." His face, says Johnson, was " not
displeasing," and the portraits are eminently characteris-
tic. The thin, "drawn features wear the expression of ha-
bitual pain, but are brightened up by the vivid and pene-
trating eye, which seems to be the characteristic poetical
beauty.

It was, after all, a gallant spirit which got so much work
out of this crazy carcase, and kept it going, spite of all its
feebleness, for fifty-six years. The servant whom Johnson
quotes said that she was called from her bed four times in
one night, " in the dreadful winter of Forty," to supply
him with paper, lest he should lose a thought. His con-
stitution was already breaking down, but the intellect was
still striving to save every moment allowed to him. Ilis
friends laughed at his habit of scribbling upon odd bits of
paper. " Paper -sparing" Pope is the epithet bestowed
upon him by Swift, and a great part of the Iliad is writ-
ten upon the backs of letters. The habit seems to have
been regarded as illustrative of his economical habits ; but
it was also natural to a man who was on the watch to turn
every fragment of time to account. If anything was to
be finished, he must snatch at the brief intervals allowed
by his many infirmities. Naturally, he fell into many of
the self-indulgent and troublesome ways of the valetudi-
narian. He was constantly wanting coffee, which seems to
have soothed his headaches; and for this and his other
wants he used to wear out the servants in his friends'
houses by " frequent and frivolous errands." Yet lie was
apparently a kind master. Ilis servants lived with him

' TIio same comparison is made by Cibber in a rather unsavourjl
passage.

[chap.

IT.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

till they became friends, and he took care to pay so well
the unfortunate servant whose sleep was broken by liis
calls, that she said that she would want no wages in a
family where she liad to wait upon Mr. Pope. Another
form of self-indulgence was more injurious to himself.
lie pampered his appetite with highly -seasoned dishes,
and liked to receive delicacies from his friends. His
death was imputed by some of his friends, says Johnson,
to " a silver saucepan in which it was his delight to cat
potted lampreys." lie would always get up for dinner,
in spite of headache, when told that this delicacy was pro-
vided. Yet, as Johnson also observes, the excesses cannot
have been very great, as they did not sooner cut short
so fragile an existence. " Two bites and a sup more than
your stint," says Swift, " will cost you more than others
pay for a regular debauch."

At home, indeed, he appears to have been generally ab-
stemious. Probably the habits of his parents' little house-
hold were very simple ; and Pope, like Swift, knew the
value of independence well enough to be systematically eco-
nomical. Swift, indeed, had a more generous heart, and
a lordly indifference to making money by liis writino-s,
which Pope, who owed his fortune chiefly to his Homer,
did not attempt to rival. Swift alludes, in his letters to an
anecdote, which wc may hope does not represent his habit-
ual practice. Pope, it appears, was entertaining a couple
of friends, and when four glasses had been consumed from
a pint, retired, saying, " Gentlemen, I leave you to your
wine." "I tell that story to everybody," says Swift,' "in
commendation of Mr. Pope's abstemiousness ;" but he tells
it, one may guess, with something of a rueful countenance.
At times, however, it seems that Pope could give a "splen-
did dinner," and show no want of the "skill and elegance

i|:

:Ui

^ i

, i€

\ m

lii

POPE.

[chap.

I
t I

which such performances require." Pope, in fact, seems
to have shown a combination of qualities wliich is not un-
common, tliough sometimes called inconsistent. lie val-
ued money as a man values it who lias been poor and feels
it essential to his comfort to be fairly beyond the rcacli of
want, and was accordingly pretty sharp at making a bar-
gain with a publisher or in arranging terms with a collab-
orator. But he could also be liberal on occasion. John-
son says that his whole income amounted to about 800/. a
year, out of which he professed himself able to assign 100/.
to charity ; and though the figures arc doubtful, and all
Pope's statements about his own proceedings liable to sus-
picion, he appears to have been often generous in helping
the distressed with money, as well as with advice or rec-
ommendations to his powerful friends. Pope, by his in-
firmities and his talents, belonged to the dependent class
of mankind, lie was in no sense capable of standing firm-
ly upon his own legs, lie had a longing, sometimes pa-
thetic and sometimes humiliating, for the applause of his
fellows and the sympathy of friends. With feelings so
morbidly sensitive, and with such a lamentable .■r'"apacity
for straightforward openness in any relation of life, lie was
naturally a dangerous companion. He might bo brooding
over some fancied injury or neglect, and meditating re-
venge, when he appeared to bo on good terms ; when really
desiring to do a service to a friend, lie might adopt some
tortuous means for obtaining his ends, which would con-
vert the service into an injury ; and, if he had once become
alienated, the past friendship would be remembered by him
as involving a kind of humiliation, and therefore supplying
additional keenness to his resentment. And yet it is plain
that throughout life lie was always anxious to lean upon
some stronger nature ; to have a sturdy supporter whom

"i. \'

■a» j gjj;-i_ ;

., 1

[CIIAP,

IT.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

he was too apt to turn into an accomplice ; or at least to
have some good-natured, easy-going companion, in whose
society he might find repose for his tortured nerves. And
therefore, though the story of his friendships is unfortu-
nately intertwined with the story of bitter quarrels and in-
defensible acts of treachery, it also reveals a touchitic de-
.sire for the kind of consolation which would be most val-
uable to one so accessible to the pettiest stings of his ene-
mies, lie had many warm friends, moreover, who, by good
fortune or the exercise of unusual prudence, never excited
his wrath, and whom he repaid by genuine affection.
Some of these friendships have become famous, and will
be best noticed in connexion with passages in his future
career. It will be sufficient if I here notice a few names,
in order to show that a complete picture of Pope's life, if
it could now be produced, would include many figures of
which we only catch occasional glimpses.

Pope, as I have said, though most closely connected with
the Tories and Jacobites, disclaimed any close party con-
nexion, and had some relations with the AVhigs. Some
courtesies even passed between him and the great Sir Rob-
ert Walpole, whose interest in literature was a vanishing
quantity, and whose bitterest enemies were Pope's greatest
friends, Walpole, however, as we have seen, asked for
preferment for I'ope's old friend, and Pope repaid him
with more than one compliment. Thus, in the Epilogue
to the Satires, he says, —

" Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power.
Seen him, eneumber'd with the venal tribe,
Smile without art and win without a bribe."

Another Whig statesman for whom Pope seems to liave

entertained an especially warm regard was James Craws.
5* 20 °^

t:4,

f!^ \\}'\

4 )

POPE.

[chap.

U \

Addison's successor as Secretary of State, who died wliilst
under suspicion of peculation in tlic South Sea business
(1721). The Wliig connexion might have been turned to
account. Craggs, during his brief tenure of office, offered
Pope a pension of 300/, a year (from the secret service
money), which Pope declined, whilst saying that, if in want
of money, he would apply to Craggs as a friend. A ne-
gotiation of the same kind took place with Ualifax, who
aimed at the glory of being the great literary patron. It
seems that he was anxious to have the Homer dedicated
to liim, and Pope, being unwilling to gratify him, or, as
Jolmson says, being less eager for money than Halifax for
praise, sent a cool answer, and the negotiation passed off.
Pope afterwards revenged himself for this offence by his
bitter satire on Bufo in the Prologue to his Satires, though
he had not the courage to admit its obvious application.

Pope deserves the credit of preserving his independence.
He would not stoop low enough to take a pension at the
price virtually demanded by the party in power. He was
not, however, inaccessible to aristocratic blandishments,
and was proud to be the valued and petted guest in many
great houses. Through Swift he had become acquainted
with Oxford, the colleague of Bolingbroke, and was a fre-
quent and intimate guest of the second Earl, from whose
servant Johnson derived the curious information as to liis
habits. Harcourt, Oxford's Chancellor, lent him a house
whilst translating Homer. Sheffield, the Duke of Buck-
ingham, had been an early patron, and after the duke's
death. Pope, at the request of his eccentric duchess, the il-
legitimate daughter of James H,, edited some of his works,
and got into trouble for some Jacobite phrases contained
in them. His most familiar friend among the opposition
magnates was Lord Bathurst, a man of uncommon vivacity

I '.

[chap.

IT.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

and good-humour. He was born four years before Pope,
and died more tlian tliirty years later, at the age of ninety-
one. One of the finest passages in Burke's American
speeclies turns upon the vast clianges whicli had taken
place during Bathurst's lifetime. He lived to see his son
Chancellor. Two years before his death the son loft the
father's dinner-table with some reinark upon the advantage
of regular habits. " Now the old gentleman's gone," said
the lively youth of eighty-nine to the remaining guests,
"let's crack the other bottie." Bathurst delighted in
planting, and Pope in giving him advice, and in discuss-
ing the opening of vistas and erection of temples, and
the poet was apt to be vexed when his advice was not
taken.

Another friend, even more restless and comet-like in his
appearances, was the famous Peterborough, the man who
had seen more kings and postilions than any one in Eu-
rope ; of whom Walsh injudiciously remarked that he had
too much wit to be entrusted with the command of an
army; and whose victories, soon after the unlucky remark
had been made, were so brilliant as to resemble strategical
epigrams. Pope seems to have been dazzled by the amaz-
ing vivacity of the man, and has left a curious description
of his last days. Pope found him on the eve of the voy-
age in which he died, sick of an agonizing disease, crvino-
out for pain at night, fainting awav twice in the mornina:,
lying like a dead man for a time, and in the intervals of
pain giving a dinner to ten people, laughing, talking, de-
claiming against the corruption of the times, giving direc-
tions to his workmen, and insisting upon going to sea in a
yacht without preparations for landing anywhere in par-
ticular. Pope seems to have been specially attracted by
such men, with intellects as restless as his own, but with

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i I

!<!

\i I

roPE.

[chap.

< I \

infinitely more vitality to stand the consequent wear and
tear.

We should be better pleased if we could restore a vivid
image of the inner circle upon which his ha})piiiess most
intimately depended. In one relation of life Tope's con-
duct was not only blameless, but thoroun'hly loveable. He
was, it is plain, the best of sons. Even here, it is true, he
is a little too consciously virtuous. Yet when he speaks
of his father and mother there are tears in his voice, and
it is impossible not to recognize genuine warmth of heart.

" Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age,
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and soothe the bed of death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky !'"

Such verses are a spring in the desert, a gush of the
true feeling, which contrasts with the strained and facti-
tious sentiment in his earlier rhetoric, and almost forces us
to love the writer. Could Pope have preserved that high-
er mood, he would have held our affections as ho often
delio'hts our intellect.

Unluckily we can catch but few glimpses of Pope's
family life ; of the old mother and father and the affec-
tionate nurse, who lived with him till 1721, and died dur-
ing a dangerous illness of his mother's. The father, of
whom we hear little after his early criticism of the son's
bad "rhymes," died in 17 17; and a brief note to Martha
Blount gives Pope's feelings as fully as many pages : " My

* It is curious to compare these verses with the original copy con-
tained in a letter to Aaron Hill. The comparison shows how skilful-
ly Pope polished his most successful passages.

«**-

IV.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

poor father died last night. Believe, since I don't forget
you this moment, I never shall." The mother survived
till 1733, tenderly watched by Pope, who would never be
long absent from her, and whose references to her are uni-
formly tender and beautiful. One or two of her letters
arc preserved. "My Deare,— A letter from your sister
just now is come and gone, Mr, Mennock and Charls Rack-
itt, to take his leve of us ; but being nothing in it, doe
not send it. . . . Your sister is very well, but your broth-
er is not. There's Mr. Blunt of Maypell Durom is dead,
the same day that Mr. Inglefield died. My servis to Mrs.
Blounts, and all that ask of me. I hope to here from you,
and that you arc well, which is my dalye prayers; this
with my blessing." The old lady had peculiar views of
orthography ; and Pope, it is said, gave her the pleasure
of copying out some of his Homer, though the necessary
corrections gave him and the printers more trouble than
would be saved by such an amanuensis. Three days afiv^r
her death he wrote to Richardson, the painter. " I thank
God," he says, " her death was as easy as her life was in-
nocent ; and as it cost her not a groan, nor even a sigh,
there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of
tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that it is even envia-
ble to behold it. It would afford the finest image of a
saint expired that ever painter drew, and it would be the
greatest obligation which ever that obliging art could ever
bestow upon a friend, if you would come and sketch it
for me. I am sure if there be no very prevalent obstacle,
you will leave any common business to do this, and I shall
hope to see you this evening as late as you will, or to-mor-
row morning as early, before this winter flower is faded."
Swift's comment, on hearing the news, gives the only con-
solation which Pope could have felt. "She died in ex-

ill

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■I

■

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i
.1

100

POPE.

[chap.

ill

trcmc old age," he writes, " without pain, under the care
of the most dutiful son I have ever known or heard of,
which is a felicity not happening to one in a million."
And Mith her death, its most touching and ennobling in-
fluence faded from I'ope's life. There is no particular
merit in loving a mother, but few biographies give a more
striking proof that the loving discharge of a common duty
may give a charm to a whole character. It is melancholy
to add that we often have to appeal to this part of his
story, to assure ourselves that INnie was rcallv deservini^
of some affection.

The part of Pope's history which' naturally follows
brings us again to the region of unsolved mysteries. The
one prescription which a spiritual physician would have
suggested in Pope's "ase would have been the love of a
good and sensible woman, i^ nature so capable of tender
feeling and so essentially dependent upon others, might
have been at once soothed and supported by a happy do-
mestic life; though it must be admitted that it would
have required no common qualifications in a wife to calm
so irritable and jealous a spirit. Pope was unfortunate in
his surrounding's. The bachelor society of that day, not
only the society of the Wycherleys and Cromwells, but the
more virtuous society of Addison and his friends, was cer-
tainly not remarkable for any exalted tone about women.
Bolingbroke, Peterborough, and Bathurst, Pope's most ad-
mired friends, were all more or less flagrantly licentious;
and Swift's mysterious story shows that if he could love a
woman, his love might be as dangerous as hatred. In such
a school, Pope, eminently malleable to the opinions of his
companions, was not likely to acquire a high standard of
sentiment. His personal defects were equally against him.
His frame was not adapted for the robust gallantry of the

iiM0Sks

IT.]

POPE AT TWICKEXIIAM.

101

time. lie wanted a nurse rather than a wife ; and if his
intirmities might excite pity, pity is akin to contempt as
well as to love. The poor little invalid, brutally abused
for Ills deformity by such men as Dennis and his friends,
was stung beyond all self-control by their coarse laughter,
and by the consciousness that it only echoed, in a more
brutal shape, the judgment of the fine ladies of the time.
His language about women, sometimes expressing eoai-so
contempt and sometimes rising to ferocity, is the reaction
of his morbid sensibility under such real and imagined
scorn.

Such f(}eling3 must be remembered in speaking briefly
of two love affairs, if they are such, which profoundly af-
fected his happiness. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is
amongst the most conspicuous figures of the time. She
had been made a toast at the Kitcat Clnb at the age of
eight, and slie translated p]pictetus (fron> the Latin) before
she was twenty. She wrote verses, some of them amaz-
ingly coarse, though decidedly clever, and liad married
Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu in defiance of her father's
will, though even in this, her most romantic proceeding,
there are curious indications of a respect for prudential
considerations. Her husband was a friend of Addison's,
and a Wh'g; and she accompanied liim on an embassy to
Constantinople in IT 16-1 7, where she wrote the excel-
lent letters published after her death, and whence she im-
ported the practice of inoculation, in spite of much oppo-
sition. A distinguislied leader of society, she was also a
woman of slirewd intellect and masculine character; In
1739 slie left her husband, though no quarrel preceded or
followed the separation, and settled for many years in Ita<-
ly. Her letters are characterise- of the keen, woman, of
the world, with an underlying vein of nobler feeling, per*

'ii'-'illi!

4 I

102

POPE.

[chap.

I-

verted by harsh cxperienco into a prevailing cynicism.
Pope had made her acquaintance before she left Eughmd.
He wrote poems to licr and corrected her verses till she
cruelly refused his services, on the painfully plausible
ground that ho would claim all the good for himself and
leave all the bad for her. They corresponded during her
first absence abroad. The common sense is all on the
lady's side, whilst l*ope puts on his most elaborate man-
ners and addresses her in the strained compliments of old-
fashioned gallantry. lie acts the lover, though it is obvi-
ously mere acting, and his language is stained by indeli-
cacies, which could scarcely offend Lady Mary, if we may
judge her by her own poetical attempts. The most char-
acteristic of Pope's letters related to an incident at Stanton
Harcourt. Two rustic lovers were surprised by a thunder-
storm in a field near the house ; they were struck by light-
ning, and found lying dead in each otlier's arms. Here
was an admirable chance for Pope, who was staying in the
house with his friend Gay. He wrote o(f a beautiful let-
ter to Lady Mary,' descriptive of the event — a true prose
pastoral in the Strcphon and Chloe style. He got Lord
Harcourt to erect a monument o ;er the common grave of
the lovers, and composed a couple of c])itaphs, which he
submitted to Lady Mary's opinion. She replied by a
cruel dose of common sense, and a doggerel epitaph, which
turned his fine phrases ii.t, merciless ridicule. If the
lovers had been spared, she suggests, the first year might

Vi!

' Pope, after his quarrel, wanted to sink his previous intimacy with
Lady Mary, and printed this letter as addressed by Gay to Fortescue,
adding one to the innumerable mystifications of his correspondence.
Mr. Moy Thomas doubts also whether Lady Mary's answer was really
sent at the assigned date. The contrast of sentiment is equally char-
acteristic in any case.

ir.]

rOPE AT TWICKENHAM.

108

probably have seen a beaten wife and a Uucinv lins'.and,
cursing their nianiagc chain.

" Now tlioy arc happy in their doom,
For Topo lias writ upon tiieir tomb."

On Lady Mary's return the intimacy was continued.
She took a house at Twickenliani. lie got Knellor to
paint her portrait, and wrote letters expressive of liumblo
adoration. But the tone which did well enough when the
pair were separated by the whole breadth of Europe, was
less suitable when they were in the same parish. After a
time the intimacy faded and cliangcd into mutual antipa-
thy. The specific cause of the quarrel, if cause there was,
has not been clearly revealed. One account, said to come
from Lady Mary, is at least not intrinsically' improbable.
According to this story, the unfortunate poet forgot for a
moment that he was a contemptible cripple, and forgot also
the existence of Mr. Edward Wovtley Montagu, and a pas-
sionate declaration of love drew from the lady an " immod-
erate fit of laughter." Ever afterwards, it is added, he was
lior implacable enemy. Doubtless, if the story be true,
Lady Mary acted like a sensible woman of the world, and
Pope was silly as well as immoral. And yet one cannot
refuse some pity to the unfortunate wretch, thus roughly
jerked back into the consciousness that a fine ladv ini'-lit
make a pretty plaything of him, but could not seriously
regard him with anything but scorn. Whatever the pre-
cise facts, a breach of some sort might have been antici-

' Mr. Moy Tiiomas, in his edition of Lady Mary's letters, considers
this story to be merely an echo of old scandal, and makes a different
conjecture as to the immediate cause of quarrel. His conjecture
seems very improbable to me ; but the declaration story is clearly of
very doubtful authenticity.
II

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- ;
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104

POPE.

[' lUP.

I I i ' f 1 f ,

patc'd. A [(anio of gallantry in which the natural parts
arc invcitcil, and ilic i^oiitlcnian acts the sontimcntali.st to
tlu- lady's pcrfornianct; of the shrewd cynic, is likely to have
awkward results. I'opc brooded over hi.s resentment, and
years afterwards took a revenfje only too characteristic.
The first of his imitations of Horace appeared in 1733.
It contained a ctniplet, too gross for quotation making the
most outrageous imputation upon the character of "Sap-
pho." Now, the accusation itself had no relation whatever
cither to facts or even (as I su[)p()se) to any existing scan-
dal. It was siniply throwing tilth at random. Thus,
when Lady Mary took it to herself, and applied to Pope
through Peterborough for an explanation, J 'ope could
make a defence verbally impregnable. There was no rea-
son w hy Lady Mary should fancy that such a cap fitted ;
and it was far more appropriate, as ho added, to other
women notorious for immorality as well as authorship. In
fact, however, there can l»c no doubt that lV>pc intended
his abuse to reach its mark. Sappho was an obvious name
for the most famous of poetic ladies. l*ope himself, in
one of his last letters to her, says that fragments of her
writing would please him like fragments of Sappho's;
and their mediator, IV'terborough, writes of her under the
same name in some complimentary and once well-known
verses to ' " -s. Howard. I'optj had himself alluded to her
as Sappho .a some verses addressed (about 1722) to an-
other lady, Judith Cowper, afterwards Mrs. Madan, who
was for a time the object of some of his artificial gal-
lantry. The only thing that can be said is that his
abuse was a sheer piece of Billingsgate, too devoid of
plausibility to be more than an expression of virulent
hatred. He was like a dirty boy who throws mud from

I UP.

IV.]

rOPE AT TWICKENHAM.

105

an anibiisli, and declares that lie did not see the victim be-
spattered.'

A bitter and liurniliatinQ: quarrel followed. Lord Iler-
vey, \\lio had been described as " Liml Fanny," in the
same satire, joined ,>an his friend, Lady Mary, in writinj;
lampoons upon I'opc. The best known was a copy of
verses, chiefly, if not exclusively, by Lady Mary, in which
Pope is brutally taunted with the personal deformities
of his " wretched little carcase," which, it seems, are the
only cause of his beint; " unwhipt,unblanketed, unkicked."
One verse seems to have stuui; him more deeply, which
says that his "crabbed numbers" are

" Hard as liis Iieart and as his birtli obscure."

To this and other assaults Pope replied by a long letter,
suppressed, however, for the time, whicli, as Johnson says,
exhibits to later readers "nothing but tedious malignity,"
and is, in fact, a careful raking together of everything
likely to give pain to his victim. It was not published
till 1751, when both Pope and Ilervcy were dead. In
his later writings he made references to Sappho, which
fixed tlie jiamc upon her, and amongst other pleasant ii:-

' Anotlier couplet in the second book of the Dunciad about " hap-
less Monsieur " and " Lady Maries," was also applied at the time to
Lady M. W. Monta<,'u: and Pope in a later note affects to deny, thus
really pointing the allusion. iJut the obvious meaning of the whole
passage is that "duchesses and Lady Maries" might be personated
by abandoned women, which would certainly be unpleasant for them,
but does not imply any imputation upon their character. If Ladv
Mary was really the author of a "Pop upon Pope" — a story of
Pope's supposed whipping in the vein of his own attack upon Den-
nis, she already considered him as the author of some scandal. The
line in the Dunciad was taken to allude to a story about a M. RemonU
which has been fully cleared up.

■' t.;)

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106

POPE.

[chap.

sinuations, speaks of a weakness which she shared with
Dr. Johnson — an inadequate appreciation of clean linen.
More malignant accusations are implied both in his ac-
knowledged and anonymous writings. The most fero-
cious of all his assaults, however, is the character of
Sporus, that is. Lord Hervey, in the epistle to Arbuthnot,
where he seems to be actually screaming with malignant
fury. He returns the taunts as to effeminacy, and calls
his adversary a " mere white curd of asses' milk," — an in-
nocent drink, which he was himself in the habit of con-

sum mg.

We turn gladly from these miserable hostilities, dis-
graceful to all concerned. Were anv excuse available for
Pope, it would be in the brutality of taunts, coming not
only from rough dwellers in Grub-street, but from the
most polished representatives of the highest classes, upon
personal defects, which the most ungenerous assailant
might surely have sfjared. But it must also be granted
that Pope was neither the last to give provocation, nor at
all inclined to refrain from the use of poisoned weapons.

The other connexion of which I have spoken has also
its mystery — like everything else in Pope's career. Pope
had been early acquainted with Teresa and Martha Blount.
Teresa was born in the same year as Pope, and Martha
two years later.' They wore daughters of Lister Blount,
of Mapledurham ; and after his death, in 17 10, and the
marriage of their only brother, in 1711, they lived with

' The statements as to the date of the acquaintance are contra-
dictory. Martha told Spcnce that she first knew Pope as a " very
little girl," but added that it was after the publication of the Essay
on Critkmn, when she was twenty-one ; and at another time, that
it was after he had begun the Iliad, which was later than part of the
published correspondence.

[CIIAP.

ir.]

POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

107

their mother in London, and passed much of the summer
near Twickenham. They seem to have been lively young
women who had been educated at Paris. Teresa was the
most relio-ious, and the greatest lover of London society.
I have already quoted a passage or two from the early
letters addressed to the two sisters. It has also to be said
that ho was guilty of writing to them stuff which it is in-
conceivable that any decent man should have communi-
cated to a modest woman. They do not seem to have
taken offence. lie professes himself the slave of both al-
ternately or together. "Even from my infancy," he says
(in 1714), " I liave been in love with one or other of you
week by week, and my journey to Bath fell out in the
376th week of the reign of my sovereign lady Sylvia.
At the present writing hereof, it is the 389th week of the
reign of your most serene majesty, in whose service I was
listed some weeks before I beheld your sister." He had
suggested to Lady Mary that the concluding lines of Moi-
sa contained a delicate compliment to her; and he char-
acteristically made a similar insinuation to Martha Blount
about the same passage. Pope was decidedly an econo-
mist even of his compliments. Some later letters arc in
less artificial language, and there is a really touching and
natural letter to Teresa in regard to an illness of her sis-
ter's. After a time, we find that soine difficulty has arisen.
He feels that his presence gives pain ; when he comes he
either makes her (apparently Teresa) uneasy, or he sees
iier unkind. Teresa, it would seem, is jealous, and disap-
proves of his attentions to Martha. Li the midst of this
we find that in 1717 Pope settled an annuity upon Teresa
of 40/. a year for six years, on condition of her not being
married during that time. The fact has suggested vari-
ous speculations, but was, perhaps, only a part of some

i . \

108

POPE.

[chap.

''^

•>

t M

Hir,

family arrangement, made convenient by the diminished
fortunes of the ladies. AVhatcver the history, Pope grad-
ually bceanic attached to Martha, and simultaneously came
to regard Teresa with antipathy. Martha, in fact, became
by degrees almost a member of his household. His cor-
respondents take for granted that she is his regular com-
panion. He writes of her to Gay, in 1780, as "a friend
— a woman friend, God help me! — with whom I have
spent three or four hours a day these tifteen years." In
his last years, when he was most dependent upon kind-
ness, he seems to have expected that she should be in-
vited to any house which he was himself to visit. Such a
close connexion naturally caused some scandal. In 1725
ho defends himself against " villanous lying tales " of
this kind to his old friend Caryll, with whom the Blounts
were connected. At the same time he is making bitter
complaints of Teresa. He accused her afterwards (1729)
of having an intrigue with a married man, of " strik-
ing, pinching, and abusing lier mother to the utmost
shamefulness." The mother, he thinks, is too meek to
resent this tyranny, and Martha, as it appears, refuses to
believe the reports against her sister. Pope audaciously
suggests that it would be a good thing if the mother
could be induced to retire to a convent, and is anxious to
persuade Martha to leave so painful a home. The same
complaints reappear in many letters, but the position re-
mained unaltered. It is im{)ossible to say with any cer-
tainty what may have been the real facts. P.'ne's mania
for suspicion deprives his suggestions of the slightest
value. The only inference to be drawn is, that he drew
closer to Martha Blount as years went by, and was anx-
ious that she should become independent of her fami-
ly. This naturally led to mutual dislike and suspicion,

[chap.

IV.]

POPE AT TWICKEXIIAM.

109

but nobody can now say whether Teresa pinclied her
niotlier, nor wliat would Jiave been her account of Martha's
relations to Pope.

Johnson repeats a story that Martha neglected Pope
" with shameful unkindness," in Ijis later years. It is
clearly exaggerated or quite unfounded. x\t any rate, the
poor sickly man, in his premature and childless old age,
looked up to her with fond affection, and left to hor nearly
the whole of his fortune. His biographers have indulged
in discussions— surely superfluous— as to the morality of
the connexion. There is no question of seduction, or of
tampering with the affections of an innocent woman.
Pope was hut too clearly disqualified from acting the part
of Lothario. There was not in his case any Vanessa to
give a tragic turn to the connexion, which otlierwise re-
sembled Swift's connexion with Stella. Miss Blount, from
all that appears, was quite capable of taking care of her-
self, and, Jiad she wished for marriage, need only have in-
timated her commands to her lover. It is probable
enough that the relations between them led to very un-
pleasant scenes in her family ; but she did not suffer oth-
erwise in accepting Pope's attentions. The probability
seems to be that the friendship had become imperceptibly
closer, and that what began as an idle affectation of gal-
lantry was slowly changed into a devoted attachment, but
not until Pope's health was so broken that marriage would
then, if not always, have appeared to be a mockery.

Poets have a bad reputation as husbands. Strong pas-
sions and keen sensibilities may easily disqualify a man
for domestic tranquillity, and prompt a revolt against rules
essential to social welfare. Pope, like other poets from
Shakspeare to Shelley, was unfortunate in liis love affairs;
but his ill-fortune took a characteristic shape. He was

I.;

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110

roPE.

[CHAP. IV.

.,/

(

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not carried away, like Byron and Burns, by overpowering
passions. Rather tlie emotional power which lay in his
nature was prevented from displaying itself by his physical
infirmities, and his strange trickincss and morbid irritabil-
ity. A man who could not make tea without a stratagem,
could hardly be a downright lover. We may imagine
that he would at once make advances and retract them ;
that he would be intolerably touchy and suspicious; that
every coolness would be interpreted as a deliberate insult,
and that the slightest hint would be enough to set his jeal-
ousy in a ilame. A woman would feel that, whatever his
genius and his genuine kindliness, one thing was imposei-
ble with him — that is, a real confidence in his sincerity ;
and therefore, on the whole, it may, perhaps, be reckoned
as a piece of good fortune for the most wayward and ex-
citable of sane mankind that, if he never fully gained the
most essential condition of all human happiness, he yet
formed a deep and lasting attachment to a woman who,
more or loss, returned his feeling. In a life so full of bit-
terness, so harassed by physical pain, one is glad to think,
even whilst admitting that the suffering was in great part
foolish self-torture, and in part inflicted as a retribution
for injuries to others, that some glow of feminine kindli-
ness might enlighten the dreary stages of his progress
through life. The years left to him after the death of his
mother were few and evil, and it would be hard to grudge
him such consolation as he could receive from the glances
of I'atty Blount's blue eyes — the eyes which, on Walpolc'a
testimouy, were the last remains of her beauty.

:il

111

^•iii

CIlArTER V.

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES,

In the Dunciad, publlslied soon after the Odyssey, Pope
laments ten years spent as a commentator and translator.
He was not without compensation. The drudgery— for
the latter part of his task must have been felt as drudgery
—once over, he found himself in a thoroughly independent
position, still on the right side of forty, and able to devote
his talents to any task which might please liim. The task
which he actually chose was not calculated to promote his
happiness. We must look back to an earlier period to ex-
plain its history. During the last years of Queen Anne,
Pope had belonged to a "little senate" in which Swift
was the chief figure. Though Swift did not exercise
either so gentle or so imperial a sway as Addison, the
cohesion between the more independent members of this
rival clique was strong and lasting. They amused them-
selves by projecting the Scriblerus Club, a body which
never had, it would seem, any definite organization, but
Avas held to exist for the prosecution of a design never
fully executed. Martinus Scriblerus was the name of an
imaginary pedant — a precursor and relative of Dr. Dryas-
dust — whose memoirs and works were to form a satire
upon stupidity in the guise of learning. The various
members of the club were to share in the compilation;
and if such joint-stock undertakings were practicable in
6 i-'l

112

roPE.

[chap.

literature, it would be difficult to collect a more brilliant
sot of contributors. After Swift — the terrible luunourist
of whom wo can hardly think without a mixtuio of hor-
ror and compassion — the chief members were Attcrbur}',
Arbuthnot, Gay, I'arnoU, and Pope himself. l*arnoll, an
amiable man, died in 1717, leaving works which were ed-
ited by I'opo in 1722. Attorbury, a potential AVolsoy or
Laud born in an uncongenial period, was a man of fine lit-
erary taste — a warm admirer of Milton (though he did ex-
hort I'opo to put Samson Af/onistes into civilised costume
— one of the most unlucky suggestions ever made by mor-
tal man), a judicious critic of Pope himself, and one who
had already given proofs of his capacity in literary warfare
by his share in the famous controversy with Bentley.
Though no one now doubts the measureless superiority of
Bentley, the clique of Swift and Pope still cherished the
belief that the wit of Attorbury and his allies had triumph-
ed over the ponderous learning of the pedant. Arbuthnot,
whom Swift had introduced to Pope as a man who could
do everything but walk, was an amiable and accomplished
physician. He was a strong Tory and High-Churchman,
and retired for a time to France upon the death of Anno
and the overthrow of his party. He returned, however, to
England, resumed his practice, and won Pope's warmest
gratitude by his skill and care. Ho was a man of learn-
ing, and had employed it in an attack upon Woodward's
geological speculations, as already savouring of heterodoxy.
Ho possessed also a vein of genuine humour, resembling
that of Swift, though it has rather lost its savour, perhaps,
because it was not salted by the Dean's misanthropic bit-
terness. If his good liumour weakened his wit, it gained
him the affections of his friends, and was never soured by
the sufferings of iiis later years. Finally, John Gay, though

[chap.

v.]

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

118

fat, lazy, and wanting in manliness of spirit, had an illim-
itable liow of good-tempered banter ; and if he could not
supply the learning of Arbuthnot, he could give what was
more valuable, touches of fresh natural simplicity, which
still explain the liking of his friends. Gay, as Johnson
says, was the general favourite of the wits, though a play-
fellow rather than a partner, and treated with more fond-
ness than respect. Pope seems to have loved him better
than any one, and was probably soothed by liis easy-going,
unsuspicious temper. They were of the same age; and
Gay, who had been apprenticed to a linen-draper, managed
to gain notice by his poetical talents, and was taken up by
various great people. Pope said of him that he wanted
independence of spirit, which is indeed obvious enough.
He would ha^e been a fitting inmate of Thomson's Castle
of Indolence. lie was one of those people who consider
that Providence is bound to put food into tiieir mouths
without giving them any trouble ; and, as sometimes hap-
pens, his draft upon the general system of things was hon-
oured, lie was made comfortable by various patrons; the
Duchess of Queensberry petted him in his later years, and
the duke kept his money for him. His friends chose to
make a grievance of the neglect of Government to add to
his comfort by a good place ; they encouraged him to re-
fuse the only place offored as not sufficiently dignified;
and he even became something of a martyr when his PoUij,
a sequel to the Beggars' Opera, was prohibited by the Lord
Chamberlain, and a good subscription made him ample
amends. Pope has immortalized the complaint by lament-
ing the fate of " neglected genius " in the Epistle to Ar-
buthnot, and declaring that the " sole return " of all Gay's
"blameless life" was

" My verse and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn."

) (

1 :i

114

POPE.

[chap.

:, I*,

Pope's alliance with Gay had various results. Gay con-
tinned the war with Ambrose I'hilips by writing burlesque
pastorals, of which Johnson truly says that they show "the
effect of reality and truth, even when the intention was to
show them orovollino- and deo'raded." Thev mav still be

c^ C^ ^ * *

olanced at with i>leasurc. Soon after the publication of
the mock pastorals, the two friends, in company with Ar-
buthnot, had made an adventure more in the spirit of the
Scriblcvus Club. A farce called Three Hours after Mar-
riage was produced and damned in IVIV. It was intend-
ed (amongst other things) to satirize Pope's old enemy
Dennis, called " Sir Tremendous," as an embodiment of
pedantic criticism, and Arbuthnot's old antagonist Wood-
ward. A taste for fossils, mummies or antiquities was at
that time regarded as a fair butt for unsparing ridicule ;
but the three great wits managed their assault so clumsily
as to become ridiculous themselves ; and Pope, as we shall
presently see, smarted as usual under failure.

After Swift's retirement to Ireland, and during Pope's
absorption in Homer, the Scriblerus Club languished.
Some fragments, rowevcr, of the great design were exe-
cuted by the four chief members, and the dormant project
was revived, after Pope had finished his Homer, on occasion
of the last two visits of Swift to England. lie passed six
months in England, from March to August, 1726, and had
brought with him the MS. of Gulliver's Travels, the great-
est satire produced by the Scriblerians. lie passed a great
part of his time at Twickenham, and in rambling with
Pope or Gay about the country. Those who do not know
how often the encounter of brilliant wits tends to neu-
tralize rather than stimulate their activity, may wish to
have been present at a dinner which took place at Twick-
enham on July 6, 1726, when the party was made up of

[chap.

^■]

THE WAR WITH THE DUXCES.

115

Pope, the most finished poet of the day ; Swift, the deep-
est humourist ; Bolingbrokc, the most brilliant politician ;
Congrevc, the wittiest writer of comedy ; and Gay, the au-
thor of the most successful burlesque. The envious may
console themselves by thinking that Pope very I'kely went
to sleep, that Swift was deaf and overbearing, that Con-
grevc and Bolingbroke were painfully witty, and Gay
frightened into siic.ce. When, in 1727, Swift again vis-
ited England, and stayed at Twickenham, the clouds were
gathering. The scene is set before us in some of Swift's
verses : —

"Pope has the talent well to speak,

But not to reacii tlie ear ;
His loudest voicu is low and weak,

The dean too deaf to I. ear.

" Awhile they on each other look,
Then different studies choose;
The dean sits plodding o'er a book,
Pope walks and courts the muse."

" Two sick friends," says Swift in a letter written after
his return to Ireland, " never did well togetlier." It is
plain that their infirmities had been mutually trying, and
on the last day of August Swift suddenly withdrew from
Twickenham, in spite of Pope's entreaties. He had heard
of the last illness of Stella, which was finally to crush liis
liappiness. Unable to civhu-o. the company of friends, he
went to London in very bad uoalth, and thence, after a
short stay, to Ireland, leaving behind him a letter which,
says Pope, " affected me so inuch that it made me like a
girl." It was a gloomy parting, and the last. The stern
Dean retired to die " like a poisoned rat in a hole," after
long years of bitterness, and finally of slow intellectual de-
cay. He always retained perfect confidence in his friend's

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aflfoction. Poor Pope, as ho says in the verses on his own

death, —

" Will grieve ii month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day;"

and they were the only friends to whom he attributes sin-
cere sorrow.

Meanwhile two volumes of Miscellanies, the joint work
of the four wits, appeared in June, 1727; and a third in
March, 1728. A fourth, hastily got up, was published in
1732. They do not appear to have been successful. The
copyright of the three volumes was <old for 225/., of which
Arbuthnot and Gay received each 50/., whilst the remain-
der was shared between I'ope and Swift ; and Swift seems
to have given his part, according to his custom, to the wid-
ow of a respectable Dublin bookseller. I'ope's correspond-
ence with the publisher shows that ho was entrusted with
the financial details, and arranged them with the sharpness
of a practised man of business. The whole collection was
made up in great part of old scraps, and savoured of book-
making, though Pope speaks complacently of the joint
volumes, in which lie says to Swift, " We look like friends,
side by side, serious and merry by turns, conversing inter-
changeably, and walking down, hand in hand, to posterity."
(Jf the various fragments contributed by Pope, there is
only one which need be mentioned here — the treatise on
Bathos in the third volume, in which he was helped by
Arbuthnot. He ^ Id Swift privately that he had " entire-
ly methodized and in a manner written it all," though lie
afterwards chose to denounce the very same statement as a
lie when the treatise brought him into trouble. It is the
most amusing of his prose writings, consisting essentially of
a collection of absurdities from various authors, with some
apparently invented for the occasion, such as the familiar

v.] THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES. 117

" Ye gods, annihilate but space and time,
And make two lovera happy !"

and ending witli the ingenious receipt to make an epic
poem. xMost of tlie passages ridiciiled—and, it must be
said, very deservedly— were selected from some of the va-
rious writers to whom, for one reason or another, lie owed
a grudge. Ambrose Philips and Dennis, liis old enemies,
and Theobald, who liad criticised his edition of Shak-
speare, supply several illustrations. Blackmore had spoken
very strongly of the immoraluy of the wits in some prose
essays; Swift's Tale oj 1 Tab, and a parody of tlie first
psalm, anonymously circulated, but known to be Pope's
had been severely condemned; and Pope took a cuttinc^
revenge by plentiful citations from Blackmore's most ludF-
crous bombast; and even Broome, his colleague in Homer,
came in for a passing stroke, for Broome and Pope were
now at enmity. Finally, Pope fired a general volley into
the whole crowd of bad authors by grouping them under
the head of various animals— tortoises, parrots, frogs, and so
forth— and adding under each head the initials of the per-
sons described. He had the audacity to declare that the ini-
tials were selected at random. If so, a marvellous coincidence
made nearly every pair of letters correspond to tlie name and
surname of some contemporary poetaster. The classification
was rather vague, but seems to have given special offence.
iMeanwnile Pope was planning a more elaborate cam-
paign against his adversaries. He now appeared for the
first time as a formal satirist, and the Dunciad, in which
he came forward as the champion of Wit, taken in its
broad sense, against its natural antithesis, Dulness, is in
some respects his masterpiece. It is addressed to Swift,
who probably assisted at some of its early stages. O thou,'
exclaims the poet —

118

POPE.

[chap.

til '

"0 thou, whatever title please thine ear,
l)ciii\, Drupier, IJickerstalT, or (Julliver !
WhetLier thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and sliake in Kabelais's easy-chair — "

And wc fot'l that Swift is present in spirit thront^hout
tlie composition. " Tlie grejtt fault of the Uunciad,''^ says
Warton, an intc'!io;cnt and certainly not an over- severe
critic, *' is tlio excessive vehemence of the satire. It has
been compared," ho adds, "to the geysers propelling; a vast
column of boiling watet by the force of subterranean iiro;"
and he speaks of some one who, after reading a book of
the Uunciad, always soothes himself by a canto of the
Faenj Queen. Certainly a greater contrast could not easily
be suggested; and yet I think that the remark requires at
least modification. The JJunciad, indeed, is, beyond all
question, full of coarse abuse. The second book, in par-
ticular, illustrates that strange delight in the physically dis-
gusting which Johnson notices as characteristic of I'opc
and his master. Swift. In the letter prefixed to the Dun-
ciad, Pope tries to justify his abuse of his enemies by the
example of Boilcau, whom he appears to have considered
as his great prototype. But Boilcau would have beun re-
volted by the brutal images which Pope does not hesitate
to introduce ; and it is a curious phenomenon that the
poet who is pre-eminently the representative of polished
society should openly take such pleasure in unmixed filth.
Polish is sometimes very thin. It lias been suggested that
Swift, who was with Pope during the composition, may
have been directly responsible for some of these brutalities.
At any rate, as I have said, Pope has here been working in
the Swift spirit, and this gives, I think, the key-note of his
Dunciad.

The geyser comparison is so far misleading that Pope

■^^!<m issmsiam~

'■*. ._

[CIIAP.

y-1

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

119

is not in his most spiteful mood. There is not that infu-
sion of personal venom which appears so stron<f|y in the
character of Sporus and similar passages. In readiii;^ thorn
wo fool that the poet is writhing' undor some hitter morti-
tieatiun, and trying with conoontratod malice to sting his
adversary in the tendcrost i)Iaces. AVe hear a tortured vic-
tim screaming out the shrillest taunts at his torujontor.
The abuse in the Dunciud is by comparison broad and
even jovial. The tone at which Pope is aiming is that
suggested by the " laughing and shaking in Kabolais's easy-
chair." It is meant to be a boisterous gutfaw from capa-
cious lungs, an enonnous explosion of superlative contempt
for the mob of stupid thick-skinned scribblers. They are
to be overwlielmed with gigantic cachinnations, ducked in
the dirtiest of drains, rolled over and over with rough horse-
play, pelted with the least savoury of rotten eggs, not skil-
fully anatomized or pierced with dexterously directed nee-
dles. Pope has really stood by too long, watching their
tiresome antics and receiving their taunts, and he must,
once for all, speak out and give them a lesson,

" Out with it, Dunciad ! lot the secret pass,
Tiiat secret to each fool— that lie's an ass !"

That is his account of his feelings in the prologue to the
Satires, and he answers the probah 'cmonstrance,

"You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,
No (•' ifurc smarts so httle as a fool."

To reconcile us to such laugliter, it should have a more
genial tone than Pope could tind in his nature. We ought
to fool, and we certainly do i ot feel, that after the joke has
been tired off there should be some possibility of reconcili-
ation, or, at least, we should tind some recognition of the
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120

POPE.

[chap.

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fact that the victims are not to be hated simply because
they were not such clever fellows as Pope. There is some-
thing cruel in Pope's laughter, as in Swift's. The missiles
are not mere filth, but are weighted with hard materials
that bruise and mangle, lie professes that his enemies
were the first aggressors, a plea which can be only true in
part; and he defends himself, feebly enough, against the
obvious charge that he has ridiculed men for beincf ob-
scure, poor, and stupid — faults not to be amended by satire,
nor rightfully provocative of enmity. In fact. Pope knows
in his better moments that a man is not necessarily wicked
because he sleeps on a bulk, or writes verses in a garret ;
but he also knows that to mention those facts will give his
enemies pain, and he cannot refrain from the use of so
handy a weapon.

Such faults make one half ashamed of confessinof to
reading the Dunciad with pleasure ; and yet it is frequent-
ly written with such force and freedom that we half par-
don the cruel little persecutor, and admire the vigour
with which he throws down the gauntlet to the natural
enemies of genius. The Dunciod is modelled upon the
Mac Flecknoe, in which Dryden celebrates the appoint-
ment of Elkanah Shadwell to succeed Flecknoe as mon-
arch of the realms of Dulncss, and describes the coro-
nation ceremonies. Pope imitates many passages, and
adopts the general design. Though he does not equal
the vigour of some of Dryden's lines, and wages war in
a more ungenerous spirit, the Dunciad has a wider scope
than its original, and shows Pope's command of his weap-
ons in occasional felicitous phrases, in the vigour of the ver-
sification, and in the general sense of form and clear pre-
sentation of the scene imagined. For a successor to the
great empire of Dulness he chose (in the original form of

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

121

the poem) the unlucky Theobald, a writer to whom the
merit is attributed of having first illustrated Shakspeare
by a study of the contemporary literature. In doing
this he had fallen foul of Pope, who could claim no such
merit for his own editorial work, and Pope, therefore, re-
garded him as a grovelling antiquarian. As such, he was
a fit pretender enough to the throne once occupied by
Settle. The Dunciad begins by a spirited description of
the goddess brooding in her cell upon the eve of a Lord
Mayor's day, when the proud scene was o'er,

" But lived in Settle's numbers one day more."

The predestined hero is meanwhile musing in his Goth-
ic library, and addresses a solemn invocation to Dnlness,
who accepts his sacrifice — a pile of his own works — trans-
ports him to her temple, and declares him to be the legit-
imate successor to the former rulers of her kingdom. The
second book describes the games lield in honour of the
new ruler. Some of them are, as a frank critic observes,
"beastly;" but a brief report of the least objectionable
may serve as a specimen of the whole performance.
Dulness, with her court descends

" To where Fleet Ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames,
The king of dykes than whom no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots tlie silver flood. —
Here strip, my cliiidren, hero at once leap in ;
Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin,
And wlio tlio most in love of dirt excel."

And, certainly by the poet's account, they all love it as
well as their bettors. The competitors in this contest
ave drawn from the unfortunates immersed in what War-
burton calls " the common sink of all such writers (as

\ ^im

'I ^

' •* i 1

I I j!1

122

POPE.

[ctap.

Ralph) — a political newspaper." They wore all hateful,
partly because they were on the side of Walpolc, and
therefore, by Pope's logic, unprincipled liirelings, and
more, because in that cause, as others, they had assault-
ed I'ope and his friend. There is Oldinixon, a hack writ-
er employed in compilations, who accused Atterbury of
falsifying Clarendon, and v.as accused of himself falsify-
ing historical documents in the interests of WhicfCfisin :
and Sniedlcy, an Irish clergyman, a special cnomy of
Swift's, who had just printed a collection of assaults
upon the miscellanies called Gulliveriana; and Concanen,
another Irishman, an ally of Theobald's, and (it may be
noted) of Warburton's, who attacked the Bathos, and re-
ceived — of course, for the worst services — an appointment
in Jamaica ; and Arnall, one of Walpole's most favoured
journalists, who was said to have received for himself or
others near 11,000/, in four years. Each dives in a way
supposed to be characteristic, Oldniixon with the pathetic
exclamation,

" And am I now threescore ?
Ah, why, ye gods, should two and two make four ?"

Concanen, "a cold, long-winded native of the deep,"
dives perseveringly, but without causing a ripple in the
stream :

" Not so bold Arnall — with a weight of skull
Furious he dives, precipitately dull,"

and ultimately emerges to claim the prize, "with half the
bottom on his head." But Smedley, who has been given
up for lost, comes up,

*' Shaking the horrors of his sable brows,"

and relates how he has been sucked in by the mud-nymphs,
and how they have shown him a branch of Styx which

v.]

THE WAR AVITII THE DUNCES.

123

here pours into the Thames, and diffuses its soporific va-
pours over the temple and its purlieus. He is solemnly
welcomed by Milbourn (a reverend antagonist of Dryden),
who tells him to " receive these robes which once were
mine,"

" Dulness is sacred in a sound divine."

The games are concluded in the second book; and in
the third the hero, sleeping in the Temple of Dulness,
meets in a vision the ghost of Settle, who reveals to liim
the future of his empire ; tells how Dulness is to over-
spread the world, and revive the triumphs of Goths and
monks; how the hated Dennis, and Gildon, and others,
are to overwhelm scorncrs, and set up at court, and pre-
side over arts and sciences, though a fit of temporary san-
ity causes him to give a warning to the deists—

" But learn, ye dunces ! not to scorn your God—"

and how posterity is to witness the decay of the stage,
under a deluge of silly farce, opera, and sensation dramas;
how bad architects are to deface the works of Wren and
Inigo Jones; whilst the universities and public schools
are to be given up to games and idleness, and the birch
is to be abolished.

Fragments of the prediction have not been entirely
falsified, though the last couplet intimates a hope :

" Enough ! enough ! the raptured monarch cries,
And through the ivory gate the vision flies."

The Dunciad was thus a declaration of war against the
whole tribe of scribblers ; and, like other such declara-
tions, it brouglit more consequences than Pope foresaw.
It introduced Pope to a very dangerous line of conduct.
Swift had written to Pope in 1725: "Take care that the

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124

POPE.

[chap.

bad poets do not outwit you, as they have served the good
ones in every age, whom they liave provoked to transmit
their names to posterity ;" and the Dunciad has been
generally censured from Swift's point of view. Satire,
it is said, is wasted upon such insignificant persons. To
this Pope might have replied, with some plausibility, that
the interest of satire must always depend upon its inter-
nal qualities, not upon our independent knowledge of its
object. Though Gildon and Arnall are forgotten, the type
" dunce " is eternal. The warfare, however, was demoral-
izing in another sense. Whatever may have been the in-
justice of Pope's attacks upon individuals, the moral stand-
ard of the Grub-street population was far from exalted.
The poor scribbler had too many temptations to sell him-
self, and to evade the occasional severity of the laws of
libel by humiliating contrivances. Moreover, the uncer-
tainty of the law of copyright encouraged the lower class
of booksellers to undertake all kinds of piratical enter-
prises, and to trade in various ways upon the fame of
well-known authors, by attributing trash to them, or pur-
loining and publishing what the authors would have sup-
pressed. Dublin was to London what New York is now,
and successful books were at once reproduced in Ireland.
Thus the lower strata of the literary class frequently prac-
tised with impunity all manner of more or less discredit-
able trickery, and Pope, with his morbid propensity for
mystification, was only too apt a pupil in such arts.
Though the tone of his public utterances was always of
the loftiest, he was like a civilized commander who, in
carrying on a war with savages, finds it convenient to
adopt the practices which he professes to disapprove.

The whole publication of the Dunciad was surround-
ed with tricks, intended partly to evade possible conse-

v.]

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

126

quonces, and partly to excite public interest, or to cause
amusement at tlie expense of tlie bewildered victims.
Part of the plot was concerted with Swift, who, however,
does not appear to have been qr.itc in the secret. The
complete poem was intended to appear with an elaborate
mock commentary by Scriblerus, explaining some of the al-
hisions, and with " proeme, prolegomena, testinionia scrip-
torum, index auctorum, and nota) variorum." In the, first
instance, however, it appeared in a mangled form without
this burlesque apparatus or the lines to Swift. Four
editions were issued ia this form in 1728, and with a
mock notice from tlie publisher, expressing a hope that
the autlior would be provoked to give a more perfect edi-
tion. This, accordingly, appeared in 1729. Pope seems
to have been partly led to this device by a principle which
he avowed to Warburton. When he had anything spe-
cially sharp to say he kept it for a second edition, where
it would, he thought, pass with less offence. But he may
also have been under the impression that all the mystery
of apparently spurious editions would excite public curi-
osity. He adopted other devices for avoiding unpleasant
consequences. It was possible that his victims might ap-
peal to the law. In order to throw dust in their eyes,
two editions appeared in Dublin and London— the Dublin
edition professing to be a reprint from a London edition,
whilst the London edition professed in the same way to
be the reprint of a Dublin edition. To oppose another
obstacle to prosecutors, lie assigned the Bunciad to three
noblemcn--Lords Bathurst, Burlington, and Oxford— who
transferred their right to Pope's publisher. Pope would
be sheltered behind these responsible persons, and an ag-
grieved person might be slower to attack persons of hiijii
position and property. By yet another device Pope ap-

. 1 ^

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126

POPE.

[chap.

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plied for an injunction in Chancery to suppress a piratical
London edition ; but ensured the failure of his applica-
tion by not supplying the necessary proofs of property.
This trick, repeated, as we shall see, on another occasion,
was intended either to shirk responsibility or to increase
the notoriety of the book. A further mystification was
equally characteristic. To the Dunciad in its enlarged
form is prefixed a letter, really written by Pope himself,
but praising his morality and genius, and justifying his
satire in terms which would have been absurd in Pope's
own mouth. lie therefore induced a Major Cleland, a
retired officer of some position, to put his name to the
letter, which it is possible that he may have partly written.
The device was transparent, and only brought ridicule
upon its author. Finally, Pope published an account of
the publication in the name of Savage, known by John-
son's biography, who seems to have been a humble ally
of the great man — at once a convenient source of informa-
tion and a tool for carrying on this underground warfara,
Pope afterwards incorporated this statement — -which waii
meant to prove, by some palpable falsehoods, that the
dunces had not been the aggressors — in his own notes,
without Savage's name. This labyrinth of unworthy de-
vices was more or less visible to Pope's antagonists. It
might i'l some degree be excusable as a huge practical
joke, absurdly elaborate for the purpose^ but it led Pope
into some slippery ways, where no such excuse is avail-
able.

Pope, Johnson, contemplated liis victory over the

dunces \ a great exultation. Through his mouth-piece.
Savage, he described the scene on the day of publication ;
how a crowd of authors besieged the shop and threatened
him with violence ; how the booksellers and hawkcra

[chap.

v.]

TllK WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

127

Struggled with small success for copies ; how the dunces
formed clubs to devise measures of retaliation ; how one
wrote to ministers to denounce Pope as a traitor, and an-
other brought an image in clay to execute liim in effigy;
and how successive editions, genuine and spurious, follow-
ed each other, distinguished by an owl or an ass on the
frontispiece, and provoking infinite controversy amongst
nval vendors. It is unpleasant to have ugly names hurfed
at one by the first writer of the day; but the abuse was
for the most part too general to be libellous. Nor would
there be any great interest now in exactly distributing the
blame between Pope and his enemies. A word or'' two
may be said of one of the most conspicuous quarrels.

Aaron Hill was a fussy and ambitious person, full of
literary and other schemes; devising a plan for extracting
oil from beech-nuts, and writing a Pindaric ode on the
occasion; foiling forests in the Highlands to provide tim-
ber for the navy; and, as might be inferred, spending
instead ot making a fortune. He was a stage -manager,
translated Voltaire's Merope, wrote words for Handel's
first composition in England, wrote unsuccessful plays, a
quantity of unreadable poetry, and corresponded with
most of the literary celebrities. Pope put his initials,
A. II., under the head of - Flying Fishes," in the Bathos,
as authors who now and then rise upon their fins and fly,
but soon drop again to the profound, i i the Dunciad he
reappeared amongst the divers.

" Then * * tried, but hardly snatch'd from sight
Instant buoys up, and rises into light :
lie bears no token of the sable streams,
And mounts far oif amongst the swans of Thames."

A note^ ar plied the lines to Hill, with whom he had had a

128

POPE.

[ciiAP.

'if

'(I

former inisundcrstandinir. Hill replied to these assaults
by a ponderous satire in verse upon " tuneful Alexis ;" it
had, liowcver, some tolerable lines at the opening-, imi-
tated from Pope's own verses upon Addison, and attrib-
uting to him the same jealousy of merit in others. Hill
soon afterwards wrote a civil note to Pope, complaining
of the passage in the Dicnciud. Pope might have relied
upon the really satisfactory answer that the lines were, on
the whole, complimentary ; indeed, more complimentary
than true. But with his natural propensity for lying, he
resorted to his old devices. In answer to this and a sub-
sequent letter, in which Hill retorted with unanswerable
force, Pope went on to declare that he was not the author
of the notes, that the extracts had been chosen at random,
that he would " use his influence with the editors of the
Dunciad to get the notes altered i" and, finally, by an in-
genious evasion, pointed out that the blank in the Dunciad
required to be filled up by a dissyllable. This, in the
form of the lines as quoted above, is quite true, but in the
first edition of the Dunciad the first verse had been

'H-

tricd the next, but hardly snatch'd from sight."

Hill did not detect this specimen of what Pope somewhere
calls " pretty genteel equivocation." He was reconciled to
Pope, and taught the poor poet by experience that his
friendship was worse than his enmity. He wrote him let-
ters of criticism ; he forced poor Pope to negotiate for
him with manao'crs and to brino: distinrjuishcd friends to
the performances of his dreary plaj's ; nay, to read througli,
or to say that he had read through, one of them in manu-
script four times, and make corrections mixed with elabo-
rate eulogy. No doubt Pope came to regard a letter from
Hill with terror, though Hill compared him to Horace and

[CIUP.

v.]

THE WAIl WITU THE DUNCES.

129

Juvenal, and liopod tliat lie would live till the virtues
wluch his spirit would propagate became as general as the
esteem of his genius. In short, Hill, who was a florid flat-
terer, IS so complimentary that wc arc not surprised to
find^him telling Richardson, after Pope's death, that the
poet's popularity was due to a certain " bladdery swell of
management." "But," he concludes, "rest his memory
in peace ! It will very rarely be disturbed by that time lie
himself is ashes."

Th: war raged for some time. Dennis, Smedley, xMoore-
Smytlie,Welsted, and others, retorted bv various pamphlets
the names of which were published bv Pope in an appen-
dix to future editions of the Dunciad, by wav of proving
that his own blows had told. Lady Marv was credited
perhaps unjustly, with an abusive performance called a
"Pop upon Pope," relating how Pope had been soundly
whipped by a couple of his victims-of course a pure fic-
tion. Some such vengeance, however, was seriously threat-
ened. As Pope was dining one day at Lord Bathurst's,
the servant brought in the agreeable message that a younc
man was waiting for Mr. Pope in the lane outside, and
that the young man's name was Dennis. He was the son
of the critic, and prepared to avenge his father's wrongs;
but Bathurst persuaded him to retire, without the glory^of
thrashing a cripple. Reports of such possibilities were
circulated, and Pope thought it prudent to walk out with
his big Danish dog Bounce and a pair of pistols. Spence
tried to pe^suade the little man not to go out alone, but
Pope declared that he would not go a step out of his way
for such villains, and that it was better to die tlian to live
in fear of them. He continued, indeed, to give fresh prov-
ocation. A weekly paper, called the Grnh-street Journal,
was started in January, 1730, and continued to appear till

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POPE.

[chap.

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the end of 1737. It included a continuous scries of cpi-
i>;ranis and abuse, in the Scriblerian vein, and aimed against
the heroes of the Bunciad, amongst whom poor James
Moore -Smythe seems to have had the largest share of
abuse. It was impossible, however, for Pope, busied as he
was in literature and society, and constantly out of health,
to l)e the efficient editor of such a performance; but
though ho denied having any concern in it, it is equally
out of the question that any one really unconnected with
Pope should have taken up the huge burden of his quar-
rels in this fashion. Though ho concealed, and on occa-
sions denied his connexion, he no doubt inspired the edi-
tors and contributed articles to its pages, especially during
its early years. It is a singular fact — or, rather, it would
have been singular, had Pope been a man of less abnormal
character — lli.it he should have devoted so much energy to
this paltry subterranean warfare against the objects of his
complex antipathies. Pope was so anxious for conceal-
ment, that he kept his secret even from his friendly legal
adviser, Fortescue; and Fortescue innocently requested
Pope to get up evidence to support a charge of libel
against his own organ. The evidence which Pope collect-
ed — in defence of a quack-doctor, Ward — was not, as we
may suppose, very valuable. Two volumes of the Grub-
street Journal were printed in 1737, and a fragment or
two was admitted by Pope into his works. It is said, in
the preface to the collected pieces, that the journal was
killed by the growing popularity of the Gentleman^' Macj-
azine, which is accused of living by plunder. But in truth
the reader v.'ill infer that, if the selection includes the best
pieces, the journal may well have died from congenital
weakness.

The Dunciad was yet to go through a transformation,

[chap.

li,'

v.]

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

131

and to lead to a new quarrel; and though this happened
at a much later period, it will be most convenient to com-
plete the story here. Pope had formed an alliance with
Warburton, of which I shall presently have to speak ; and
it was under Warburton's influence that he resolved to add
a fourth book to the Dunciad. This supplement seems to
liave been really made up of fragments provided for anoth-
er scheme. The Essay on Man — to be presently men-
tioned — was to be followed by a kind of poetical essay
upon the nature and limits of the human understanding,
and a satire upon the misapplication of the serious facul-
ties.* It was a design manifestly beyond the author's
powers; and even the fragment which is turned into the
fourth book of the Danciad takes him plainly out of his
depth. He was no philosopher, and therefore an incom-
petent assailant of the abuses of philosophy. The fourth
book consists chiefly of ridicule upon pedagogues who
teach words instead of tilings; upon the unlucky "vir-
tuosos" who care for old medals, plants, and butterHies —
pursuits which afforded an unceasing supply of ridicule to
the essayists of the time ; a denunciation of the corruption
of modern youth, who learn nothing but new forms of
vice in the grand tour; and a fresh assault upon Toland,
Tindal, and other freethinkers of the day. There were
some passages marked by Pope's usual dexterity, but the
whole i^ awkwardly constructed, a'ld hrs no very intelligi-
ble connexion with the first part. It was highly admired
at the time, and, amongst others, by Gray. He specially
praises a passage which has often been quoted as repre-
senting Pope's highest achievement in liis art. At the
conclusion the goddess Dulness yawns, and a blight falls

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m> mm

' See Pope to Swiff, March 25, \TM^.

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182

POPE.

[chap.

npoji art, science, and pliilosopliy. I quote the lines,
wliicli Tope himself could not repeat without emotion,
and which have received the liij^hest eulogies from John-
son and Thackerav.

" In vain, in vain— thf all-composing Hour
Ki'sistloss falls; the Miiso obeys tiio Power —
SiiL- t'onu's 1 she comes ! the sable tlirone behold
Of night primeval and of chaos old I
Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The n.oteor drops, ami in a Hash expires.
As one liy one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain i,
As Argus' eyes by Ilernics' wand oppress'd
Closed one by one to everlasting rest ;
Thus at her felt approach, and secret niight,
Art after art goes ovit, and all is niglit.
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of casuistry heaped "'er her head I
rhilosophy, that Ican'd on hca n before,
Slirinks to hi^r second cause, and is no more.
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence.
And Meta])liysic calls for aid on Sense!
See Mystery to Mathematics fly!
In vain ! They gaze, turn giildy, rave, and die.
Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.
Nor public Dame, nor private, dares to shine;
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread cm|)ire, Chaos ! is restored;
Light dies belVn'c thy uncrcating word ;
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all."

The n. 'St conspicuous figure in this new Dunciad (pub-
lished March, lV-42), is Bentley — taken as the representa-

[riiAP.

v.]

THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

138

tivo of po.liint rampant. Bcntlcy is, I think, tlio oii'y
man of mil genius uf whom I'opo has spoken in Unus
implyinj,^ gross misappreciation. W ith all his faults, I'opo
was a really fine judi,fc of literature, and has made fewer
blunders than such men as Addison, Gray, and Jolinson,
infinitely superior to him in generosity of feeling towards
the living, lie could oven appreciate Bentley, and had
written, in his copy of Bcntky's Milton, ''J'ulchre, bene,
recte,'' against some of the happier emendations in the
great critic's most unsuccessful performance. The assault
in the Dunckul is not the less unsparing and ignoranlly
contemptuou.s of scholarship. The explanation is easy.
Bentley, who had spoken contemptuously of Pope's Ho-
mer, said of Pope, " the portentous cub never forgives."
But this was not all. Bentley had provoked enemies bv
his intense pugnacity almost as freely as Pope by his sneak-
ing malice. Sv.;:r and Atterbury, objects of I'upe's friend-
ly admiratio 1, had ..i-n his antagonists, and Pope would
naturally ac. ept tiieir lew of his merits. And, moreover,
I'ope's great H.iy of ♦; is period had a dislike of his own
to Bentley. P .iley had said of Warburton that he was
a man of monstrous appetite and })ad digestion. The re-
mark hit Warburton's most obvious weakness. Warbur-
ton, with his imperfect scholarship, and vast masses of
badly assimilated learning, was jealous of the reputation
of the thoroughly trained and accurate critic. It was the
dislike of a charlatan for the excellence which he endeav-
oured to simulate. Bolingbroke, it may be added, was
equally contemptuous in liis language about men of learn-
ing, and for much the same reason. He depreciated whAt'
he could not rival. Pope, always under the influence of
some stronger companions, naturally adopted their shallow
prejudices, and recklessly abused a writer who should have

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134

POPE.

[chap.

been rccotrnized as amongst the most effective combatants
against dulness.

Bentloy died a few months after the publication of the
Dunciad. But Pope found a living antagonist, who suc-
ceeded in giving him pain enough to gratify the vilified
dunces. This was CoUey Gibber — most lively and mercu-
rial of actors — author of some successful plays, with too lit-
tle stuff in them for permanence, and of an Apology for
his own Life, which is still exccedincjlv amusinc: as well as
useful for the history of the stage. He was now approaching
seventy, though he was to survive Pope for thirteen years,
and as good-tempered a specimen of the lively, if not too
particular, old man of the world as could well have been
found. Pope owed him a grudge. Gibber, in playing
the Rehearsal, had introduced some ridicule of the un-
lucky Three Hours after Marriage. Pope, he says, came
behind the scenes foaming and choking with fury, and for-
bidding Gibber ever to repeat the insult. Gibber laughed
at him, said that he would repeat it as long as the Rehear-
sal was performed, and kept his word. Pope took his re-
venge by many incidental hits at Gibber, and Gibber made
a good-humoured reference to this abuse in the Apology.
Hereupon Pope, in the new Dunciad, described him as
reclining on the lap of the goddess, and added various
personalities in the notes. Gibber straightway published
a letter to Pope, the more cutting because still in perfect
good-humour, and told the story about the original quar-
rel, lie added an irritating anecdote in order to provoke
the poet still further. It described Pope as :'ntroduced
by Gibber and Lord Warwick to very bad company. The
story was one which could only be told. by a graceless old
representative of the old school of comedy, but it iiit its
mark. The two Richardsons once found Pope reading

v.]

TUE WAR WITH THE DUXCES.

135

ings are

one of Gibber's pamphlets. IIo said, "Those th„.^

my diversion ;" but they saw his features writliing with
anguisli, and young Richardson, as they went lionTc, ob-
served to liis father that ho hoped to be preserved from
such diversions as Pope liad enjoyed. The poet resolved
to avenge himself, and he did it to the lasting injury of
his poem. lie dethroned Theobald, who, as a plodding
antiquarian, was an excellent exponent of dulness, and in"^
stalled Gibber in his place, who might be a representative
of folly, but was as little of a dullard as iVpe himself.
The consequent alterations make the hero of the poem a
thoroughly incongruous figure, and greatly injure the gen-
eral design. The poem appeared in this form in 174;3,
with a ponderous prefatory discourse by Ricardus Aris-
tarchus, contributed by the faithful Warburton, and illus-
trating his ponderous vein of clephanjne pleasantry.

Pope was nearing the grave, and many of his Victims
had gone before him. It was a melancholy employment
for an invalid, breaking down visibly month by month ;
and one might fancy tliat the -niinent Christian divine
might have used his influence to better purpose than in
fanning the dying flame, and adding the strokes of his
bludgeon to the keen stabs of Pope's stiletto. In the
fourteen years wliich liad elapsed since the first Bunciad,
Pope had found less unworthy employment for his pen;
but, before dealing with the works produced at this time,'
which include some of his highest achievements, I must
tell a story which is in some ways a natural supplement
to the war with the dunces. In describing Pope's en-
tangled history, it seems most convenient to follow each
separate line of discharge of his nmltifarious energy, rath-
er than to adhere to chronological order.
K 7

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CHAPTER VI.'

CORRESPONDENCE.

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I HAVE now to describe one of the .-nost singular series
of transactions to be found in tlie annals of literature. A
complete knowledge uf their various details has only been
obtained by recent researches. 1 Cc^nnot follow within my
limits of space all the ins and ouis of the complicated
labyrinth of more than diplomatic trickery which those
researches have revealed, though 1 hope to render the main
facts sufficiently intelligible. It is painful to track the
strange deceptions of a man of genius as a detective un-
ravels the misdeeds of an accomplished swindler; but with-
out telling the story at some length, it is impossible to give
a faithful exhibition of Pope's character.

In the year 1720, when Pope had just finished his la-
bours upon Homer, Curll published the juvenile letters to
Cromwell. There was no mystery about this transaction.
Curll was the chief of all piratical booksellers, and versed
in every dirty trick of the Grub-street trade. He is de-
scribed in that mad book, Amory's John Bunch, as tall, thin,
ungainly, white-faced, with light grey goggle eyes, purblind,

' The evidence by which the statements in this chapter are sup-
potted is fully set forth in Mr. Elwin's edition of Pope's Worlis, Vol.
I., and in the notes to tlie Orrery Correspondence in the third volume
of letters.

CHAP. VI.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

137

splay-footed, and " baker-kneed." Accordinij to the same
queer authority, wlio professes to have lodged in Curll's
house, he was drunk as often as he could drink for noth-
ing, and intimate in every London haunt of vice. " His
translators lay three in a bed at the Pewter Platter Inn in
Ilolborn," and helped to compile his indecent, piratical, and
catchpenny productions. He had lost his eara for some
obscene publication ; but Amory adds, *■ to his glory,"
that he died " as great a penitent as ever expired." He
had one strong point as an antagonist. Having no char-
acter to lose, he could reveal his own practices without a
blush, if the revelation injured others.

Pope had already con)e into collision ^^th this awkward
antagonist. In 1710 Curll threatened to publish the Toton
.Eclogues, burlesques upon Ambrose Philips, written by
Lady Mary, with the help of Pope and perhaps Gay. I'ope,
with Lintot, had a meeting with Curll in the hopes of
suppressing a publication calculated to injure his friends.
The party h?d some wine, and Curll, on going home, was
very sick. He declared— and there are reasons for believ-
ing his story — that Pope had given him an emetic by way
of coarse practical joke. Pope, at any rate, took advantage
of the accident to write a couple of squibs upon Curll, re-
cording the bookseller's ravings under the action of the
drug, as he had described the ravings of Dennis provoked
by Cato. Curll had his revenge afterwards; but mean-
while he wanted no extraneous motive to induce him to
publish the Cromwell letters. Cromwell had given the
letters to a mistress, who fell into distress and sold -iliera
to Curll for ten guineas.

The correspondence was received with some favout, and
suggested to Pope a new mode of gratifying his vao'^y.
An occasion soon offered itself. Theobald, the hera of

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138

POPE.

[chap.

the Dunciad, edited in 1728 the posthumous works of
"VVychcrloy. Pope extracted from tliis circiunstance a far-
fetched excuse for publisiiing \,'.,c Wyclicrloy correspond-
ence. He said that it was due to Wycherlcy's memory to
prove, by the publication of tlieir correspondence, tliat tlie
posthumous publication of the works was opposed to their
author's wishes. As a matter of fact, the letters have no
tendency to prove anything of the kind, or, rather, they
support the opposite theory ; but poor Pope was always a
liand-to-mouth liar, and took the first pretext that offered,
without caring for consistency or confirmation. His next
step was to write to his friend. Lord Oxford, son of Quaen
Anne's minister. Oxford was !>, weak, good-natured man.
By cultivating a variety of expensive tastes, without the
knowledge to guide them, he managed to run through a
splendid fortune and die in embarrassment. Ilis famous
library was one of his special hobbies. Pope now applied
to him to allow the Wycherley letters to be deposited in
the library, and further requested that t!ie fact of their be-
ing in this quasi-public place might be mentioned in the
preface as a guarantee of their authenticity. Oxford con-
sented, and Po{)e quietly took a further step without au-
thority, lie told Oxford that he had decided to make his
publishers say that copies of the letters had been obtained
from Lord Oxford. He told the same story to Swift,
speaking of the "connivance" of l)is noble friend, and
adding that, though he did not himself "much approve"
of the publication, he was^ not ashamed of it. lie thus in-
geniously intimated that the correspondence, which he had
himself carefully prepared and sent to press, had been
printed without his consent by the oflicious zeal of Oxford
and t!i(! booksellers.

The book (which was called the second voknne of Wych-

VI]

CORRESPONDENCE.

139

eriey's works) has entirely disappeared. It was advertised
at the time, but not a single copy is known to exist. One
cause of this disappearance now appears to be that it had
no sale at first, and that Pope preserved the sheets for use
in a more elaborate device which followed. Oxford prob-
ably objected to the misuse of his name, as the fiction
which made him responsible was afterwards dropped.
Pope found, or thought that he hud found, on the next oc-
casion, a more convenient cat's-paw. Curl), it could not
be doubted, would snatch at any chance of publishing more
correspondence ; and, as Pope was anxious to have his let-
ters stolen and Curll was ready to steal, the one thing nec-
essary was a convenient go-between, who could be disown-
ed or altogether concealed. Pope went systcmaticallv to
work. He began by writing to his friends, begging tliem
to return his letters. After Curll's piracy, he declared, he
could not feel himself safe, and should be unhappy till he
had the letters in his own custody. Letters were sent in,
though in some cases with reluctance; and Caryll, in par-
ticular, who had the largest number, privately took copies
before returning them (a measure which ukinuitely secured
the detection of many of Pope's manoeuvres). This, how-
ever, was unknown to Pope. He had the letters copied
out; after (according to his own stating) burning three-
fourths of them, and (as we are now aware) carefully edit-
ing the remainder, he had tlie copy deposited in Lord Ox-
ford's library. His object was, as he said, pnrtly to have
documents ready in case of the revival of scandals, and
partly to preserve the memory of hk friendships. The
next point was to get these letters stolen. For this pur-
pose he created a man of straw, a mysterious " P. T.," who
could be personated on occasion by some of the underlings
employ d in the underground transactions connected witli

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140

POPE.

[chap.

the Dunciad and the Grub-street Journal. P. T. began
by writinnr to Curll in 17:33, and offering to sell liim a col-
lection of I'ope's letters. The negotiation went off for a
time, because P. T. insisted upon CurlTs first committing
himself hy publishing an advertisement, declaring himself
to be already in possession of the originals. Curll was too
wary to commit himself to such a statement, which would
liave made Kr.n responsible for the theft ! or, perhaps, have
justified Pope in publishing the originals in self-defenop.
The miWUn- slept till March, 1735, wi-.e?; Curll wrote to
Pope pr()j)osing a cessation of hostilities, nnd as a proof of
good-will sending him the oil P. T. ■.dvorli iemesit. Thh
step fell in so happily with Pope's designs that it has been
suggested that Curll was prompted in some indirect man-
ner by one of Pope's a^^cnts. l*ope, at any rate, turned it
to account. He at once published an insulting advertise-
ment. Curll (!i:' said in vliis aianit'estoj had pretendod to
liavi' had the offer from P. T. )f a largo c ^llectioa of
Pope's letters; Pope knew nothing of 1M\, believed the
I >tters to h<i forgeries, and would take no more trouble in
tiio matter. Whilst Curll was presumably smarting under
this Rujnmary slap on the face, the insidious P. T. stepped
in onci; more. P. T. now said that he was in possession
of the printed sheets of the corres{f..ndence, and the nego-
tiation went on swimmingly. Curl! put out the required
advertisement; a '* short, squat " mnn, in a clergyman's
gown and with barrister's bands, calling himself Smythe,
came to his house at night as ]*, T.'s agent, and showed
liim some printed sheets and original letters; the bargain
was struck ; 240 copies of the book were delivered, and it
Avas published on May 12.

So far the plot had succeeded. Pope, had printed his
own correspondence, and had trickct^ Cur.-' into publishino-

'SShiH

VT.]

CORRESrONDEXCE.

141

he book piratically, wl.ilst the public was quite prepared
to behove that Curll had perfonncd a new piratical feat
1 ope however, was now bound to shriek as loudly as he
could at the outra.se under which he was sufferini; He
should have been prepared also to answer an obvious" ques-
tion, tvery one would naturally inquire how Curll had
procured the letters, which by Pope's own account were
safely deposited in Lord Oxford's librarv. Without as it
would sccni, properly weig-hino. the difficult v of nie'etincr
this demand, Pope called out loudly for venirJance. When
ihoDanaad appeared, he had applied (as I have said) for
an injunction in Chancery, and had at the same time se-
cured the failure of his application. The same device was
tried in a still more imposing fashion. The House of
Lords liad recently decided that it was a breach of privi-
lege to publish a peer's letters without his consent. Pone
availed himself of this rule to fire the most sounding of
blank shots across the path of the piratical Curll. He was
as anxious to allow the publication, as to demand its sup-
pression in the most emphatic manner. Accordino-Iy ho
got his friend. Lord Hay, to call the attention of the^.eers
to Curll s advertisement, which was so worded as to imply
that there were in the book letters from, as well as t,)
peers. Pope liimself attended the house "to stimulate
the resentment of his friends." The book was at once
seized by a messenger, and Curll ordered to attend the
next day. Hut on examination it immcdiatelv turned out
that It contained no letters from peers, and the whole
farce would have ended at once but for a further trick
Lord Hay said that a certain letter to Jervas contained a
refiect.on upon Lord Burlington. Now the letter was
found m a first batch of fifty copies sent to Curll, and
which had been sold before the appearance of the Lords'

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POPE.

[chap.

messenger

But the letter liaJ been suppressed in a sec-
ond batch of 190 copies, which the messenger was just in
time to seize. I'ope had of course foreseen and prepared
this result.

The whole proceeding in the Lords was thus rendered
abortive. The books were restored to Curl), and the sale
continued. J5ut the device meanwhile had recoiled upon
its author ; the very danger against which he should have
guarded himself had now occurred, llow were the letters
procured ? Not till Curll was coming up for examination
does it seem to have occurred to Pope that the Lords
would inevitably ask the awkward question, lie then
saw that CurlTs answer might lead to a discovery, lie
wrote a letter to Curll (in Smythe's name) intended to
meet the difficulty, lie entreated Curll to take the whole
of the responsibility of procuring the letters upon himself,
and by way of inducement held out hopes of another vol-
ume of correspondence. In a second note he tried to
throw Curll otf the scent of another significant little fact.
The sheets (as I have mentioned) were partly made up
from the volume of Wychcrley correspondence;' this
would give a clue to further inquiries; P. T. therefore al-
lowed Smythe to say (ostensibly to show his confidence in
Curll) that he (P. T.) had been employed in getting up
the former volume, and had had some additional sheets
struck otf for himself, to which he had added letters sub-
sequently obtained. The letter was a signal blunder.
Curll saw at once that it put the game in his hands, lie
was not going to tell lies to please the slippery P. T., or
the short s(|uat lawyer-clergyman. He had begun to see

• Tliis is proved by a note referring to " no present edition of the
postliunious worivs of Mr. Wychcrley," which, by an oversight, was
allowed to remain in the Curll volume.

VI.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

148

through the whole manoeuvre, lie went straight off to
the Lords' committee, told the whole story, and produced
as a voucher the letters in which P. T. begged for secrecy.
CurlTs word was good for little by itself, but his story
hung together, and the letter confirniod it. And if, as now
seemed clear, Curll was speaking the truth, the question
remained, who was P. T., and how did he get the letters?
The answer, as Pope must have felt, was only too clear.

But Curll now took the offensive. In reply to another
letter from Smythe, complaining of his evidence, he went
roundly to work; he said that he should at once publish
all the correspondence. P. T. had prudently asked for
the return of his letters; but Curll had kept copies, and
was prepared to swear to their fidelity. Accordingly lie
soon advertised what was called the Initial Correspondence.
Pope was now caught in his own trap, lle'had tried to
avert suspicion by publicly offering a reward to Smythe
and P. T., if they would " discover the whole affair."
The letters, as he admitted, must have been procured either
from his own library or from Lord Oxford's. The corre-
spondence to be published by Curll would help to identify
the mysterious appropriators, and whatever excuses could
be made ought now to be forthcoming. Pope adopted a
singular plan. It was announced that the clergyman con-
cerned with P. T. and Curll had "discovered the whole
transaction." A narrative was forthwith published to an-
ticipate Curll and to clear up the mystery. If good for
anything, it should have given, or helped to give, the key
to the great puzzle — the mode of obtaining the letters.
There was nothing else for Smythe or P. T. to " discover."
Readers must have been strangely disappointed on finding
not a single word to throw light upon this subject, and

merely a long account of the negotiations between Curll
7* ?3

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144

POPE.

[chap.

! V

and 1'. T. The narrative nii<,'lit serve to distract attention
from the main point, which it cle.'irly did imtliing to ehi-
cidato. Jiiit Cnrll now stated his own case. Jle reprint-
ed the narrative witii some pungent notes; lie ffn\o in
full some letters omitted by V. T., and ho added a story
N\ liich was most unpleasantly signiticant. 1'. T. liad spo-
ken, as I have said, of his coimexion with the Wycherley
volume. The object of this statement was to get rid of
v^kward bit of evidence. But Curll now announced,
II the authority of Gilliver, the publisher of the volume,
that Pope liad himself bought up the remaining sheets.
The inference was clear. Uulcss the story could be t on-
tradicted, and it never wa>, Pope was himself the thief.
The sheets common to the two volumes had been traced
to his possess', ^scr tvas thoro a word in the P. T. nar-

rative to diminish the force of these presumptions. In-
deed it was curiously inconsistent, for it vaguely accused
Curll of stealing the letters himself, whilst in the same
breath it told how he bad bought them from 1', T. In
fact, P. T. was beginning to resolve himself into thin air,
like the phantom in the Dnnciail. As lie vanished, it re-
([uired no great acuteness to distinguish behind him the
features of his ingenious creator. It was already believed
at the time that the whole atfair was an elaborate contriv-
aiicc of Pope's, and subsequent revelat* ; 's luive demon-
strated the truth of the hypothesis. Even the go-between
Smythe was identified as one James Worsdale, a [lainter,
actor, and author, of the Bohemian variety.

Though Curll had fairly won the game, ."iid I'ope's

intrigue was even at the i irie sufficiently exposed, it

seems to have given less :;candal than might h.ivc been

expected. Prob biy it was suspected --nly in literary eir-

•Ics, ahu perhai. t might 'le thought tliat, silly as was the

VI.

C()UHESI'ONDE^<'E.

145

elaborate device, the di.srej)utablc Curll was fair game for
his natural <'ncmy. Indeed, such is the irony of fate,
Pope Won credit with simple people. The effect of the
publication, as Join i tells us, was to till the nation with
praises of the adniir.ioie moral qualities revealed in Pope's
letters. Aniony;>t the admirers was Ilalph Allen, who iiad
made a large fortune by farming the cross -posts, ilis
princely benevolence and sterling worth were uiiivfrsaliv
admitted, and have been immortalized by the best eon-
temporary judge of character. lie was the original of
Fielding's Allworthy. Like that excellent pers ^ , iic
seems to have had the common weakness of good m n in
taking others too easily at tho"r own valuation. Pope
imposed upon liim, just as Blifil ini[)osed upon his re[)re-
sentative. He was so much pleased uith the correspond-
ence, that he sought Pope's acquaintance, and oflEercu to
publish a genuine edition at his own expense. An au-
thoritative edition appeared, accordingly, in 1737. Pope
preferred to publish by subscription, which does not seem
to have filleii »cry rapidly, though the work ultimately
made a fair profit. Pope's underhand manoeuvres were
abundantly illustrated in the history of this new edition.
It is impossible to give the details; but I may brieflv state
that he was responsible for a nominally spurious edition
which appeared directly after, and was simply a reproduc-
tion of, (aril's publication. Although he complained of
the garbling and interpolations supposed to have been due
to the wicked Curll or the phantom P. T.,and although he
omitted in his avowed edition certain letters which had
given offence, ho nevertlieless substantially reprodi 'od in
it Curll's version of the letters. As this differs from the
riginals which have been preserved, Pope thus gave an
additional proof that he was really responsible for Curll's

POPE.

[chap.

.11

'if

supposed <;arl)lin!:;. Tliis evidence was adduced witli con-
elusive force by Howies in a later controversy, and would
lie enou!,fh by itself to convict Pope of the imputed de-
eeption. l-'inally, it may be added tliat Pope's delay in
produciiii;- his own edition is explained by the fact that it
contained many falsification^ of liis corrcspondrnce with
(.'aryll, ami that he delayed the acknowied<>ineiit of the
genuine character of the letters until CarylTs death re-
moved the daiif^er of detection.

The whole of this elaborate machinery was devised in
order that Pope nii<^'ht avoid the ridicule of publishing his
own correspondence. There had been few examples of a
similar publication of private letters; and Pope's volume,
accordiui;" to Johnson, did not attract very much attention.
This is, perhaps, hanlly con>istent with Johnson's other
assertion that it filled the nation with praises of his vir-
tue. In any case it stinmlated his appetite for such
praises, and led him to a fresh intrigue, more successful,
and also more dist^raceful. The device originally adapted
in publishing;' the Danciad apparently suu'ijjested part of
the new plot. The letters hitherto published did not in-
clude the most interestint;" correspondence in which Pope
had been engaged. He had been in the habit of writing
to Swift since their first acfpiaintanco, and Bolingbroke
had occasionally joined him. These letters, which con-
nected I'ope with two of his most famous contemporaries,
wouhl be far more interesting than the letters to Cromwell
or Wycherley, or even than the letters addressed to Addi-
son and Steele, which were mere stilted fabrications. IIow
could they be got before the world, and in such a way as
to conceal his own complicity ?

l*ope had told Swift (in 1730) that he had kept some
of the letters in a volume for his own secret satisfaction ;

[rHAP.

"•]

CUKHKSI'ONDEXCE.

147

and Swift had picst-r od all Tope's letters aloni;- with thoso
of other distini,nihhed men. Here was an attractive huoty
for such parties as the unprincipled Curll ! In 1735 Curl!
had committed his wickoH. piracy, and Pope pressed Swift
to return his letters, in order to "secure him a^iinst lliat
rascal printer." The entreaties were often renewed, l>ut
Swift for -^oine reason turned his deaf ear to the sucj^es-
tion. lie promised, indeed (Septemher n, 17;Jo), that the
letters should be burnt — a most effectual security against
republication, but otu- not at all to I'ope's taste. Pope
then admitted that, having been forced to publish some
of his other letters, he should like to make use of some
of those to Swift, as none would be niorc honourable to
him. Xay, he says, he meant to erect such a minute
monument of their friendship as would put to shame all
ancient memorials of the same kind.' Tliis avowal of liis
intention to publish did not conciliate Swift. Curll next
published, in 17:30, a couple of letters to Swift, and Pope
took advantage of this publication (perhaps he had indi-
rectly supplied Curll vith copies) to urge upon Swift the
insecurity of the letters in his keeping. Swift ignored
the request, and his letters about this time began to show
that his memory was failing, and his intellect growing
weak.

Pope now applied to their common friend. Lord Orrery.
Orrery was the dull niembor of ;i family eminent for its
talents. His father had left a valuable library to Christ
Church, ostensibly because the so., was not capable of
profiting by books, though a less creditable reason has

' These expressiuns come from two letters of Pope to Lord Orrery
in March, 1737, and may not accurately reproduce his statements <io
Swift ; but they probably represent approximately what he liatl
said.

i 11

' ill'

118

roPE.

[chap.

been assigned.' The son, eager to wipe off the imputa-
tion, specially affected the society of wits, and was chib-
orately polite both to Swift and Pope. Pope now got
Orrery to intercede with Swift, urging that I lie letters
were no longer safe in the custody of a failing did man.
<.)rrcry succeeded, and brought the letters in a sealed
packet to Pope in the summer of 1737. Swift, it must
be added, had an impression that there was a gap of six
years in the collection; lie became confused as to what
had or had not been sent, and liad a vague belief in a
"great collection" of letters "placed in some very safe
hand."'' Pope, being thus in possession of the wliole
c()rrc.sj)ondence, proceeded to perform a mana'uvre re-
sembling those already employed in the case of the
Dnnckul and of the P. T. letters. He printed the cor-
respondence clandestinely. He then sent the printed
volume to Swift, accompanied by an anonymous letter.
This letter purported to come from some persons who,
from admiration of Swift's private and public virtues,
had res(;lved to preserve letters so creditable to him, and
had accordingly put them in type. They suggested that
tii(! volume would be suppressed if it fell into the hands
of Boliugbrokc and Pope (a most audacious suggestion I),
and intimated that Swift should himself publish it. No
other <.'opy, they said, was in existence. Poor Swift fell
at once into the trap. He ouglit, of course, to liave con-
sulted P(jpe or Boliugbroke, and would probably have
doui' so had his mind been sound. Seeing, liowever, a
volume already printed, lie might naturally suppose that,
in s[»ite of the anonymous assurance, it was already too

' It i' saiil tl\ut tlic son ohjectcd to nllow liin wife to meet his
fatlici's mistress.

- .See Ehvin'ri edition of Pope's (Jonespondeuee, iii., JiU'J, note.

%«^'

; -1

; i

[CUAP.

VI.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

149

late to stop tlic publication. At any rate, he at once sent
it to his piihlisher, Faulkner, and desired him to bring it
out at once. Swift was in that most melancholy state in
which a man's friends perceive him to be incompetent to
manai^e his affairs, and are yet not able to use actual re-
straint. Mrs. Whiteway, the sensible and affectionate
cousin who took care of him at this time, did her best
to protest against the j)ublication, but in vain. Swift in-
sisted. So far Po{)e's device was successful. The jtrintcd
letters had been placed in the hands of his bookseller by
Swift himself, and ])ublication was apparently secured.
But I'ope had still the same i)roblem as in the previ-
ous case. Though he had talked of erecting a nidiui-
ment to Swift and himself, he was an.viuus that the mon-
ument should apparently be erected by some one else.
His vanity could only be satisfied by the appearance that
the publication was forced upon him. He had, therefore,
to dissociate himself from the publication by some protest
at once emphatic and ineffectua! ; and, conseijuently, to
explain the means by which the letters had been surrep-
titiously obtained.

The first aim was unexpectedly dillioiilt. Faulkner
turned out to be an honest bookseller. Instead of shar-
ing Cinirs rapacity, he consented, at Mrs. Wiiiteway's re-
quest, to wait until Pope had an opportunity of express-
ing his wishes. Pope, if he consented, could no longer
complain; if he dissent<'d, Faulkner would supi)ress the
letters. In this dilemma, Pope first wrote to Faulkner
to refuse permission, and at the same time took care that
his letter should be delayed for a month, lie hoped that
Faulkner would lose patience, and publish. iJiit Faulk-
ner, with provoking civility, stopped the press as soon as
he heard of Po[)e's objection. Pope hereuj)on discovered

.^r

V>i

', ,

1 ■ ' .

150

POPE.

OHAP.

that the letters were certain to be publislied, as they were
already printed, and doubtless by some mysterious " con-
federacy of people" in London. All he coidd wish was
to revise them before ai)pearancc. Meanwhile he begged
Lord Orrery to inspect the book, and say what he thought
of it. "Guess in what a situation I must be," exclaimed
this sincere and modest person, "not to be able to see
what all the world is to read as mine !" Orrery was quite
as provo];ing as Faulkner. He got tlie book from Faulk-
ner, read it, and instead of begging Vo[t(i not to deprive
the world of so delightful a treat, said, with dull integ-
rity, that he thought the collection " unworthy to be pub-
lished." Orrery, however, was innocent enough to accept
Pope's su2;gestion, that letters which had once got into
such hands would certainly come out sooner or later.
After some more haggling. Pope ultimately decided to
take this ground. lie would, lie said, liave nothing to
do with the letters ; they would come out in any case ;
tlieir appearance would please the Dean, and he (Pope)
would stand clear of all responsibility. He tried, indeed,
to get Faulkner to prefix u statement tending to fix t\ie
whole transaction upon Swift; but the bookseller de-
clined, and th(^ letters ultimately came out with a sim-
ple statement that they were a reprint.

Pope lia<l thus virtually sanctioned the publication.
He was not the less emphatic in complaining of it to
his friends. To Orrery, who knew the facts, he repre-
sented the printed copy sent to Swift as a proof that
the letters were beyond his power; and to others, such
as his ■Viend Alien, he kept silence sis to this copy alto-
gether: and gave them to understand that poor Swift —
or soMi'' member of Swift's family — was the prime mover
in the business. His mystiticatioii had, as before, driven

VI.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

161

him into perplexities upon which he had ncvci .alculatctl.
In fact, it was still more difticult here than in the previous
case to account for the oritrinal misappropriation of the
letters. Who could the thief have been ? Orrery, as we
have seen, liad himself taken a packet of letters to Pope,
which woulu be of course t^"j letters from Pope to Swift.
The packet being sealed. Orrery did not know the con-
tents, and Pope asserted that he Jiad burnt it almost as
soon as received. It was, however, true that Swift had
been in the habit of showing the originals to his friends,
and some might possibly have been stolen or copied by
designing people. But this would not account for the
publication of Swift's letters to Pope, which had never
been out of Pope's possession. As he had certainly been
in possession of the other letters, it was easiest, even for
himself, to suppose that some of his own servants were
the guilty persons; his own honour being, of com-se, be-
yond question.

To meet these difficulties. Pope made great use of some
stray phrases dropped by Swift in the decline of his mem-
ory, and set up a story of his having himself returned some
letters to Swift, of which important fact all traces had
disappeared. One cliaracteristic device will bo a suffi-
cient specimen. Swift wrote that a great collection of
" my letters to you " is somewhere " in a safe hand." He
meant, of course, " a collection of your letterf ;,o me " —
the only letters of which he could know anything. Ob-
serving the slip of the pen, he altered the phrase by writ-
ing the correct words above the line, it now stood —

Pope laid great stress upon this, in-

"your , me

letters to
my you."

terprcting it to mean that the "great coUeciion " included

letters from each correspondent to the other— the fact be-
Li

ft ; J

■ffili

i*.,.|,']

^' V

ii "i

1 1

\n 1

I 'J

I: 'I'

* ■

. i>;

III-

152

POPE.

[chap.

inji that Swift liad uiily the letters from Pope to himself.
The omission of an erasure ('vhether by Swift or Tope)
caused the whole meanino: to be altered. As the great
dirtiiulty was to explain tho publication of Swift's letters
to I'ope, this change supplied a very important link in the
evidence. It implied that Swift had been at some time in
possession of the letters in question, and had trusted them
to some one supposed to be safe. The whole paragraph,
meanwliile, api)cars, from the unimpeachable evidence of
Mrs. Whiteway, to have involved one of the illusions of
nicmary, for which he (Swift) apologizes in the letter from
which this is extracted. By insisting upon this j)assage,
and u[)oM certain other letters dexterously confounded
with those published, l*ope succeeded in raising dust
enough to blind Lord Orrery's not very piercing intelli-
gence. The inference which he desired to suggest was
that some persons in Swift's family had obtained posses-
sion of the letters. Mrs. Whiteway, indeed, met the sug-
gestion :»o clearly, and gave such good rea us for assign-
ing Twickenham as tho probable centre of the plot, that
slie must have suspected the truth. Pope did not venture
to assail her pubrKily, though he continued to talk of treach-
ery or evil inttueiice.

To accuse innocent people of a crime which you know
yourself to have committed is bad enough. It is, perhaps,
oven baser to lay a trap for a friend, and reproach him for
falling into it. Swift had denied the publication of the
letters, and I'ope would have had some grounds of com-
plaint had he not been aware of the failure of Swift's
n.iiid, and had he not been himself the tempter. His po-
sition, however, forced him to blame his friend. It was a
necessary pi'.rt of his case to impute at least a breach of
confidence to his victim. He therefore took the attitude

VI.]

CORRESrONDENCE.

163

—it must, one liopcs, liave cost liiin a blush— of one who
is seriously airgrioved, but who is generously anxious to
shield a friend in consideration of his known infinnitv.
He is forced, in sorrow, to admit that Swift has erred, biit
he will not allow himself to he annoyed. The most humil-
iating words ever written by a man not utterly vile, must
have been those which Pope set down in a letter to Nugent.
after giving his own version of the case: "I think fcan
make no reflections upon this strange incident but what
are truly melancholy, and humble the pride of human
nature. That the greatest of geniuses, though j)iuden(;o
may have been the companion of wit (which is verv rare)
for their whole lives past, may have nothing left them but
their vanity. No decay of body is half so miserable."
The most audacious hypocrite of fiction pales beside this.
Pope, condescending to the meanest complication of lies to
justify a paltry vanity, taking advantage of his old friond's
dotage to trick him into complicity, then giving a false ac-
count of his error, and finally moralizing, with all the air.s
of philosoi)hic cliarity, and taking credit for liis gcnerositv,
is altogether a picture to set fiction at defiance.

I must add a lemark not so edifying. Pope went down
to Ids grave soon afterwards, without exciting suspicion
except among two or three people intimately concerned.
A whisper of doubt was soon hushed. Even the biojTra-
phers who were on the track of his former deception did
not suspect this similar iniquity. The last of them, Mr.
Carruthers, writing in 1857, observes upon the pain given
to Pope by the treachery of Swift— a treachery of course
palliated by Swift's failure of mind. At last iMr. ]:)ilke
discovered the truth, which has been placed beyond d, ubt
by the still later discovery of the letters to Orrerv. The
moral is, apparently, that it is better to cheat a respectable

H m*

5 ' 1

l.Vl

roPE.

[cnAP.

M,<

ill

niivn tljan a rogue ; for the respectable tacitly form a so-
ciety for mutual support of character, whilst the open
rogue will be only too glad to show that you are even such
an one as himself.

It was not probable that letters thus published should
be printed with scrupulous accuracy. Pope, indeed, can
scarcely have attempted to conceal the fact that tlu y had
been a good deal altered. And so long as the letters were
regarded merely as literary compositions, the practice was
at least pardonable. But Pope went further; and the full
extent of his audacious changes was not seen until Mr.
Dilkt* became possessed of the Caryll correspondence. On
comparing the copies preserved by Caryll with the letters
published by Pope, it became evident that Pope had re-
garded these letters as so much raw material, which he
might carve into shape at pleasure, and with such altera-
tions of date and ad<lress as might be convenient, to the
confusion of all biographers and editors ignorant of his
peculiar method of editing. The details of these very dis-
graceful falsifications have been fully described by Mr.
Elwin,' but I turn gladly f.om this lamentable narrative to
say something of the literary value of the correspondence.
Every critic has made the obvious remark that Pope's
letters are artificial and self-conscious. Pope claimed the
opposite merit. "It is many years ago," he says to Swift
in 1729, "since T wrote as a wit." He smiles to think
"how Curll would be bit were our epistles to fall into his
hands, and how gloriously they would fall short of every in-
genious reader's anticipations." Warburton adds in a note
that Pope used to " value himself upon this particular."
It is indeed true that Pope had dropped the boyish affecta-
tion of his letters to Wycherley and Cromwell. But such

' Pope's Works, vol. i. p. cxxi.

VI.]

CORRESPONDENCE.

a statement in the nioutli of a man wlio plotted to secure
Ciirll's publication of his letters, with devices elaborate
enougii to make the reputation of an unscrupulous diplo-
matist, is of course oidy one more example of the super-
lative degree of affectation, the affectation of being unaf-
fected. We should be, indeed, disappointed were we to
expect in Pope's letters what we find in the best specimens
of the art: the charm which belongs to a simple outpour-
ing of friendly feeling in private intercourse; the sweet
playfulness of Cowper, or the grave humour of Gray, or
even the sparkle and brilliance of Walpole's adtnirable let-
ters. Though Walpole had an eye to posterity, and has
his own mode of affectation, he is for the moment intent
on amusing, and is free from the most annoying blemish
in Pope's writing, the resolution to appear always in full
dress, and to mount as often as possible upon the stilts of
moral self-approbation. All this is obvious to the hasty
reader; and yet I must confess my own conviction that
there is scarcely a more interesting volume in the language
than that which contains the correspondence of Swift,
IJolingbroke, and Pope. To enjoy it, ind»-cd, we must not
expect to be in sympathy with the writers. Rather wo
must adopt the mental attitude of spectators of a scene of
high comedy — the comedy which is dashed with satire
and has ;i tragical side to it. We are behind the scenes
in "*''anity Fair, and listening to the talk of three of its
most i>r. HIS performers, doubting whether they most de-
ceive cu^ix other, or the public or themselves. The secret
is an open one for us, now that the illusion which per-
plexed contemporaries iias worr- itself threadbare.

The most imprc. -ivv letters are undoubtedly those of
Swift — the stern, sad iniM )!nist, frowning upon the world
which has rejected hin., .mJ covering his wrath with an

i|.i

'a Pi

\ '

■ti'

f f

i^'

■( 1

\ '41.<ll

I i

15C.

roPE.

[chap.

affectation, Jiot of fine sentiment, but of misantliropv. A
soured man prefers to turn liis worst side outwards. There
arc phrases in liis letters which brand themselves upon the
memory like those of no other man ; and wc arc softened
into pity as the strong mind is seen <,'radually siiikinj; into
decay. The two other sharers in the colloquy are it) ef-
fective contrast. We sec through ]>olini>broke's mauiiiti-
ccnt self-deceit; the llowinj^ manners of the statesman
who, thou<i;li the s^ame is lost, is lonrrinn; for a favourable
turn of the card, but still affects to solace himsi'lf with
philosophy, and wraps himself in diijnified retlectioiis upon
the blessinj^s of retirement, contrast with Swift's down-
rijjht avowal of indijj^naiit scorn for himself and mankind.
And yet we have a sense of the man's amazin<ij cleverness,
and rcijjret that he has no chance of tryinj^ one more fall
with his antat>'onists in tlie open arena. I'ope's affectation
is perhaps the most transparent and the most <;ratuitous.
His career had been pre-eminently successful ; his talents
had found their natural outlet; and he had only to bo
what he apparently persuaded himself that he was, to be
happy in spite of illness. lie is constantly flourishin<i; his
admirable moral sense in our faces, dilatinu; upon his sim-
plicitv, modesty, fidelity to his friends, inditrereiict' to the
charms of fame, till wc are almost convinced that he has
imposed upon himself. By some Rtranij^c piece of le<j;er-
demain he must surely iiavo succeeded in re^'ardini^ even
his deliberate artifices, with the astonishini,' masses of
hypocritical falsehoods which they entailed, as in some
way legitimate weapons against a world full of piratical
Curlls and deep laid plots. And, indeed, with all his de
linquencies, and with all liis affectations, there are mo-
ments in which wc forget to preserve the correct tone of
moral indignation. Every now and then genuine feeling

■'H

yt]

CORRESPONDENCE.

167

sconis to come to the surface. For a time tlie suporin-
cuinbeiit masses of hypocrisy vanish. In speakinj,^ of his
mother or his pursuits lie forgets to wear liis mask. He
feels a gemiino enthusiasm about liis friends; he heheves
with ahuost pathetio earnestness in tlie aniazinij; talents of
Bolingbroke, and the patriotic devotion of the vounr>-er
men who are rising up to ov(rthro\v the corru[)tions of
AValpole ; he takes the affectation of liis friends as serious-
ly as a siir.,. -minded man who has never fairly realized
the possibility of deliberate hypocrisy; and he utters sen-
timents about human life and its objects which, if a little
tainted with commonplace, have yet a certain ring of sin-
cerity, and, as we may believe, were really sincere for the
time. At such moments we seem to see the man behind
the veil — the really liveable nature which could know as
well as simulate feeling. And, indeed, it is this quality
which makes l»opc endurable. He was — if we must sj)eak
bluntly — a liar and a hypocrite ; but the foundation of his
character was not selfish or grovelling. On the contrary, no
man could be more warmly affectionate or more exquisitely
sensitive to many noble emotions. The misfortune was that
his constitutional infirmities, acted upon by unfavourable
conditions, developed his craving for applause and his fear
of censure, till certain morbid tendencies in him assumed
proportions which, compared to the same weaknesses in
ordinary mankind, are as the growth of plants in a tropical
forest to their stunted representatives in the North.

IT*-

/' m

??!Sf1

'ill

ill ' n

CHAPTER VIT.

THE ESSAY ON MAN.

It is a relief to turn from this miserable record of Topc'c
petty or malicious deceptions to the history of his iogiti-
niato career. I u,o back to the pcM-iod wheu he was still
in full power. Ilavino; finished the Dunciad, lie was soon
employed on a more ambitious task. ^ Poji • resembled one
of the inferior bodies of the solar system, wh.se orbit is
dependent upon that of some more massi\e planet; and
liaving been a satellite of Swift, he was now swept into
the train of the more imposini»- Bolingbioke. lie had
been oriuinally introduced to Bolingbroke by Swift, but
had probably seen little of the brilliant minister who, i
the first years of their acquaintance, had too many occupa-
tions to give much time to the rising poet. Bolingbroke,
however, had been suffering a long eclipse, whilst I'-'pe
was gathering fresli splendour. In his exile, Bolingbroke,
though never really weaned from political ambition, had
.;-mused himself with superficial philosophical studies. In
political life it was his special glory to extemporize states-
manship without sacrificing pleasure, lie could be at once
the most reckless of rakes and the leading spirit in the
Cabinet or the House of Commons. He seems to have
thought that philosophical eminence was obtainable in the
same off-hand fashion, and that a brilliant style would jus-

CHAP. VII.]

THE ESSAY OX MAX.

16V

tify i> man in lav inn down tlif^ law to metapliyslcians as
well as to lipli iiiati^ts and p< .licians. His pliilos(»{)hical
writin<js arc cfjually superficial and arrogant, thtdigh thoy
show here and there the practised debater's power of mak-
ing a good point against his antagonist witlioiit really
gri tting tlic real probleins at issue.

IJolingbi ■ received a pardon in ., and returned to

E"?land, crossing \tterbnry, who ha<! i^t iicen convicted
of treasonable practices. In 1725 Bolingbiokc settled at
Daw ley, near Uxbridge, and for the next ten years he was
alternately amusing liiinsolf in playing the retire 1 philo.so-
phcr, and endeavouring, with more serions purpose, to ani-
mate the opposition to W;ilpole. Pope, who was his fre-
(|uent guest, sympathized with hi^ schemes, and was com-
pletely (hizzled by his eminenep. IF • spoke of him with
bated brcatli, as a being a' uperior to humanity.

" It looks," said Pope t)nce, f that great nuin had

been placed here by mistake. uen the comet appeared

a month or two ago," he addi . "I sometimes fancied that
it miijht be come to carrv iiim home, as a coach comes to
one's door for other visitors." Of all the graceful coiupll-
mcnts in Pope's poetry, none arc more ardent or more
obviously sincere than those addressed to tliis "guide, phi-
losopher, and friend." He delighted to bask in the sun-
shine of the great man's presence. Writing to Swift in
1728, he (Pope) says that he is holding the pen "for my
Lord Bolingbroke," who is reading your letter between
two liay -cocks, with his attention occasionally distracted by
a threatening shower. Bolingbroke < acting the temper-
ate recluse, having nothing for dinner tmt mutton-broth,
beans and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. Whil.st his lord-
ship is running after a cart. Pope snatches a moment to
tell how the day before this noble farmer had engaged a
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ii ;

I \

160

POPE.

l^ciiAr.

painter for 200/. to give tlio correct agricultural air to his
«;oimtry liall by oriiaiiicnting it with trophies of spades,
rakes, and prongs. Tope saw that the zeal for retirement
was not free from affectation, but he sat Jit the teacher's
feet with profound belief in the value of the lessons which
flowed from his lips.

The connexion was to bear remarkable fruit. Under
the direction of Bolingbroke, Pope resolved to compose a
great ijhilosophical poem. " Does Pope talk to you," says
Bolingbroke to Swift in 1731, "of the noble work which,
at my instigation, he lias begun in such a nuamer that he
jnust be convinced by this time I judged better of his tal-
ents than he did?" And Bolingbroke proceeds to de-
scribe the Unsa?/ on Man, of which it seems that three
(out of four) epistles were now finished. The first of
these epistles appeared in 1733. Pope, being apparently
nervous on his first appearance as a philosopher, withheld
his name. The other parts followed in the course of
1733 and 1734, and the authorship was soon avowed.
The A\\s(i;/ on Man is Pope's most ambitious performance,
and the one by which he was best known beyond his own
country. It has been frequently translated ; it was imi-
tated both in France and Germany, and provoked a con-
troversy, not like others in Pope's history of the i)urely
personal kind.

The /v'y.vay on Man professes to be a theodicy. Pope,
with an echo of the Miltonic phrase, proposes to

" Vindicate the ways of God to imiii."

He is thus attempting the greatest task to aliich pi)et
or philosopher can devote himself — the exhibition of an
organic and harmonious view of the uniserse. In a time
when men's minds are dominated by a definite reli'-ious

Til.]

THE ESSAY ON MAX.

101

creed, tlie poet may hope to acliicvc success in such an
undertakinu; without departing from his len'itimate meth-
od. Ilis vision pierces to the world hidden from our
senses, and realizes in the transitory present a scene in the
slow development of a divine drama. To make us share
his vision is to g'ivc liis justification of Providence.
When Milton told the story of the war in heaven and the
fall of man, he gave implicitly his theory of the true rela-
tions of man to liis Creator, but the abstract doctrine was
clothed in the flesh and blood of a concrete mythology.

In I'ope's day the traditional belief had lost its hold
upon men's minds too completely to be used for imagina-
tive purposes. The story of Adam and Eve would itself
require to be justified or to be rationalized into thin alle-
gory. Nothing was left possessed of any vitality but a
bare skeleton of abstract theology dependent upon argu-
ment instead of tradition, and wliich might use or might
dispense with a Christian phraseology. Its deity was not
a historical personage, but the name of a metaphysical
conception. For a revelation was substituted a demon-
stration. To vindicate Providence meant no longer to
stimulate imagination by a pure and sublime rendering of
accepted truths, but to solve certain philosophical prob-
lems, and especially the grand difficulty of reconciling the
existence of evil with divine omnipotence and benevolence.

Pope might conceivably have written a really great
poem on these terms, though deprived of the concrete im-
agery of a Dante or a Milton. If he had fairly grasped
some definite conception of the universe, whether panthe-
istic or atheistic, optimist or pessimist, proclaiming a solu-
tion of the mystery, or declaring all solutions to be impos-
sible, he might have given forcible expression to the cor-
responding emoticuis. Ho might have uttered the melan-

: :

*: tO

;iii»

I S ! It'.

162

POPE.

[chap.

choly resignation and the confident hope incited in diiTercnt
minds by a contemplation of tlie mysterious world. He
might again conceivably iiave written an interesting work,
though it would hardly have been a poem — if he had versi-
fied the arguments by which a coherent theory might- !>':>
supported. Unluckily, ho was quite unqualified for either
undertaking, and, at the same time, he more or less aimed
at both. Anything like sustained reasoning was beyond
Ids reach. I'ope felt and thought by shocks and electric
tlashes. He could only obtain a continuous effect when
working clearly upon linos already provided for liim, or
simulate one by fitting together fragments struck out at
intervals. The defect was aggravated or caused by the
physical infirmities which put sustained intellectual labour
out of the question. The laborious and patient medita-
tion which brings a converging series of arguments to bear
upon a single point was to him as impossible as tlie pow-
er of devising an elaborate strategical combination to a
dashing Prince Rupert. The reasonings in the Fssa?/ are
confused, contradictory, and often childish. He was equal-
ly far from having assimilated any definite system of
thought. Brought up as a Catholic,' he had gradually
swung into vague deistic belief. But he had never stud-
ied any philosopliy or theology whatever, and he accepts
in perfect unconsciousness fragments of the most hetero-
geneous systems.

Swift, in verses from which I have already quoted, de-
scribes his method of composition, wliicli is characteristic
of Pope's habits of work.

" Now backs of letters, thougli desij;.. >.i
For tliose who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints and i'>terliiied.
Himself can scarcely read 'em.

[chap.

1 (liiTercnt
:)rld. He
ing work,
had versi-
miijht ^o
for either
ess aimed
8 beyond
d electric
'cot wlion
r him, or
;k out at
d by the
lal h\bour
t medita-
ts to bear
tlie pow-
:,ion to a
Essaij are
^as equal -
, stem of
[gradually
vcr stud-
3 accepts
it hetero-

loted, do-
acteristic

VII.] THE ESSAY ON MAN. 163

" Each atom by some other struck
All turns and motions tries ;
Till in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rise 1"

It was stranoe criough that any poem should arise by
^uch means; but it would have been miraculous if a poem
so constructed had been at once a demonstration and an
exposition of a harmonious philosophical system. The
confession which lie made to Warburton will be a suffi-
cient indication of his qualifications as a student. He
says (in 1739) that he never in his life read a line of
Leibnitz, nor knew, till he found it in a confutation of his
Essay, that there was such a term as pre-established har-
mony. That is almost as if a modern reconciler of faith
and science were to say that he had never read a line of
Mr. Darwin, or heard of such a phrase as the struggle for
existencv^. It was to pronounce himself absolutely dis-
qualified to speak as a philosopher.

How, then, could Pope obtain even an ai.pearance of suc-
cess? The problem should puzzle no one at the present
day. Every smart essayist knows how to settle tlie most
abstruse metaphysical puzzles after studies limited to the
pages of a monthly magazine ; and Pope was much in
the state of mind of such extoniporizing philosophers.
He had dipped into the books which everybody read ;
Locke's Essay, and Shaftesbury's Characteristics, and AVoI-
laston's Religion of Nature, and Clarke on the Attri-
fmtes, and Archbishop King on the Oriyin of Evil, had
probably amused his spare moments. They were all, we
may suppose, in Bolingbroke's library ; and if that pass-
ing shower commemorated in Pope's letter drove them
back to the house, Bolingbroke might discourse from the
page which happened to be open, and Pope would try to

< t|

fiilil

irA

POPE.

[chap.

'' I

4f,

versify it on llio back of an envelope.' Nor must \vc
fornjet, like some of his commentators, that after all Pope
was an exceedingly clever man. Ilis rapidly perceptive
mind was fully qualified to imbibe the crude versions of
philoso[)liic theories which float upon the surface of ordi-
nary talk, and are not always so inferior to their proto-
types in philosophic qualities as philosophers would have
us believe. He could by snatches seize with admirable
quickness the general spirit of a doctrine, though unable
to sustain liimself at a high intellectual level for any
length of time. He was ready with abundance of poet-
ical illustrations, not, perhaps, very closely adapted to the
logic, but capable of being elaborated into effective pas-
sages ; and, finally. Pope had always a certain number of
more or less appropriate commonplaces or renderings into
verse of some passages which had struck him in Pascal
or Rochefoucauld, or Bacon, all of them favourite authors,
and which could be wrought into the structure at a sliixht
cost of coherence. By such means he could put togeth-
er a poem, which was certainly not an organic whole, but
which might contain many striking sayings and passages
of great rhetorical effect.

The logical framework was, we may guess, supplied
mainly by Bolingbroke. Bathurst told Warton that Bo-
lingbroke had given Pope the essay in prose, and that
Pope had only turned it into verse; and Mallet — a friend
of both — is said to have seen the very, manuscript from
which Pope worked. Johnson, on hearing this from Bos-
well, remarked that it must be an overstatement. Pope
might have had from Bolingbroke the "philosophical
stamina" of the essay, but he must, at least, have qon-

* " No letter with an envelope could give him more delight," says

S-.vift.

[chap.

must \vc
all I*ope
lerccptivo
.Tsions of
t) of ordi-
L'ir proto-
)ak) liave
ulinirablo
jh unable
for any
! of poct-
ed to the
:tivc pas-
iinibcr of
ings into
in Pascal
; authors,
t a slinjlit
t togeth-
iiolc, but
passages

supplied
that Bo-
and tliat
-a friend
ript from
rom Bos-
t. Po2>o
osophical
lave con-
ight," says

va.J

TUE ESSAY ON MAN.

165

tributed the "poetical imagery," and have had more in-
dependent power than the story implied. It is, indeed,
impossible accurately to fix the relations of the teacher
and his disciple. Pope acknowledged in the strongest
possible terms his dependence upon Bolingbroke, and
Bolingbroke claims with equal distinctness the position
of instigator and inspirer. Ills more elaborate philo-
sophical works are in the form of letters to I'ope, and
profess to be a redaction of the conversations which they
had had together. These were not written till after the
EsscDj on Man; but a series of fragments appL... > rep-
resent what he actually set down for I'ope's guidance.
They are professedly addressed to Pope. " 1 write," he
says (fragment G5), " to you and for you, and you would
think yourself little obliged to me if I took the pains of
explaining in prose what you would not think it necessa-
ry to explain in verse " — that is, the free-will puzzle. The
manuscripts seen by Mallet may probably have been a com-
monplace book in which Bolingbroke had set down some
of these fragments, by way of instructing Pope, and pre-
paring for his own more systematic work. No reader of
the fragments can, I think, doubt as to the immediate
source of Pope's inspiration. Most of the ideas ex-
pressed were the common property of many contempo-
rary writers, but Pope accepts the particular inodilication
presented by Bolingbroke.' Pope's manipulation of these
materials causes much of the Essay on Man to resemble
(as Mr. Pattison puts it) an exquisite mosaic work. A
detailed examination of his mode of transmutation would

' It would be out of placo to discuss this in detail ; but I may say
that Pope's crude theory of the state of nature, his psycliology as to
reason and instinct, and self-love, and his doctrine of the scale of
beings, all seem to have the specific Bolingbroke stamp.

Hi I

I I 1

16» POPE. [auv.

be a curious study in the technical secrets of literary exe-
cution. A specimen or two will sufficiently indicate the
general character of Pope's method of constructing his
essay.

The forty-third fragment of Bolingbroke is virtually a
prose version of much of Pope's poetry. A few phrases
will exhibit the relation : —

"Tlirniigh worlds unnunibcrM, though the God be known,
'Tis ours to (rntr Him onhj in our own.
He who through vast immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds comjioiie one universe,
Observe how si/sfan into si/.item runa,
What other planets circle other suns.
What varied being peoples every star.
May tell why Heaven has made us what we are.
But of this frame, the bearings and the tics.
The strong connexions, nice dependencies.
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
Looked through, or can a part contain the whole ?"

" The universe," I quote only a few phrases from Bo-
lingbroke, "is an immense aggregate of systems. Every
one of these, if we may judge by our o?oh,, contains several ;
and every one of these again, if we may judge by our oivn,
IS made up of a multitude of different modes of being, an-
imated and inanimated, thinking and unthinking . . . but all
concurring in one common system. . . . Just so it is with
respect to the various systems and systems of systems that
compose the universe. As distant as they are, and as dif-
ferent as we may imagine them to be, they are all tied
together by relations and connexions, gradations, and de-
pendenciesy The verbal coincidence is here as marked as
tlie coincidence in argument. Warton refers to an elo-
quent passage in Shaftesbury, which contains a similar

[chap.

Til.]

THE ESSAY ON MAN.

167

thought; but one can hartUy doubt that Boliugbrokc was
in this case the immediate source. A quaint passage a
little farther on, in which Pope represents man as com-
plaining because he has not " the strength of bulls or the
fur of hears," may be traced with ecjual plausibility to
Shaftesbury or to Sir Thomas Browne ; but I have not
noticed it in Bolinrjbroke.

One more passage will be sufficient. Pope asks whether
we are to demand the suspension of laws of nature when-
ever they might produce a mischievous result ? Is Etna
to cease an eruption to spare a sage, or should " new mo-
tions be impressed upon sea and air " for the advantage
of blameless Bethel ?

" When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by ?
Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ?"

Chartres is Pope's typical villain. This is a terse ver-
sion, with concrete cases, of Bolingbroke's vaguer gener-
alities. "The laws of gravitation," he says, "must some-
times be suspended (if special Providence be admitted),
and sometimes their effect must be precipitated. The
tottering edifice nmst be kept miraculously from falling,
whilst innocent men lived in it or passed under it, and the
fall of it must be as miraculously determined to crush the
guilty inhabitant or passenger." Here, again, we have the
alternative of Wollaston, who uses a similar illustration,
and in one plirase comes nearer to Pope. He speaks of
" new motions being impressed upon the atmos|jhere."
We may suppose that the two friends had been t ping
into Wollaston together. Elsewhere Pope seems to liave
stolen for himself. In the beginning of the second cpis-
M 8*

■' f

■I ■

t
1

til

1G8

roPE.

[(HAP.

• )

tic, Pope, in (Icsoril.ing iiimi as " the glory, jest, and rid-
dle of tin; world," is simply versifying Pascal ; and a little
farther on, when he speaks of reason as the wind and pas-
sion as the gale on life's vast ocean, he is adapting his
comparison from Locke's treatise on government.

If all snch cases were adilnced, we should have nearly
picked the argumentative part of the essay to pieces; but
liollngbroke supplies throughout the most characteristic
element. Tlu; fragments c.diere by external cement, not
by an internal unity of thought; and Popo too often de-
scends to the level of mere satire, or indulges in a quaint
conceit or palpable sophistry. Yet it would be very un-
just to ignore the high qualities which are to be found
in this incongruous whole. The style is often admirable.
^VIlen Pope is at his best every word tells. His precision
and firmness of touch enables liim to get the greatest pos-
sible meaning into a narrow compass. He uses only one
epithet, but it is the right one, and never boggles and
patches, f)r, in liis own phrase, " blunders round about a
meaning." Warton gives, as a specimen of this power, the
lines : —

" But errs not nature from this gracious end
In-om ljuruiiiji' suns wiioii livid deutlis tleswiid,
Wiien oartJKiuaives swallow or when tempests sweep
Towns to one grave, wliole nations to the deep?"

And Mv. Pattison reinforces tlie criticism by quoting Vol-
taire's feeble imitation : —

" Quand des vents du midi les funestes Imleines
I)e semenee de mort ont inondo nos plaines,
^ Direz-vous que jamais le eiol en son eourroux
Xe laissa la saute sc'.jouruer parmi nous V"

It is true that, in the effort to be compressed. Pope has
here and there cut to the quick and suppressed essential

[chap.

vn.]

THE ESSAY OX MAX.

169

parts of speech, till tlie lines can only l)o cor Lrucd by our

independent knowledge of their nu'aiiini^. The faniou.s

line —

" Man ncvor is but ahvay.H to be blest,"

is an example of dofectivc construction, thongli liis lan-
guage is often tortured by more elliptical phrases.' This
power of charging lines with great fulness of meaning
enables l*ope to soar for briff periods into genuine and
impressive poetry. Whatever his philosophical weakness
and his moral obliquitv, he is often moved by aenuine
emotion, lie has a vein of generous sympathy for human
sufferings and of righteous indijjnation auainst bii-'ots, and
if he only half understands his own optimisjn, that " what-
ever is is right," the vision, rather poetical than philosoph-
ical, of a harmonious universe lifts him at times into a
region loftier than that <>f frigid and pedantic platitu(h'.
The most popular passages were certain purj)Ie patches,
not arising very spontaneously or with much relevance,
but also showing something more than the practised rhet-
orician. The "poor Indian" in one of the most highly-
polished paragraphs —

"Who tliinks, admitted to thai e(iiial sky,
His faitliful dog shall bear liiiu company,"

intrudes rather at the expense of logic, and is a decidedly
conventional person. But this passage has a certain glow

' Perhaps the most curious example, too long for (piotation, is a
passage near the end ol' the last epistle, in which he sums up his
moral system by a scries of predicates for which it is impossible to
find any subject. One couplet runs —

" Never elated whilst one man's depress'd,
Never dejected whilst another's blest."

It is impressive, but it is quite impossible to discover by the rule- ol
grammatical construction v. '^o itj to be never elated and depr<'sse(i.

i i

. .

• 1

» !

170

rorE.

[('jrAi'.

.< 1

,^,.

)fi»

(•f fitu! liiimanlty, and is toiicliod with roal patlios. A fur-
ther passaj^e or two may sntHciciitly iiidic-ate his higher
<iuahtic.'s. Ill the end of the tliird episth^ I'opo is <liseiiss-
in"" the ori"iii of troverntnent and the state of nature, and
discussinir them in such a wav as to show concUisivelv that
lie docs not in the least understand the theories in ques-
tion or their application. His state of Nature is a sham
reproduction of the golden age of poets, made to do duty
in H scientific specuhition. A Himsy hypothesis learnt
from lV)lingbroke is not improved when overlaid with
I'ope's conventional ornamentation. The imaginary his-
tory proceeds to relate the growth of superstition, which
destroys the primeval innocence; but why or when does
not very clearly appear ; yet, though the general theory is
incoherent, he catches a distinct view of one aspect of the
(jncstion, and expresses a tolerably trite view of the ques-
tion with singular terseness. AVho, he asks, —

"First taught souls out^lavod and realms undone,
The euoruious faith of many made for oney"

lie replies, —

" Force first made conquest, and that conquest law ;
Till Superstition taught the tyrant awe,
Then shared the tyranny, then lent it aid,
And gods of conquerors, slaves of subjects made ;
She, 'mid the lightnini^'s hla/e and thunder's sound.
When roek'd the mountains and when groan'd the ground,—
She taught the weak to trust, the proud to pray
To Power unseen and mightier far than they ;
She from the rending earth and bursting skies
Saw gods descend and fiends infernal rise;
There fix'd the dreadful, there the blest abodes;
Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods ;
Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust.
Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust ;

Til.] THE ESSAY OX MAN. 171

Such as the soiila of cowardd might conceive,
And, framed like tyrants, tyrants would believ"."

If tit test of poetry were tlie power of cxprcssiniif a
theory inon; elosely and ()oirite'lly than prose, sucli writing
would take a very \\hj;h {)Iace. Some popuhir philosophers
would make a soutulin^ chapter out of those sixteen lines.

The Esmy on Man brought Pope into ditlioullies. The
central thesis, '* whatever is is riy;ht," mii^lit he understood
in various senses, and in some sense it would be accepted
by every theist. IJut, in Boliiij^broke's teaching, it re-
ceived a heterodox application, and in Pope's imperfect
version of liolingbroke the taint was not removed. The
logical outcome of the rationalistic theory of the time was
some form of pantheism, and the tendency is still more
marked in a poetical statement, where it was dit.icult to
state the refined distinctions by which the conclusion is
averted. When theology is regarded as demonstrable by
reason, the need of a revelation ceases to be obvious. The
optimistic view, which sees the proof of divine order in
the vast harmony of the whole visible world, throws into
the background the darker side of the universe reflected
in the theological doctrines of human corruption, and the
consequent need of a future judgment in separation of
good from evil. 1 need not inquire whether any optimis-
tic theory is really tenable; but the popular version of the
creed involved the attempt to ignore the evils under which
all creation groans, and produced in different minds the
powerful retort of Butler's Analogy, ard the biting sar-
casm of Voltaire's Candhle. Pope, accepting the doctrine
without any perception of these difficulties, unintentional-
Iv fell into sheer pantheism. He was not vieldin"- to the
logical instinct which carries out a theory to its legitimate
development ; but obeying the imaginative in)pulse which

"J t

'pi

172

POPE.

[chap.

I <

oiinnot stop to listen to tlie usual (]Ualificatioiis and safe-
guards of tlic ortliodox rcasoner. The best passages in
the essay arc those in whieh lie is frankh' pantheistic, and
is swept, like Shaftesbury, into enthusiastic assertion of the
universal harnu^ny of things.

"All are but parts of one stiipoiuloiis whole,
Whose body naturo is, aiRl tJod the soul;
That changed thro' all and yet In all the same.
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame ;
AVarnis in the sun, refreshes in tlie breeze,
(ilows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives thrc' ail life, extends thro' all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part.
As full, as peifeet, in a hair as heart ;
As full, as perfeet, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns ;
To him, no high, no low, no great, no small,
lie fills, he bounds, conncets, and equals all."

Ill spite of -ionic awkward [dirases (hair and heart is a
vile antithesis !), the passage is eloquent, but can liardly be
called ortliodox. And it was still worse when Pope un-
dertook to show that even (nil passions and vices were part
of the harmony ; that " a Horgia and a Catiline " were as
iiinch n part of the divine order as a plague or an earth-
quake, and tliat self-love and lu.st were es.scntial to social
welfare.

I'ope's own religious position is characteristic and easi-
ly definable. If it is not quite defensible on the strictest
principles of plain speaking, it is also certain that we could
not condemn him without condemning many of the best
and most catliolic-spirited of men. The dogmatic system
in whieh lie liad [)resumably been educated had softened
under the influence of the cultivated thouu'ht of the dav.

[chap.

VII.]

THE ESSAY ON MAN.

ivr.

Pope, as the mcnibcr of a persecuted sect, luiil leanit
to slmrc that righteous hatred of bigotry which is tlie hon-
ourable characteristic of his best contemporaries, lie con-
si(h!red the persecuting" spirit of his own churcli to be its
worst fault.' In the early Essay on Criticism he offended
some of his own sect by a vigorous denunciation of the
doctrine which promotes persecution by limiting salvation
to a particular creed. Ilis charitable conviction that a
tlivine element 's to be found in all creeds, from that of
the "poor Indian" upwards, animates the highest passages
in his works. But though he sympatliizcs with a gener-
ous toleration, and the specific dogmas of his creed sat
very loosely on his mind, he did not consider that an open
secession was necessary or even honourable. lie called
himself a true Catholic, though rather as respectfully sym-
pathizing with the spirit of Fonelon than as holding to
any dogmatic system. The most dignified letter that he
ever wrote was in answer to a suggestion from Atterbury
(1717), that he might change his religion upon the death
of his father. Pope replies that liis worldly interests
would be promoted by su a step; and, in fact, it can-
not be doubted that Pope might have had a share in th(;
good things then obtainable by successful writers, if he
had qualified by taking the oaths. But he adds that such
a change would hurt his mother's feelings, and that he
was more certain of his duty to promote her hap[)iness
than of any speculative tenet wliatever. He was sure that
he could mean as well in the religion he now professed as
in any other ; and that being so, he thought that a change
even to an equally good religion could not be justified. A
similar statement appears in a letter to Swift, in 1729. " I
am of the religion of Erasmus, a Catholic, So I live, so

* Spence, p. 364.

' ' jfe.

5 ■ 1 -

f I'

^Vs

174

POPE.

[chap.

\ I'

shall I die, and liopc one day to meet you, Bishop Atter-
biiry, tlie younger Craggs, Dr. Garth, Dean Berkeley, and
Mr. Hutchison in that place to which God of his infinite
mercy bring us and everybody." To those Protestants he
would doubtless have joined the freethinking Bolingbroke.
At a later period he told Warburton, in less elevated lan-
guage, that the change of his creed would bring liini many
enemies and do no good to any one.

Pope could feel nobly and act honourably wlien his
morbid vanity did not expose him to some temptation;
and I think that in this matter liis attitude was in every
way creditable. He showed, indeed, the prejudice cnter^
tained by many of the rationalist divines for the free-
thinkers who were a little more outspoken than himself.
The deist whose creed was varnished with Christian
[thrases was often bitter against the deist wlio rejected
the varnish; and Pope put Toland and Tindal into the
Dunciad as scandalous assailants of all religion. From
his point of view it was as wicked to attack any creed as
to regard any creed as exclusively true ; and certainly
Pope was not disposed to join any party which was hated
and maligned by the mass of the respectable world. For
it must be remembered that, in spite of much that has
been said to the contrary, and in spite of the true ten-
dency of much so-called orthodoxy, the profession of open
dissent fi'om Christian doctrine was then regarded with
extreme disapproval. It might be a fashion, as Butler
and others declare, to talk infidelity in cultivated circles ;
but a public promulgation of unbelief was condemned
as criminal, and worthy only of the Grub-street faction.
Pope, therefore, was terribly shocked when he found him-
self accused of heterodoxy. His poem was at once trans-
lated, and, we are told, spread rapidly in France, where

[CIIAP.

VII.]

THE ESSAY ON MAN.

175

op Atter-
:cloy, and
is infinite
jstants he
ing'broke.
t-ated lan-
lim many

when his
mptation ;

in every
ice enter-

the frec-
[1 himself.

Christian
) rejected

into the
n. From
^ creed as

certainly
was hated
)rld. For
I that lias

true ten-
m of open
rded with
as Butler
3d circles ;
ondemned
3t faction,
ound him-
)nce trans-
tice, where

Voltaire and many inferior writers were introducing the
contagion of I]nglish freethinking. A solid Swiss pastor
and professor of philosophy, Jean Pierre Crousaz (1663-
1750), undertook the task of refutation, and published
an examinac" ^n of Pope's philosophy in 1737 and 1738.
A scriou^ \ mination of this bundle of half -digested
opinions ■'Va., in itself absurd. Some years afterwards
(1751) Pope came under a more powerful critic. The
Berlin Academy of Sciences offered a prize for a similar
essay, and Lessing published a short tract called Pope ein
Metaphysikcr ! If any one cares to see a demonstration
that I'ope did not understand the system of Leibnitz, and
that the bubble blown by a great plulofiophcr has more
apparent cohesion than that of a half-read poet, he may
find a sufficient statement of the case in Lessing. But
Lessing sensibly protests from the start against the intru-
sion of such a work into serious discussion; and that is
the only ground which is worth taking in the matter.

The most remarkable result of the Essay on Man, it
may be parenthetically noticed, was its effect upon Voltaire.
In 1751 Voltaire wrote a poem on Natural Law, which
is a comparatively feeble application of Pope's principles.
It is addressed to Frederick instead of Bolingbroke, and
contains a warm eulogy of Pope's philosophy. But a,
few years later the earthquake at Lisbon suggested cer-
tain doubts to Voltaire as to the completeness of the op-
timist theory ; and, in some of the most impressive verses
of the century, he issued an energetic protest against the
platitudes applied by Pope and his followers to deaden our
sense of the miseries under which the race suffers. Ver-
bally, indeed, Voltaire still makes his bow to the optimist
theory, and the two poems appeared together in 1756 ; but

his noble outcry against the empty and complacent dcduc-
25

'■ !(•

— ■**•— "^''■■-'- ■ft

116

POPE.

[chap.

tions wliicli it covers, led to liis famous controversy with
Rousseau. Tlie history of this conflict falls bovond niv
subject, and I must be content with this brief refereiicc,
■wliich proves, amongst other things, the interest created
by l*ope's advocacy of the most characteristic doctrincB of
liis time on the minds of the greatest leaders of the revo-
lutionarv movement.

Meanwhile, however, Crousaz was translated into Eng-
lish, and I'ope was terribly alarmed. His "guide, ph.los-
opher, and friend" had returned to the Continent (in
1735), disgusted with his political failure, but was again
in England from June, 1738, to May, 1739. We know
not what comfort he may have given to his unlucky dis-
ciple, but an unexpected champion suddenly arose. Wil-
liam Warburton (born 1698) was gradually pushing his
way to success, lie had been an attorney's clerk, and had
not received a university education ; but his multifarious
reading was making him conspicuous, helped by great en-
ergy, and by a quality Avhich gave some plausibility to the
title bestowed on him by Mallet, " The most impudent
man living." In his liumble days he had been intimate
with Pope's enemies, Concancn and Tlieobald, and had
spoken scornfully of Pope, saying, amongst otiier things,
^that he " borrowed for svant of genius," as Addison bor-
rowed fioui modesty, and Milton from pride. In 173G he
liad published his first important work, the Alliance be-
tween Church and State; and in 1738 followed the first in-
stalment of his principal performance, the Divine Legation.
During the following years he Avas the most conspicuous
theologian of the day, dreaded and hated by his opponents,
whom he unsparingly bullied, and dominating a small
clique of abject admirers. He is said to have condemned
the £ssay on Man when it first appeared, lie called it a

[chap.

VII.]

THE ESSAY ON MAX.

177

collection of the worst passages of the worst authors, and
declared that it taiiglit rank atheism. The appearance of
Crousaz's book suddenly induced hiui to make a f'oin[)lcte
change of front, lie dechired that Pope spuke " truth uni-
formly throughout," and complimented him on his strong
and delicate reasoning.

It is idle to seek motives for this proceeding. Warbur-
ton loved paradoxes, and deliglited in brandishing them in
the most offensive terms. lie enjoyed the exercise of his
own irgenuity, and therefore his ponderous writings,
though amusing by their audacity and width of reading,
are absolutely valueless for their ostensible purpose. Tin;
exposition of Pope (the first part of which appeared in
December. 1738) is one of his most tiresome performances ;
nor need any human being at the present day study the
painful wire-drawings and sophistries by which he tries to
give logical cohesion and orthodox intention to the Essay
on Man.

If Warburton was simply practising his dialectical skill,
the residt was a failure. But if he had an eye to certain
lower ends, his success surpassed his expectations. Pope
was in ecstasies, lie fell upon Warburton's neck — or
rather at his feet — and overwhelmed him with professions
of gratitude. lie invited him to Twickenham ; met him
with compliments which astonished a by-stander, and
wrote to him in terms of surprising humility. "You un-
derstand me," he exclaims in his first letter, " as well as I
do myself ; but you express me much better than I could
express myself." For the rest of his life Pope adopted
the same tone, lie sheltered himself behind this burly
defender, and could never praise him enough, lie declared
j\lr. Warburton to be the greatest general critic he ever
knew, and was glad to instal lum in the position of cham-

11 ;

'■

ij?

•f

' ' 1

■ 'iM

11 : 3t

'■f t

178

POPE.

[chap.

1 11);^

pion in ordinary. "NVarburton was consulted about new
editions ; annotated Pope's poems ; stood sponsor to the
last Uunciad, and was assured by his adinirinof friend that
the comment would prolong the life of the poetry. Pope
left all his copyrights to this friend, whilst his MSS. were
siven to IJolinobroke.

When the University of Oxford proposed to confer an
honorary degree upon I'ope, he declined to receive the
compliment, because the proposal to confer a smaller hon-
our upon Warburton had been at the same time thrown
out by the University, In fact, Pope looked up to War-
burton with a reverence almost equal to that which he felt
for Bolingbroke. If such admiration for such an idol was
rather humiliating, we must remember that Pope was un-
able to detect the charlatan in the pretentious but really
vigorous writer ; and we may perhaps admit that there is
something pathetic in Pope's constant eagernc: =i to be sup-
ported by some sturdier arm. We find the .ic tendency
throughout his life. The Aveak and morbidly sensitive
nature may be forgiven if its dependence leads to excessive
veneration.

Warburton derived advantages from the connexion, the
prospect of which, we may liopc, was not the motive of
his first advocacy. To be recognized by the most eminent
man of letters of the day was to receive a kind of certifi-
cate of excellence, valuable to a man who had not the reg-
ular university hall-mark. More definite results followed.
Pope introduced Warburton to Allen, and to Murray, after-
wards Lord Mansfield. Through Murray he was appointed
preacher at Lincoln's Inn, and from Allen he derived great-
er benefits — liie hand of his niece and heiress, and an in-
troduction to Pitt, which gained for him the bishopric of
Gloucester.

[chap.

ni.]

THE ESSAY Ox\ MAN.

179

Pope's allegiance to Bolinn;broko was not weakened by
this new alliance, lie sought to bring the two together,
when Jiolingbroke again visited England in 1743. The
only result was an angry explosion, as, indeed, might have
been foreseen ; for Bolingbroke was not likely to be well-
disposed to the clever parson whose dexterous sleight-of-
hand had transferred I'ope to the orthodox camp; nor was
it natural that Warburton, the most combative and insult-
ing of controversialists, should talk on friendly terms to
one of his natural antagonists — an antagonist, moreover,
who was not likely to have bishoprics in his gift. The
quarrel, as we shall see, broke out fiercely over Pope's

grave.

1 !

.ti

)

'■

' \

11
1 1 >i

'i i

■\l

! :

1 t

If:

II it

CHAPTER VIIL

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

Pope liad tried a considerable number of poetical exper-
iments when the Dunciad appeared, but he had not yet
discovered in what direction his talents could be most ef-
ficiently exerted. By-standers arc sometimes acuter in de-
tecting a man's true forte than the performer himself. In
1722 Atterbury had seen Pope's lines upon z\ddison, and
reported that no piece of his writing was ever so much
sought after. " Since you now know," he added, " in
what direction your strength lies, I hope you will not suf-
fer that tulcnt to be unemployed." Atterbury seems to
lia\e been rather fond of giving advice to Pope, and puts
on a decidedly pedagogic air when writing to him. The
present suggestion was more likely to fall on willing ears
than another made shortly before their final separation.
Atterbury then presented Pope with a Bible, and recom-
mended him to study its pages. If Pope had taken to
heart some of St. Paul's exhortations to Christian charitv
he would scarcely have published his lines upon Addison,
and English literature would have lost some of it" most
brilliant pages.

Satire of the kind represented by those lines was so ob-
viously adapted to Pope's peculiar talent, that we rather
wonder at his having taken to it seriously at a compara-

CHAP. VIII.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

181

lively late period, and even then having drifted into it
' ;, accident rather tlian by deliberate adoption, lie had
.ni.ied, as has been said, at being a philosophic and didactic
poet. The Essay on Man formed part of a much laro-er
plan, of which two or three fragmentary sketches arc given
by Spencc' IJolingbroke and Pope wrote to Swift in No-
vember, 1729, about a scheme then in course of execution.
Bolino-brokc declares that Pope is now exerting what was
eminently and peculiarly his talents above all writers, living
or dead, witliout excepting Horace ; whilst Pope explained
that this was a " system of ethics in the Iloratian way."
The language seems to apply best to the poems afterwards
called tiie Ethic Epistles, though at this time Pope, per-
haps, liad not a very clear plan in his head, and was work-
ing at different parts simultaneously. The Essay on Man,
his most distinct scheme, was to form the opening book of
his poem. Three others were to treat of knowledge and
its limits, of government — ecclesiastical and civil — and of
morality. The last book itself involved an elaborate plan.
There were to be three epistles about each cardinal virtue
— one, for example, upon avarice ; another on the contrary
extreme of prodigality; and a third upon the judicious
mean of a moderate use of riches. Pope told Spencc that
he had dropped the plan chiefly because his third book
would have provoked every Church on the face of the
earth, and he did not (vare for always being in boiling wa-
ter. The scheme, however, was far too wide and too sys-
tematic for Pope's powers. His spasmodic energy enabled
him only to fill up corners of the canvas, and from what
he did, it is sufficiently evident that his classification would
have been incoherent and his philosophy unequal to the
task. Part of his work was used for the fourth book of
' Spencc, pp. 16,48, 137, 315.

182

POPE.

[chap.

!••

ili

the Diinciad, and tlic remainder corresponds to wliat are
now called the IMic Epistles. Tlicse, u.s they now staixl,
inohide five pocins. One of these ha.s no rJal connexion'
witli the others. It is a poem addressed to A.hlison, " oc-
casioned by his dialoirue on medals," written (accordiiiu- to
Pope) in 1715, and lirst published in Tiekell's edition" of
Addison's works in 1721. The epistle to Biirlino-ton on
taste was afterwards called the Use of Riches, and append-
ed to another with the same title, thus filling a place in
the etliical scheme, though devoted to a very subsidiary
branch of the subject. Jt appeared in 1731. * The epistle
" of tlio use of riches " appeared in 1 732 ; that of tlie knowl-
edge and characters of men in 1733 ; and that of the char-
acters of women in 1 735. The last three arc all that would
seem to belong to the wider treatise contemplated; but
Pope composed so much in fragments that it is difficult to
say what bits lie might have originally intended for any
given purpose.

Another distraction seems to have done more tliau his
fear of boiling water to arrest the progress of the elaborate
plan. Bolingbroke coming one day into liis room, took
up a Horace, and observed that the first satire of tlie sec-
ond book would suit Pope's style. Pope translated it in a
morning or two, and sent it to press almost immediately
(1733). The poem had a brilliant success. It contained,
amongst other things, the couplet which provoked his war
with Lady Mary and Lord Ilcrvey. This, ao-ain, led to Ids
putting together the epistle to Arbuthnot, which includes
the bitter attack upon IIervey,as part of a general apologia
pro vita sua. It was afterwards called the Prologue to the
Satires. Of his other imitations of Horace, one appeared
in 1734 (the second satire of the second book), and four
more (the first and sixth epistles of the first book and the

[chap.

VIII.]

EnSTLES AND SATIRES.

183

first and second of the second book) in 1738. Finally, in
1737, lie. puUlishcd two dialogues, first called " 1738," and
afterwards The Apilnf/ue to the Satires, which are in the
same vein as the epistle to Arbuthnot. These epistles I'nd
imitai. )iis of Horace, with the so-called proU\«i-ue and epi-
logue, took up the o'rcatest part of Tope's encrijy duriiin;
the years in which his intellec. was at its best, and show
his finest technical qualities. The Usual/ on Man was on
hand durintj the early part of this period, the epistles and
satires representini; a rainification from the same inipiiry.
But the essay shows the weak side of Pope, whilst his
most remarkable qualities are best represented by these
fsubsidiary writings. The reason will be sufficiently appar-
ent after a brief examination, which will also give occasion
for saying what still remains to be said in regard to Pope
as a literary artist.

The weakness already conspicuous in the Esmif on Man
mars tlie ellect of the Ethic Epistles. His work tends to
be rather an aggregation than an organic whole. He was
(if I may borrow a phrase from the philologists) an ag-
glutinative writer, and composed by sticking together inde-
pendent fragments. His mode of composition was natural
to a mind incapable of sustained and continuous thought.
In the epistles he professes to be working on a plan. The
first expounds his favourite theory (also treated in the es-
say) of a " ruling passion." Each man has such a passion,
if only you can find it, which explains the appareiit incon-
sistency of his conduct. This theory, which has exposed
him to a charge of fatalism (especially from people who
did not very well know what fatalism means), is sufficient-
ly striking for liis purpose ; but it rather turns up at in-
tervals than really binds the epistle into a whole. But
the arrangement of his portrait gallery is really unsys-
K 9

!ii» P

I i

18 J

POPE.

[niAP.

tcinatlc; the aftectation of system is rather in tlic way.
Tlic most striking charactc^rs in the essay on women were
inserted (whenever eomposed) some time after its first ap-
^'.ournnee, and tlio construction is too loose to make any
iri'lorrnptii/*! of tlie ar<»-nnient perceptible. The poems
•ontain some ./f I'opc's most brillianr bits, but we can
scarcely remember them as a whole. The characters of
Wharton and Villiers, of Atossa, of the Man of Koss, and
Sir Uahi.'im, stand out as brilliant passatijes which would
do almost as well in any other settino-. In the imitations
of Horace he is, of 'irso, guided by lines already laid
down for him; and lie has shown admirable skill in
translating the substance as well as the words of his au-
thor by the nearest e(iuivalents. This peculiar mode of
imitation had been tried by other writers, but in Tope's
hands it succeeded beyond all precfdent. There is so
much congeniality between Horace and Pope, and the
social orders of which they were the spokesmen, that he
can represent his original without giving us any sense of
constraint. Yet even liere he sometimes obscures the
thread of connexion, and we feel more or less clearly
that the order of thought is not that which would have
spontaneously arisen in his own mind. So, for example,
in the imitation of Horace's first epistle of the first book,
the references to the Stoical and Epicurean morals imply
a connexion of ideas to which nothing corresponds in
Pope's reproduction. Horace is describing a genuine ex-
perience, while Pope is only putting together a string of
commonplaces. The most interesting part of these im-
itations are those in which Pope takes advantage of the
suggestions in Horace to be thoroughly autobiographical.
lie manages to run his own experience and feelings into
the moulds provided for him by his predecessor. One

[<niAi'.

Vlll.]

KPISTLES AND SATIRES.

185

One

of tlic liapprst passages is that in wliich he turns the
serious panciiyvic on Augustus into a hitter irony against
the other Augustus, whose name was George, and wlio,
according to Lord Hcrvi y was so contrasted ■- 1\\ his
prototype, that whereas p( . -onal courage w-. .'.c one
weak poll t. of tlie emperor, it was the; one strong point
of the English king. As s»oii as Pope has a chance of
expressing his personal antipathies or (to do him bare
justice) his personal attachments, his lines begin to glow.
When he is trying to preach, to be ethical and philosoph-
ical, he is apt to fall into mouthing, and to lose his place ;
but when he can forget his stilts, or point his morality by
some concrete and personal instance, every word is alive.
And it is this which makes the epilogues, and more es-
pecially the prologue to the satires, his most impressive
performances. The unity, which is very ill supplied by
some ostensible philosophical thesis, or even by the lead-
ing-strings of Horace, is given by his own intense interest
in himself. The best way of learning to enjoy Pope is to
get by heart the epistle to Arbuthnot. That epistle is, as
I have said, his Apolofjia. In its some 400 lines he ha
managed to compress more of his feelings and thoughts
than would fill an ordinary autobiography. It is true
that the epistle requires a commentator. It wants some
familiarity with the events of Pope's life, and many lines
convey only a part of their meaning unless wo are famil-
iar not only with the events, but with the characters of
the persons mentioned. Passages over wliich, we pass
carelessly at the first reading then come out with won-
derful freshness, and single phrases throw a sudden light
upon hidden depths of feeling. It is also true, unluckily,
that parts of it must be read by the rule of contraries.
They tell us not what Pope really was, but what he

186

POPE.

[chap.

■'(

wished otlicrs to tliink liim, and wliat he probably en^
deavoured to persuade himself that ho was. IIow far lie
succeeded in iniposino- upon himself is indeed a very cnri-
ous question wliich can never be fully answered. There
is tlic strano-est mixture of lionesty and hypocrisy. Let
rao, he says, live my own, and die so too —
"(To live and die is all I have to do)

Maintain a poet's dignity and case,

And see wliat friends and read Avliat books I please!"

"Well, he was independent in his fashion, and we can at
least believe that he so far believed in himself. But
when ho q-oos on to say that he "can sleep without a
poem in his liead,

'Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead,'"

we remember liis callino- up the maid four times a night
in the dreadful winter of 1740 to save a thouglit, and tlie
features writhing in anguish as lie read a hostile pam-
piilet. Tresently he informs us that " he tliinks a Ho in
prose or verse the same" — only too much the same! and
that " if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways." Alas !
for the manliness. And yet again, when he speaks of liis
parents,

" Unspotted names and venerable lonj:^,
If there be foree in virtue or in sonir."

can we doubt that he is speaking from the heart? We
should perliapslike to forget that the really exquisite and
touciiin^ lines in whicli he speaks of his mother had been
so carefully elaborated.

" Me let the tender oflico long engage
To roek the cradle of declining age,
With lenient acts extend a mother's breath.
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death,

•■«^:'

('.

[CIIAP.

bably on'
o\v far lie
very curi-
i. Thure
I'isy. Let

vc can at
L'lf. But
Aitliout a

s a niglit
t, and tlic
tile pain-
s a lie in
;ime ! and
" Alas !
iks of his

irt ? We
lisite and
had been

vni.] EnSTLES AXD SATIRES. 187

Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from tlie sky !"

If there arc more toiuler and oxqnisitely expressed
lines in the language, I know not where to find them ; and
yet again I should be glad not to be reminded by a cruel
commcn.tator that poor Mrs. Pope liad been dead for two
years when they were published, and that even this touch-
ing effusion has, therefore, a taint of dramatic affectation.

To me, I confess, it seems most probable, though at iirst
sight incredible, that these utterances were thoroughly sin-
cere for the moment. I fancy that under Pope's elabo-
rate masks of hypocrisy and mystification there was a heart
always abnormally sensitive. Unfortunately it was as ca-
pable of bitter resentment as of warm affection, and
was always liable to be misled by the suggestions of his
strangely irritable vanity. And this seems to me to give
the true key to Pope's poetical as well as to his personal
characteristics.

To explain either, we must remember that he was a man
of impulses ; at one instant a mere inc;irnate thrill of grat-
itude or generosity, and in the next of spite or jealousy.
A spasm of wounded vanity would make him for the time
as mean and selfish as other men are made by a frenzy of
bodily fear. Jle would in--tinctively snatch at a lie even
when a moment's reflection would have shown that the
plain truth would be more convenient, and therefore he
had to accumulate lie upon lie, each intended to patch up
some previous blunder. Though nominally the poet of
reason, lie was the very antithesis of the man who is
reasonable in the highest sense ; wlio is truthful in word
and deed because his conduct is regulated by harmonious
and invariable principles. Pope was governed by the in-
stantaneous feeling. His emotion came in sudden jets

i!'

'' 1^

i :|to

188

POPE.

[chap.

i i^

fr ,|

'' V

'![

and gushes, instead of a continuous stream. The same
peculiarity deprives his poetry of continuous hartnonv or
profound unity of conception. His lively sense of form
and proportion enables hiui, indeed, to fill up a simple
framework (generally of borrowed design) with an eye to
general effect, as in the Ea2)e of the Lock or the fii-st Dun-
ciad. But even there liis flight is short ; and when a
poem should be governed by the evolution of some pro-
found principle or complex mood of sentiment, ho be-
comes incoherent and perplexed. But, on the other hand,
he can perceive admirably all that can be seen at a glance
from a single point of view. Though he could not be
continuous, be could return again and again to the same
point; he could polish, correct, eliminate superfluities, and
compress his meaning more and more closely, till he has
constructed short passages of imperishable excellence.
This microscopic attention to fragments sometimes injures
the connexion, and often involves a mutilation of construc-
tion, lie corrects and prunes too closely, lie could, he
says, in reference to the IiJssa// on Man, put things more
briefly in verse than in prose ; one reason being tliat he
could take liberties of this kind not permitted in prose
writing. But the injury is compensated by the singular
terseness and vivacity of liis best style. Scarcely any one,
as is often remarked, has left so large a proportion of
quotable phrases,' and, indeed, to the present he survives
chiefly by the current coinage of that kind which bears
liis image and superscription.

This familiar remark may help us to solve the old prob-

' To take an obviously uncertain test, I find that in Bartlett's dic-
tionary of familiar quotations, Shakspearo fills TO pages ; Milton,
23 ; Pope, 18 ; Wordsworth, 16 ; and Byron, 15. The rest are no-
where.

^\»

^s^^^z

[chap.

The same
lannony or
se of form
p a simple
1 an eye to
! first Dun-
id when a

some pro-
cnt, he be-
)thcr liand,
at a fi-lance
iild not be
) the same
iuities, and
till he has
excellence,
nes injures
f construc-
e could, he
lings more
ig that he
i in prose
le singular
y any one,
portion of
e survives
liich bears

i old prob-

ai'tlett's die-
ses ; Milton,
:est are no-

TIII.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

189

lem, whether Pope was, or rather in what sense he was,
a poet. Much of his work may be fairly described as
rhymed prose, differing from prose not in substance or
tone of feeling, but only in the form of expression. Ev-
ery poet has an invisible audience, as an orator has a visi-
ble one, who deserve a great part of the merit of his
works. Some men may write for the religious or philo-
sophic recluse, and therefore utter the emotions which
come to ordinary mortals in the rare moments when the
music of the spheres, generally drowned by the din of the
commonplace world, becomes audible to their dull senses.
Pope, on the other hand, writes for the wits who never
listen to such strains, and moreover writes for their ordina-
ry moods, lie aims at giving \is the refined and doubly
distilled essence of the conversation of the statesmen and
courtiers of his time. The standard of good writing al-
ways implicitly present to his mind is the fitness of his
poetry to pass muster when shown by Gay to his duchess,
or read after dinner to a party composed of Swift, Boling-
broke, and Congreve. That imaginary audience is always
looking over his shoulder, applauding a good hit, chuck-
ling over allusions to the last bit of scandal, and ridiculing
any extravagance tending to romance or sentimental ism.

The limitations imposed by such a condition arc obvi-
ous. As men of taste. Pope's friends would make their
bow to the recognized authorities. They would praise
Paradise Lout, but a new Milton would be as much out
of place with them as the real Milton at the court of
Charles IT. They would really prefer to have his verses
tagged by Dryden, or the Samson polished by Pope.
They would have ridiculed Wordsworth's mysticism or
Shelley's idealism, as they laughed at the religious "en-
thusiasm" of Law or Wesley, or the metaphysical subtle-

^.1. 5 1

»!•

1«I

■\ 1

it :

lit

190

POPE.

[chap.

hl-.il

ties of Berkeley and Iluine. They preferred the philoso-
phy of the Esscnj on Man, which might be approi^riated
by a cominon-sense preacher, or the rhetoric of Eloisa and
Ahelanl, bits of which init>-lit be used to excellent effect
(as, indeed, Vo\)(i himself used the peroration) by a tine
gentleman addressing his gallantry to a contemporary Sap-
pho. It is oidy too easy to expose tiieir sli.-illowncss, and
therefore to overlook what "svas genuine in their feelings.
After all. Pope's eminent friends were no mere tailor's
blocks for the displ;iy of laced coats. Swift and Boling-
broke were not enthusiasts nor philosophers, but certain-
ly they were no fools. They liked, in the first place,
thorongh polish. They could appreciate a perfectly turn-
ed phrase, an epigram which concentrated into a couplet
a volume of quick observations, a smart saying from
Rochefoucauld or La Bruyere, which gave an edge to
worldly wisdom ; a really brilliant utterance of one of
those maxims, half true and not over profound, but still
presenting one aspect of life as they saw it, which have
since grown rather threadbare. This sort of moralizing,
which is the staple of Pope's epistles upon the rulino- pas-
sion or upon avarice, strikes us now as unpleasantly ob-
vious. We have got beyond it, and want sonie more re-
fined analysis and more complex psychology. Take, for
example, Pope's ej)istle to Bathurst, which was in hand
for two years, and is just 400 lines in length. The sim-
plicity of the remarks is almost comic. Nobody want'
to be told now that bribery is facilitated by modern sys
tern of credit.

I \

" Plcst paper-credit ! last and best supply
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly !"

This triteness blinds us to the singular f<}licity with

[CIIAP.

ho philoso-
)))r()})riat(,'d
A'/o/sd and
Ik'iit effect

by u tine
loi'ary Sap-
»\\ Mess, and
if feelings,
ere tailor's
nd Boling-
iit ccrtain-
tirst place,
'ectly tiirn-

a couplet
yin<i;- from
n odo-c to
of one of
d, but still
k'liich have
moralizing,
ruling pas-
isantly ob-
3 more rc-

Take, for
s in liand

The sini-
ody waiitf
odcrn svs

icity with

VIII.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

191

which the observations have been verified, a felicity which
makes many of the phrases still proverbial. The mark is
so plain that we do scant justice to the accuracy and pre-
cision with which it is hit. Yet when we notice how ev-
ery epithet tells, and how perfectly the writer does what
he tries .to do, we may understand why Pope extorted
contemporary admiration. We may, for example, read
once more the familiar passage about Buckingham. The
picture, such as it is, could not be drawn more strikingly
with fewer lines,

" III the worst inn's worst room, with mat balf-iiung,
Tiie floors of plaistor and tliu walls of d, ng,
On once a floek-bed, but repaii'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from tliat bed,
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies ! alas, liow changed from him,
That life of pleasure and tliat soul of whim !
Gallant and gay in Cliveden's proud alcove.
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ;
As great as gay, at council in a ring
Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter left of all his store !
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
Thus, victor of his health, of fortune, friends.
And fame, the lord of useless thousands ends."

It is as graphic as a page of Dickens, and has the ad-
vantage of being less grotesque, if the sentiment is equally
obvious. When Pope has made his hit, lie docs not blur
the effect by trying to repeat it.

In these epistles, it must be owned that the sentiment
is not only obvious but prosaic. The moral maxims are
delivered like advice offered by one sensible man to an-
other, not with the impassioned fervour of a prephet.
9* 26

■111

;

nt2

POPE.

[chap.

n II

I')

Nor ran Pope often rise to that level at which alone satire
is transmuted into the higher class of poetry. To accom-
plish that feat, if, indeed, it be possible, the poet must not
simply ridicule the fantastic tricks of poor mortals, but
show how they appear to the angels who weep over them.
The petty figures must be projected against a background
of the infinite, and we must feel the relations of our tiny
eddies of life to the oceanic currents of human history.
Pope can never rise above the crowd, lie is looking at
liis equals, not contemplating them fron) the height which
reveals their insignificance. The element, which may fair-
ly be called poetical, is derived from an inferior source ;
but sometimes has passion enough in it to lift him above
mere prose.

In one of his most animated passages. Pope relates his
desire to

" Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men.
Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car,
Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star."

For the moment he takes himself seriously ; and, indeed,
he seems to have persuaded both himself and his friends
that he was really a great defender of virtue. Arbuthnot
begged him, almost with his dying breath, to continue his
" noble disdain and abhorrence of vice," and, with a due
regard to his own safety, to try rather to reform than
chastise ; and Pope accepts the office ostentatiously. Ilis
provocation is " the strong antipathy of good to bad," and
he exclaims, —

" Yes ! I am proud — I must be proud — to sec
Men not afraid of God afraid of me.
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone."

If the sentiment provokes a slight incredulity, it is vet

yji^ fA

[chap.

VIII.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

193

worth while to understand its real meaning; and tlie ex-
phuiation is not very far to seek.

Tope's best writint;-, I li;ue said, is the essence of con-
versation. It has the <juick movement, the bohiness and
l)rilliance, wliich we suppose to bo the attributes of the
best talk. Of course the apparent facility is due to con-
scientious labour. In the Prologue and Epilo(fuc and the
best parts of the imitations of Horace, he shows such con-
summate mastery of his peculiar stylo, that we forget the
monotonous metre. The opening passage, for example, of
the Prologue is written apparently with the perfect free-
dom of real dialogue ; in fact, it is of course far more
pointed and compressed than any dialogue could ever be.
The dramatic vivacity with which the whole scene is given
shows that he could use metre as the most skilful perform-
er could command a musical instrument. Pope, indeed,
shows, in the Essay on Criticism, that his views about the
uniformity of soimd and sense were crude enough ; they
are analogous to the tricks by which a musician might de-
cently imitate the cries of animals or the murmurs of a
crowd; and his art excludes any attempt at rivalling the
melody of the great poets who aim at producing a har-
mony quite independent of the direct meaning of their
words. I am only speaking of the felicity with which he
can move in metre, without the slightest appearance of re-
straint, so as to give a kind of idealized representation of
the tone of animated verbal intercourse. Whatever comes
within this province he can produce with admirable fidelity.
Now, in such talks as we imagine with Swift and lioling-
broke, we may be quite sure that there would be some
very forcible denunciation of corruption — corruption be-
ing of course regarded as due to the diabolical agency of
Walpole. During his later years, Tope became a friend

<■ !l

lii

>iti«

\ \

',»

! ■\

194

roPE.

[en AT.

of all the Opposition clique, wliieli was undennining tlio
power of the o-reat iiiitiistei'. In his last letters to Swift,
Tope speaks of the new circle of proinisinu; patriots who
were rising round him, and from whom he entertained
liopes of the regeneration of this corrupt country. Senti-
ments of this kind were the staple talk of the circles in
which lie moved ; and all the young men of promise be-
lieved, or persuaded themselves to fancy, that n political
millennium would follow tlu' downfall of Walpole. Pope,
susceptible as always to \\w. influences of his social sur-
roundings, took in all this, and delighted in figuring him-
self as the prophet of the new era and the denouncer of
wickedness in high places. lie sees "old England's gen-
ius" dragged in tlu; dust, hears the black trumpet of vice
proclaiming that "not to be corn: ted is the shame," and
declares that he will draw the last pen for freedom^ and
use his " sacred weapon " in truth's defence.

To imagine Pope at his best, we must place ourselves in
Twickenham on some fine day, when the long disease has
relaxed its grasp for a moment ; when he has ^"ken a turn
through his garden, and comforted his poor frame with
potted lampreys and a glass or two from his frugal pint.
Suppose two or three friends to be sitting with him, the
stately liolingbroke or the mercurial Iiathurst, with one of
the patriotic hopes of mankind, Marchmont or Lyttelton,
to stimulate his ardour, and the amiable Spence, or Mrs.
Patty Blount to listen reverentially to his morality. Let
tlu! conversation kindle into vivacity, and host and guests
fall into a friendly rivalry, whetting each other's wits by
lively repartee, and airing the tittle fragments of worldly
wisdom which pass muster for profound observation at
Court ; for a time they talk platitudes, though striking out
now and then brilliant flashes, as from the collision of pol-

^^V..

[criAP.

vm.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

195

isliod rapiers; tlicy divergo, perhaps, into literature, and
Pope sliines in discussiniij the secrets of tlie art to whicli
his wliole life has been devoted with untiiiiiu' tidelity.
Suddenly the mention of sonic noted name i)rovokes a
startlinj^ outburst of personal invective from Pope; his
friends judiciously divert the current of wrath into a new
channel, and lie becomes for the moment a generous
patriot declaiming against the growth of luxury ; the men-
tion of some sympathizing friend brings out a compliment,
so exquisitely turned, as to be a perinaneist title of honour,
conferred by genius instead of power; or the thought of
his parents makes his voice tremble, and his eyes shine
with pathetic softness; and you forgive the occasional af-
fectation which you can never quite forget, or even the
occasional grossness or harshness of sentiment which con-
trasts so strongly with the superficial polish. A genuine
report of even the best conversation would be intolerably
prosy and unimaginative. But imagine the very pith and
essence of such talk brought to a focus, concentrated into
the smallest possible space with the infinite dexterity of a
thorouglily trained hand, and you have the kind of writing
in which Pope is unrivalled; polished prose with occa-
sional gleams of genuine poetry — the Epistle to Arhuth-
not and the Epilorfuc 'o the Satires.

One point remains to be briefly noticed. The virtue on
which Pope prided himself was correctness; and I have
interpreted this to mean the quality which is gained by in-
cessant labour, guided by quick feeling, and always under
the strict supervision of common-sense. The next literary
revolution led to* a depreciation of this quality. Warton
(like Macaulay long afterwards) argued that in a higher
sense, tlie Elizabethan poets were really as c ••••?ct as Pope.
Their poetry embodied a higher and more complex law.

i i

■i V

ill

• i

5.r

{

I'.HJ

POPE.

[chap.

tliniitih it iicy'lcctctl the narrow out-atul-driod prooppts rcc-
oi;iiized in tlii! Qiicon Anne period. Tiie new school cjuno
to express too undiseriminatiufjf a contenipt for the whole
theory and practiee of Pope and his followers. I'ope, .said
Cowper, and a thousand critics liave echoed his words,

" Made poetry a mere mechanic art,
And every warbler liad his tunc by heart."

Without discussing the wider question, I may here
brietly remark that tliis judgment, taken absolutely, gives
a very false impression of Pope's artistic (piality. Pope
is undoubtedlv monotonous. Except in one or two Ivrics,
such as the Ode on St. CclUi'ii Buij, which must be reck-
oned amongst his utter failures, lie invariably employed
the same metre. The discontinuity of his style, and the
strict rules which he adopted, tend to disintegrate his
poems. They are a series of brilliant passages, often of
brilliant couplets, stuck together in a conglomerate; and
as the inferior connecting matter decays, the interstices
open and allow the whole to fall into ruin. To read u se-
ries of such couplets, each complete in itself, and each so
constructed as to allow of a very small variety of form, is
naturally to receive an impression of monotony. Pope's
antitheses fall into a few common forms, which are re-
peated over and over again, and seem cojjv to each other.
And, in a sense, such work can be ve.y easily imitated.
A very inferior artist can obtain most of his efforts, and
all the external qualities of his stvle. One ten-svllabled
rhyming couplet, with the whole sense strictly confined
within its limits, and allowing only of such variety as fol-
lows from changing the pauses, is undoubtedly very much
like another. And accordingly one may read in anv col-
lection of British poets innumerable pages of versification

[chap.

vul]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

wliich — if yon do not look too close — arc oxacti lik'
Pope. All poets who have any marked styU^ are iiion ('■
less imitahlo ; in the present age of revivals, a elever \
sifier is capable of adopting the manners of his leading
contemporaries, or that of any poet from Spenser to Shel-
ley or Keats. The <iuuntity of work searcely distinguish-
able from that of the worst passages in Mr. Tennys(;n, Mr.
lirowning, and Mr, Swinbiinie, seems to be limited only
by the snpi)ly of stationery at the disposal of practised
performers. That which makes the imitations of Pope
prominent is partly the extent of his sovereignty ; the vast,
number of writers who confined themselves exclusively to
his style ; and partly the fact that what is er.sily iniitablc
in him is so conspicuous an element of the whole. The
rigid framework which he adopted is easily definable with
mathematical precision. The diiference between the best
work of Pope and the ordinary work of his followers is
confined within narrow limits, and not easily perceived at
a glance. The difference between blank verse in the hands
of its few masters and in the hands of a third-rate imita-
tor strikes the ear in every line. Far more is left to the
individual idiosyncrasy. But it does not at all follow, and
in fact it is quite untrue, that the distinction which turns
on an apparently insignificant element is therefore unim-
portant. The value of all good work ultimately depends
on touches so fine as to elude the sight. And the proof
is that although Pope was so constantly imitated, no later
and contemporary writer succeeded in approaching his ex-
cellence. Young, of the Nif/ht Thour/hts, was an extraor-
dinarily clever writer and talker, even if he did not (as one
of his hearers asserts) eclipse Voltaire by the brilliance of
his conversation. Young s satires show abundance of wit,
and one may not be able to say at a glance in what they

y >

§4*1

1!»8

I'OI'K.

[CIIAI'.

aiv infrri,,,- t.. Popo. Vot tlioy l.avo liopt'lcssly perislinl.
whilst I'op,.',s work remains dassical. Of all'the crowd
of fiu:iit(>ontli-ccnl.iry writers in Pope's nianner. onlv two
made an approach to hitn wrth noti.e. Johnson's V(/«/.
til of Unman Wl,/i,'s surpasses I'ope in uenerai sense of
power, and (Joldsniith's two poems in the san;e style have
phrases of a hinher order than I'ope's. J]ut even thes-j
poems have not made so deep a mark. In the last irener-
ation, tiitford's Uuviad and Maviiu/,md IJyron's A'^ir/li.h
Bunls and Scotch Reviewers, were elever re'productions of
the manner; but Gilford is already unreadable, and JJy-
ron is pale beside his ori-rinal; and, therefore, makint,^ full
allowance for Pope's monotony, and ihe tiresome promi-
nence of certain mechanical effects, we must, I think. a<l-
init that he has after all succeeded in doiuo- with unsur-
passabl . excellence wliat innumerable rivals have failed to
do as well. The explanation is — if the phrase explains
anything— that lie was a man of genius, or that he brouirht
to a task, not of the liighest class, a keenness of sensibili-
ty, a conscientious desire to do his very best, and a capaci-
ty for takinu' l)ains with his work, which enabled him to
be as indisputably the lirst in his own peculiar line, as our
greatest men have been in far more lofty undertakinos.

The man wjio could not publish pastorals without get-
tMig into .|uarrels, was ^ ardly likely t:) become a professed
satirist without givin,^ Hence. Besides numerous stabs
administered to old enemies, Pope opened some fresh ani-
mosities l)y passages in these poems. Some pointed ridi-
cule was aimed at Montagu, Earl of Ifalifax, in the Pro-
logue; for there can be no doubt that Halifax' was point-
ed out in the character of Buf,>. Pope told a story in

' Roscoe's attempt at a denial was ooiiflu,<ively answered bv Bowled
ill one of his pamphlets.

[»'il;

\ 111. j

ElMSTliES AND SATIHKS.

I'J'J

later days of an introduction to Halifax, the p;rcat patron
of the early years of the conttiry, win? wished to liear iiiui
read his Homer. After the readini; Halifax ,sun:u;csteil that
one passa!;;e sli-iild he improved. I'ope retiri'd rather
puzzled by his \;iguc reniar): " >, l>y (iarth's advice, re-
turned some time afterwards, and reail the same passai^e
without alteration. "Ay, now, Mr. Pope," said Halifax,
"they are perfectly rii;ht; nothiiii; can be better!" This
little incident perhaps sugf^ested to I'ope that Halifax wa;^
a humbui;, and there seems, as already noticed, to have
been some difliculty about the desired dedication of the
Iliad. Though Halifax had been dead for twenty years
when the Prologue appeared, Pope may liavc been in the
rioht ill satirizino' the pomjious would-be patron, from
whom he had received nothing, and whose pretences he
had J ^cn through. P)iit tlie bitterness of the attack is dis-
agreeable when we add that Pope paid Halifax jiigh com-
pliments in the preface to the Iliad, and boasted of his
friendship, sliortly after the satire, in the Epilogue to the
Satires. A more disagreeable affair at tlie moment was
the description, in the Epistle on Taste, of Canons, the
splendid seat of the Duke of Chandos. Chandos, being
still alive, resented the attack, and Pope had not the cour-
age to avow his meaning, which might in that case have
been justifiable. He declared to Burlington (to wliom the
epistle was addressed), and to Chandos, that he liad not
intended Canons, and tried to make peace by saying in
another epistle that " gracious Chandos is beloved at sight."
This exculpation, says Johnson, was received by the duke
" with great magnaiiiiuity, as by a man who accepted his
excuse, without believing his professions." Nobody, in
fact, believed, and even Warburton let out the secret by a
comic oversight. Pope had pro[)hesied in his poem that
O

■m

1 , 1

1 !

k I

I i!','

V ^

200

POPK.

[CIIAI-.

anotlici- ao-e would sec tlic destruction of "Tiinon's Villa,"
wiien luugliing Ceres would reassuine the land. Had he
lived three years longer, said Warburton in a note, Pope
would have seen his prophecy fulfilled, namely, by the de-
struction of Canons. The note was corrected, but the ad-
mission that Canons belonged to Tiinon had been made.

To such accusations I'opc had a general answer. He
described the type, not the individual. The fault was
with the public, who chose to fit the cap. His friend re-
monstrates in the Epilogue against his personal satire.
"Come on, then. Satire, general, unconfined," exclaims the
poet,

" Spread thy Ijroail wing and souse on all the kind
*******
Ye reverend atheists. (Friend) .Seatidal ! name them ! who?
(Pope) Wiiy, that's tiie thing you hade me not to do.
Who starved a sister, who forswore a debt,
I never named ; the town's inquiring yet.
The pois'ning dame— (F.) You mean— (P.) I don't. (F.)
You do.
(P.) See, now, I keep the secret, and not you I"

It must, in fact, be admitteil that from the purely artis-
tic point of view Pope is right. Prosaic commentators are
always asking, Who is meant by a poet ? as though a poem
were a legal (hocument. It may be interesting, for various
purposes, to know who was in the writer's mind, or what
fact suggested the general picture. But we have no right
to look outside the poem itself, or to infer anything not
within the four corners of the statement. It matters not
for such purposes whether there was, or was not, any real
person corresponding to Sir Balaam, to whom his wife said,
when lie was enriched by Cornish wreckers, *' live like
yourself,"

[clIAf.

n's Villa,"
Had he
lote, Pope
yy the de-
nt the ad-
n made,
iwcr. He
fault was
friend re-
lal satire.
;laiins the

Vlll.]

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

201

leni ! who ?

lou't. (F.)

rely artis-
tators are
h a poem
ir various
, or what
no right
L.hing not
itters not
, any real
ivife said,
live like

" When lo ! two puddings smoked upon tlic board,"
in place of the previous one on Sabbath days. Nor does
it even matter whether zVttieus meant Addison, or Sappho
Lady Mary. The satire is equally good, whether its ob-
jects are mere names or realities.

But the moral question is quite distinct. In that case
we must ask whether Pope used words calculated or in-
tended to fix an imputation upon particular people.
Whether he did it in prose or verse, the offence was the
same. In many cases he gives real names, and in many
others gives unmistakable indications, which must have
fixed his satire to particular people. If he had written
Addison for Atticus (as he did at first), or Lady Mary for
Sappho, or Halifax for Bufo, the insinuation could not have
been clearer. Ilis attempt to evade his responsibility was
a mere equivocation — a device which he seems to have pre-
ferred to direct lying. The character of Bufo might be
equally suitable to others; but no reasonable man could
doubt that every one would fix it upon Halifax. In some
cases — possibly in that of Chandos — he may have thought
that his language was too general to apply, and occasional-
ly it seems that he sometimes tried to evade consc(iuenccs
bv addinii- some inconsistent characteristic to his portraits.
I say this, because I am here forced to notice the woi'st
of all the imputations upon Pope's character. The epistle
on the characters of women now includes the famous lines
on Atossa, which did not appear till after Pope's death.'
They were (in 174G) at once applied to the famous Sarah,
Duchess of Marlborough ; and a story immediately became
current that the duchess had paid Pope 1000/. to suppress
them, but that he preserved them, with a view to tin ir ul-
timate publication. This story was repeated by Warton
' On this subject Mr. Dilke's I'ujicrs of a Critk.

•> II

202

roi'E.

! I

[CIIAP.

and by A\'alpolo ; it has been accoptod bv Mr. Canuthors,
who .siio-o-ost.s, by way of palliation, that Pope was desirous
at the time of providing- for Martha Dlount, and probably
took the sum in order to buy an annuity for her. Now, if
the story were proved, it must be adniitted that it woi'ild
reveal a baseness in Pope which would be worth.y only of
the lowest and most venal literary marauders. No more
disgraceful imputation could have been made upon Curll,
or Curll's miserable dependents. A man who could so
prostitute liis talents must have been utterly vile. Pope
has sins enough to answer for; but his other meannesses
were either sacriHees to his morbid vanity, or (like his of-
fence against Swift, or las lies to Aaron liill and Chandos)
collateral results of spasmodic attempts to escape from hu-
miliation. In money-matters he seems to have been gen-
erally independent. He refused gifts from his rich friends,
and confuted the rather similar calumny that he had re-
ceived 500/. from the Duke of Chandos. If the account
rested upon mere contemporary scandal, we might reject
it on the ground of its inconsistency with his known char-
acter, and its likeness to other fabrications of his enemies.
There is, however, further evidence. It is sucli evidence
as would, at most, justify a verdict of "not proven " in a
court of justice. Jjut the critic is not bound by legal
rules, and has to say what is the most probable s.'.Iulinn,
without fear or favour.

I cannot here go into the minute details. This much
however, may be taken as established. Pope was printinJ
a new edition of his works at the time of his death. He
bad just distributed to his friends some copies of the
^Mic Epislles, and in those copies the Atossa appeared,
i^olingbroke, to whom Pope had left his unpublished pa-
pers, discovered it, and immediately ideutitied it with the

'^V

[chap.

iniieii,

VllI.J

EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

'203

ducliess, wlio (it must be noticed) was still alive. He wrote
to March iiiout, one of Poj)e's executors, that there could
be "no excuse for Pope's . sign of publishing it after the
favour you and I know." This is further explained by a
note added in pencil by Marchiuont's executor, "1000/.;"
and the son of this executor, who published the Mavch-
inont papers, says that tliis was the favour received by
Pope from the duchess. This, liowcvcr, is far from prov-
ing a direct bribe. It is, in fact, hardly conceivable that
the duchess and Pope should have made such a bargain in
direct black and white, and equally inconceivable tliat two
men like Bolingbroke and Marclunont should have been
privy to such a transaction, and spoken of it in such terms.
Bolingbroke thinks that the favour received laid J\>pe
under an obligation, but evidently does not think that it
implied a contract. Mr. J)ilke has further pointed out
that there are many touches in the character which dis-
tinctly apply to the Duchess of Buckingham, with whom
Pope had certainly quarrelled, and which will not apply to
the Duchess of Marlborough, who had undoubtedly made
friends with liim during the last years of his life. Wal-
pole again tells a story, partly confirmed by Warton, that
Pope had shown the character to each duchess (Warton
says only to Marlborough), saying that it was meant for
the other. The Duchess of Buckingham, he says, believed
liim; the other liad more sense, and paid him 1000/. to
suppress it. Walpolc is no trustworthy authority; but
the coincidence implies at least that such a story was soon
current.

The most probable solution must conform to these data.
Pope's Atossa was a portrait which would fit either lady,
thougli it would be naturally applied to the most famous.
It seems certain, also, that Pope had received some favours

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POPE.

[chap. viii.

I ,

(possil)ly Uu! 1000/. on sonic occasion unknown) from tlic
Dnclicss of Marlboroiiyli, which was felt by iiis friends to
make any attack upon her unjiistitiable. We can scarcely
believe that there should have been a direct compact of
the kind described. If Pope had been a j)erson of duly
sensitive conscience lie would liave suppressed his work.
But to suppress anythiiii-- that he had written, and espe-
cially a passage so carefully laboured, was always agony
to liini. lie preferred, as we may perhaps conjecture, to
settle in his own mind that it would lit the Duchess of
Jiuckingliam, and possibly introduce some of the touches
to which Mr. Dilke refers, lie thought it sulliciently dis-
guised to be willing to publish it whilst the person' with
whom it was naturally identilicd was still alive. Had she
complained, he would have relied upon tliose touches, and
have equivocated as lie equivocated to Hill and Chandos.
He always seems to have fancied that he could conceal
himself by very tliin disguises. But he ought to have
known, and perhaps did know, that it would be immedi-
ately applied to the person who had conferred an obliga-
tion. From that guilt no liypothesis can relieve him ; but
it is certainly not proved, and seems, on the whole, im-
probable tiiat lie was so base as the concessions of his
biographers would indicate.

''<!

CHAPTER IX.

THE KND.

The last satires were published in 1738. Six years of life
still remained to Pope; his intellectual powers were still
viji'orous, and his pleasure in theii- exercise had not ceased.
The only fruit, however, of his labours during this period
was the fourth book of the DunckuL He spent much
time upon bringing out new editions of his works, and
upon the various intrigues connected with the Swift cor-
respondence. But his health was beginning to fail. The
ricketty framework was giving way, and failing to answer
the demands of the fretful and excitable brain. Tn the
spring of 1744 the poet was visibly breaking up; he suf-
fered from dropsical asthma, and seems to have made mat-
ters worse by putting himself in the hands of a notorious
quack— a Dr. Thomson. The end was evidently near as
he completed his fifty-sixth year. Friends, old and new,
were often in attendance. Above all, Bolingbroke, the
venerated friend of thirty years' standing; Patty Blount,
the woman whom he loved best ; and the excellent Spence,
who preserved some of the last words of the dying man.
The scene, as he saw it, was pathetic ; perhaps it is not less
pathetic to us, for whom it has another side as of grim
tragic humour.

Three weeks before his death Pope was sending off
copies of tlie Ethk i5}>/s</cs— apparently with the Atossa

200

roPE.

[chap.

! .M

\f,

\ ^

linos — to Ills friends. "Here I am, like Socrates," lie
said, "dispensing iny morality amonj>'st my friends just as
I am dying." Spencc watelied him as anxiously as his
disciples watched Socrates. lie was still sensihle to kind-
ness. Whenever Miss I31onnt came in, the failing spirits
rallied for a moment. lie was always saying something
kindly of his friends, "as if his hnnninity had outlasted
his understanding." Bolingbroke, when Spence made the
remark, said that he had never known a man with so ten-
der a heart for his own friends or for n^ankind. " I have
known Iiim," he added, "these thirty years, and value my-
self more for that man's love than—" and his voice was
lost in tears. At moments Pope could still be playful.
"Here I am, dying of n lumdred good symptoms," he re-
plied to some flattering report, but his mind was beginning
to wander. lie complained of seeing things as throutrli
a curtain. "What's that?" he said, pointing to the air,
and then, with a smile of great pleasure, added softly,
"'twas a vision." Ilis religious sentiments still edified liis
hearers. " I am so certain," he said, " of the soul's being
immortal, that I seem to feel it within me, as it were by
intuition ;" and early one morning he rose from bed and
t.ied to begin an essay upon immortality, apparently in a
state of semi-delirium. On Ids last day he sacrificed, as
Chesterfield rather cynically observes, his cock to ^Escnla-
pius. Ilookc, a zealous CV.tholic friend, asked liim wheth-
er lie would not send for a priest. " I do not suppose
that it is essential," said Pope, " but it will look right, and
I heartily thank you for putting me in mind of it." A
priest was brought, and Pope received the last sacraments
with great fervour and resignation. Next day, on Mav 30,
1744, he died so peacefully that his friends could not de-
termine the exact moment of death.

[chap.

IX.]

THE END.

207

It was a soft and toucliiiio; end; and yet \vc must once
more look at the otlicr side. Warbiirtou and Bolino-broke
botli appear to have been at the side of the dyino- man,
and before very lont,' they were to be quarrelling over his
grave. Pope's will showed at once that his quarrels were
hardly to end with hi^ death, lie had (piarrelled, though
the quarrel had been made up, with the generous Allen,
for some cause not ascertainable, except that it arose from
the mutual displeasure of Mr.«. Allen and Miss Blount. It
is pleasant to notice that, in the course of the (luarrel,
I'ope mentioned Warburton, in a letter to Miss Blount, as
a sneaking parson ; but Warburton was not aware of the
flash of sarcasm. Pope, as Johnson puts it, " polluted his
will with female resentment." He left a legacy of 150/,
to Allen, being, as lie added, the amount rec(>ned from his
friend— for himself or for charitable puiposes; and re-
quested Allen, if he should refuse the legacy for himself,
to pay it to the Bath Hospital. Allen adopted this sug-
gestion, saying quietly that Pope had always been a bad
accountant, and would have come nearer the truth if he*
liad added a cypher to the figures.

Another fact came to light, which produced a fiercer
()utl)urst. Pope, it was found, had printed a wliole edi-
tion (1500 copies) of the Patriot King, Bulingbroke's
most polished work. The motive could have been nothing
but a desire to preserve to posterity what Pope considered
to be a monument worthy of the highest genius, and was
so far comprnnentary to Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke, how-
ever, considered it as an act of gross treachery. Pope
had received the work on condition of keeping it strictly
private, and showing it to only a few friends. Moreover,
he had corrected it, arranged it, and altered or omitted
passao-es according to his own taste, which naturally did
" .0 ' 27

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rorE.

[vllAP.

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not suit the author's. In 1V49 Bolingbrokc gave a copy
to Mallet for publication, and prefixed an angry statement
to expose the breach of trust of "a man on whom the au-
thor thought he could entirely depend." Warburton rush-
ed to the defence of Pope and the demolition of Boling-
l)roke. A savage controversy followed, which survives
only in the title of one of Bolingbroke's pamphlets, A
Famlliur Ephtlc to the moat Impudent Matt, Liviiiij—i\
transparent paraphrase for Warburton. Tope's behaviour
is too much of a piece with previous underhand transac-
tions, but scarcely deserves further condemnation.

A single touch remains. I'ope was buried, by his own
directions, in a vault in Twickenham Church, near the
momnncnt erected to his parents. It contained a simple
inscription, ending with the words, '' Parentlbm hene me-
rentlhus fiUus fecity To this, as he directed in his will,
was to be added simply "c/ sibir This was done; but
seventeen years afterwards the clumsy Warburton erected
in the same church arother monument to Pope himself,
with this stupid inscription. Poeta loquitur.

" For one who would not fjc bi- -kd in Wcstmimtcr Abbey.

Iloroes and kii;gs, your distance keep !

In peace let one poor poet sleep

Who never flatter'd folks like you ;

Let Horace blusli, and Virgil too."

Most of us can tell from experience liow grievously our
posthumous ceremonials often jar upon the tenderest feel-
ings of survivors. Pope's valued friends seem to have
done their best to surround the last scene of his life with
painful associations ; and Pope, alas ! was an unconscious
accomplice. To us of a later generation it is impossible
to close this strange history without a singular mixture of
feelings. Admiration for the extraordinary literary talents,

[vIlAl-.

IX.l

THE KM).

2()'.»

respc(!t for the cncrjry which, iiiuler all disadvantages of
health and position, turned these talents to the hest ac-
count; love of the real tender-heartedness which formed
the basis of the man's character ; pity for the many suflfer-
iiiLfs o which his morbid sensitiveness exposed him ; con-
tctr.pL for the meannesses into which he was hurried ; rid-
icule for the insatiable vanitv which prompted his most
don-rading subterfuges; ho.ror for the bitter animosities
whii:h must have tortured the man who clierisiied them
even more than his victims — are suggested simultaneously
by the name of Pope. As we look at him in one or oth-
er aspect, each feeling may come uppermost in turn. The
most abiding* sentiment — when we think of him as a lit-
er.iry phenomenon — is admiration for the exquisite skill
which enab' kI him to discharge a function, not of tlie
highest kind, with a perfection rare in any department of
literature. It is more diflicult to say what will be tlie final
element in our feeling about the man. Let us hope tliat
it may be the pity which, after a certain lapse of years, we
may be excused from conceding to tlie victim of moral as
well a.s physical diseases.

I'V.

fli

SIDNEY

JOHN ADDIXGTON SY^IONDS

\l I

, t

PREFACE.

The chief documents upon whicli a life of Sir Philip
Sidney must be groiMidod arc, at present, his own works
in prose and verse, Collins' Sidney Papers (2 vols,, 1745),
Sir Henry Sidney's Letter to Sir Francis Walsingliam
{Ulster Journal of Archwolorjy^ Nos. 9-31), Languet's
Latin Let'ers (Edinliiirirh, 1770), Pears' Correspondence of
Languet and Philip Sidney (London, 1845), Fulke Grev-
ille's so-called Life of Sidney (1052), the anonymous
" Life and Death of Sir Philip Sidney," prefixed to old
editions of the Arcadia, and a considerable mass of memo-
rial wiitini^ft in prose and verse illustrative of his career.
In addition to these sources, which may be called original,
we possess a scries of modern biographies, each of which
deserves mention. These, in their chronological order,
are: Dr. Zouch's (1809), Mr. William Gra s (1829), an
anonymous Life and Times of Sir Philip (f ..ey (Boston,
1859), Mr. Fox Bourne's (1802), and Mr. julius Lloyd's
(later in 1802). With thn American Life T ::in not ac-
quainted; but tlir- 'wo last require to be particularly no-
ticed. Mr. Fox Bourne's Memoir of Sir Philip Sidney
combines a careful study of its main subject with an ;ible
review of the times. The author's .udustrious researches
in State Papers and other MS. collections brought many
new facts to light. This book is one upon which all later

^-S^:

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I'KEFACE.

't H ' '*

f ' \! : I

liandliiio-s of tlic subject will be based, and his deep in-
debtedness to wliicli every subsequent biographer of Sid
ncy must recognise. :Mr. Lloyd's Life of Sir Philip Sidnci}
appearing in the same year as Mr. Fox Bourne's, is slightor
in substance. It has its own value as a critical and con-
scientious study of Sidney under several aspects ; and in
one or two particulars it supplements or corrects tiie more
considerable work of Mr. Bourne. For Sidney's writings
I'rofessor Arber's I'cprint of the Defence of Poesi/, and
Dr. Grosart's edition of tho poems in two volumes (The
Fuller Worthies' Library, 1873), will be found indispen-
sable.

In composing this sketch I have freely availed myself
of all that has been published about Sidney. It has been
my object to present the ascertained facts of his brief life,
and my own opinions regarding his character and Siterary
works, in as succinct a form as I ioauu po.ssibie.

BADENWKaEK, May 11. 1885.

I')

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
Lineage, BiiiTtr, and Boyhood . . .

CHAPTER II.
FoiiEiGN Travel

rAQit
. . . 1

• • 4 *

CHAPTER III.
Entrance into Court-Life and Embassy

;32

CHAPTER IV.
The French 3Iatcu and "The Arcadia".

CHAPTER V.
Life at Court again, and Marriage . .

CHAPTER VI.
"AsTRoriiEL and Stella" •

CHAPTER VIL
"The Defence of Poesy" ......

CHAPTER VIIL
Last Years and Death

. 87

106

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16C

ji^Mil

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.-^"Fii'":^!:^^""""""

". ' h

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

CHAPTER I.

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

Shelley, in his memorial poem on tlie deatli of Keats,
named Sir Philip Sidney among '' the inheritors of unful-
filled renown." If this praise be applicable to Chatterton
and Keats, it is certainly, though in a less degree perhaps,
true also of Sidney. His best friend and interpreter put
on record that " the youth, life, and fortune of this gentle-
man were, indeed, but sparks of extraordinary greatness in
him, which, for want of clear vent, lay concealed, and, in a
manner, smothered up." The real ditliculty of painting an
adequate portrait of Sidney at the present time is that his
renown transcends his actual achievement. Neither his
poetry nor his prose, nor what is ktiown about his action,
quite explains the singular celebrity which he enjoyed in
his own life, and the fame which has attended his memory
with almost undimmcd lustre through three centuries. In
an age remarkable for the great deeds of its heroes, no less
than for the splendour of its literature, he won and retained
a homage which was paid to none of his contemporaries.
All classes concurred in worshipping that marvellous youth,
1*

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am niiLU' sidxev,

[CUAP.

i If) .

who displayed the choicest gifts of chivahy and scholar-
ship, of bravery and pnidtnce,of creative and deliberative
genius, in the consummate harmony of a noble character.
The English nation seemed instinctively to recognise in
him the impersonation of its manifold ideals, ^llc was
beautiful, and of illustrious ancestry,— an accomplished
courtier, complete in all the exercises of a cavalier, lie
was a student, possessed of the new learning which Italy
had ^recently bequeathed to Europe. He was a poet and
the " warbler of poetic prose," at a moment when tlio
greater luminaries of the Elizabethan period had scarcely
risen above the horizon. Yet his beauty did not betray
him into levity or wantonness; iiis noble blood bred in
him neither pride nor presun)ption. Courtly habits failed
to corrupt his rectitude of conduct, or to impair the can-
dour of his utterance. The erudition of the Renaissance
loft his Protestant simplicity and Christian faith untouched.
Literary success made him neither jealous nor conceited ;
and as the patron and friend of poets, lie was even more'
eminent than as a writer. These varied qualities were so
finely blent in his amiable nature that, when Wotton called
him "the very essence of congruity," he hit upon the hap-
piest phrase for describing Sidney's charm.

The man, in fact, was greater than his words and actions.
His whole life was "a true poem, a composition, and pat-
tern of the best and honourablest things ;" and the fascina-
tion which he exerted over all who came in contact with
him — a fascination which extended *o those who only
knew him by report— now, in part at least, be taken

upon trust. We canin .lope to present sucii a picture of
him as shall wholly justify his fame. Personalities so
unique as Sidney's exhale a perfume which evanesces when
the lamp of life burns out. This the English nation felt

[chap.

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

when they put on public mourning for his deatli. They
felt that they had lost in Sidney, not only one of their
most hopeful gentlemen and bravest soldiers, but some-
thing rare and beautiful in human life, which could not be
recaptured, — which could not even be transmitted, save by
hearsay, to a future age. The living Euphues of that era
(so conscious of its aspirations as yet but partially attained,
so apt to idealise its darlings) had perished— just when all
men's eyes were turned with certainty of expectation on
the coming splendours of his maturity. " The president
of nobleness and chivalry " was dead. " That most heroic
spirit, the heaven's pride, the glory of our days," had passed
away like young Marcelhis. Words failed the survivors to
express their sense of the world's loss. This they could
not utter, because there was something indescribable, in-
calculable, in the intluence his personality had exercised.
We, then, who have to deal with meagre records and scanty
written remains, must well weigh the sometimes almost in-
coherent passion which emerges in the threnodies poured
out upon his grave. In the grief of Spenser and of Cam-
den, of Fuller and of Jonson, of Constable and Nash, of the
Countess of Pembroke and Fulke Greville, as in a glass
darkly, we perceive what magic spell it was that drew the
men of his own time to love and adore Sidney. The truth
is that Sidney, as we now can know him frou) ! is deeds
and words, is not an eminently engaging or profoundly in-
teresting personage. But, in the mirror of contemporary
minds, iie shines with a pure lustre, which the students of
his brief biography must always feel to be surrounding
him.

Society, in the sixteenth century, bestowed mucli in-
genuity upon the invention of appropriate mottoes and
significant emblems. When, therefore, we read that Sir

f 1

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

■ 'f

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r f

Piiilip Sidney insciibed Iiis sliicld with these words Vix ea
nostra foco(" These things I l,ardly call our own "), wo
may take it for a sign that ho attached no undue value to
noble birth ; and, indeed, he makes one of the ujost re-
spectable persons in his Arcadia exclaim : " I am no her-
ald to enquire of men's pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I
know their virtues." This might justify his biographers
in silence regarding his ancestry, were it not that his con-
nections, both on the fatlier's and the mother's side, were
all-important in determining the tenor of his life.

The first Sidney of whom we hear anything came into
England with Henry 11., and held the office of Chamber-
lain to that king. His descendant, Nicholas Sidney, mar-
ried a daughter of Sir William J3randon and aunt of
Charles, Duke of Suffolk. Their son, Sir William Sidney,
played an important part during the reign of Henry VHL •
he served in the French wars, .nd commanded the rioht
wing of the English army at Flodden. To him was given
tlie manor of Penshurst in Kent, which has remained in
the possession of the Sidneys and their present representa-
tives. On his death in 1554 he left one son and four
daughtc'-s. The eldest of these daughters was ancestress
of Lord Bolingbroke. From the marriage of the second
to Sir James Harrington descended, by female alliances,
the great house of Montagu and the families of North and
Noel. Through the marriage of the third with Sir Will-
iam Fitz-William, Lord Byron laid claim to a drop of
Sidney blood. The fourth, who was the wife of Thomas
Ratcliffe, Earl of Sussex, dying childless, founded Sidney
Sussex College at Cambridge. With the only son Sir
Henry Sidney (b. 1529-89), wo sliall have much to do in
the present biography. It is enough now to mention that
Henry VHI. cliose him for bedfellow and companion to

[chap.

'•]

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

his only son. " I was, by that most ftinious king," he
writes, " put to his sweet son, Prince Edward, my most
dear master, prince, and sovereign ; my near kinswoman
being his only nurse, my father being his chamberlain, my
mother his governess, my aunt in such place as among
moaner personages is called a dry nurse ; for, from the time
he left sucking, she continually lay in bed with him, so
long as he remained in woman's government. As the
prince grew in years and discretion so grew I in favour and
liking of him." A portion of Ilollingshed's Chronicle,
contributed by Edward Molineux, long time Sir Henry
Sidney's secretary, confirms this statement. " This right
famous, renowned, worthy, virtuous, and heroical knight,
by father and mother very nobly descended, was from his
infancy bred and brought up in the prince's cor.rt and in
nearness to his person, used familiarly even as a compan-
ion." Nothing but Edward VI.'s untimely death prevent-
ed Sir Henry Sidney from rising to high dignity and pow-
er in the realm. It was in his arms that the king expired
in 1553 at Greenwich.

One year before this event Sir Henry had married the
Lady Mary Dudley, daughter of Edmund, Viscount De I'lsle
and Duke of Northumberland. The Dudleys were them-
selves of noble extraction, though one of their ancestors
had perished ignobly on the scaffold. Edmund Dudley,
grandson of John Lord Dudley, K.G., joined with Sir Rich-
ard Empson in those extortions which disgraced the last
years of Henry VH.'s reign, and both were executed in the
second year of his successor. His son. Sir John Dudley,
was afterwards relieved of the attainder, and restored to
those honours which he claimed from his mother. His
mother, Elizabeth Grey, was heiress of a very ancient house,
whose baronies and titles had passed by an almost nnex-

'An

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

anipled scries of female successions. The first founder of
the fiunily of De I'lslo appeurs in history during the roi^-n
of King Jolin. The last baron of the male blood died in
the reign of Ilichard IL, leaving an heiress, who was mar-
ried to Thomas Lord JJerkclev. Their daughter and sole
lieiress married liicharvl, Earl of W.-irwiclc, and also left an
only heiress, who married John Talbot, the great Earl of
Shrewsbury. Iler eldest son, John Talbot, Baron De I'lsle,
created Viscount De I'lsle, left an only daughter, Elizabeth,
who was wedded to Sir Edward Grey, created Baron and
Viscount Dc I'lsle. It was the daughter and heiress of
this marriage who gav(^ birth to the ambitious and unfort-
unate Duke of Northumberland. From these dry facts it
will be seen that the desceiuhints of Edmund Dudley were
not only heirs and representatives of the ancient barony
of Do risle, but that they also iidierited the blood and
arms of the illustrious houses of Berkeley, Beauchamp,
Talbot, and Grey. When we further remember to what an
eminence the Duke of Nortliumberland climbed, and how
his son, the Eai'l of Leicester, succeeded in restoring the
shattered fortunes of the family after that great prince's
fall, we can understand why Sir Henry Sidney used the
following language to his brother-in-law upon the occasion
of Mary Sidney's betrothal to the Earl of Pembroke: — "I
find to my exceeding great comfort the likelihood of a
marriage between my Lord of Pembroke and my daugh-
ter, which great honour to me, my mean lineage and kin, I
altril>ute to my match in your noble house." Philip Sid-
ney, too, when he was called to defend his uncle Leicester
jigainst certain libels, expressed liis pride in the connection.
" I am a Dudley in blood; that Duke's daughter's son ; and
do acknowledge, though in all truth 1 may justly affirm that
I am by mv father's side of ancient and always vvell-es-

[chap.

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

teemed and well-matched gentry, — yet I do acknowledge,
I say, that my chiefcst honour is to be a Dudley."

Phili[) was born at Pcnshurst on the 29th of November
1554. At that epoch their alliance with the Dudleys
seemed more likely to bring ruin on the Sidneys than new
honours. It certainly made their liome a house of mourn-
ing. Lady Mary Sidney had recently lust her father and
her brother Guilford on tlic scaffold. Another of her
brothers, John, Earl of Warwick, after his release from the
Tower, took refuge at Pcnshurst, and died there about a
month before his nephew's birth.* Sir Henry's loyalty
and prudence at this critical time saved the fortunes of his
familv. lie retired to his country seat, taking no part in
the Duke of Northumberland's ambitious schemes; and
though he was coldly greeted at Mary's Court, the queen
confirmed him in the tenure of his offices and honours by a
deed of 8th November 1554. She also freed his wife from
participation in the attainder of her kinsfolk. Their eldest
son was christened Philip in comj)liment to Mary's Spanish
consort. It appears that Sir Henry Sidney subsequently
gained his sovereign's confidence; for in this reign he was
ap[)ointcd Vice-Treasurer and Controller of the royal ncvc-
nues in Ireland.

Of Philip's birthplace Ben Jonson has be(jiieathod to u»
a description, animated with more of romantic enthusiasia
than was common to his muse.

" Tliou art not, Tenshurst, built to ouvious show
Of touch' or innrbk', nor canst boast a row

1 Duke of Northumberland, d 22a August 155.'? ; Lonl Guilfoni-
Dudley and Lady Jane Grey, 12th February 1554 ; John Dudley, Earl'
of Warwick, 21st October 1554.

- Touch is a superlative sort of marble, the classic hasanites. The-
reference to a Umtern in the next line but one might pass for a proph-
ecy of Walpole'a too famous lanti'vn at Ilou^li'm.

SIR PHILIP SIDXKY.

[rijAP

Of polished pillars or a roof ot Roki :

Thoti liast no laiitoni, wlui'eof tales arc told ;

Or stair, or courts; but slaiidVt an ancient pile;

And these, grudged at, arc reverenced the while.

Thou joy't^t in itctter marks, of soil, of air,

Of wood, of water; thercni art thou fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health as well a3 sport:

Thy mount, to which thy dryads do resort,

Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have inado,

Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade ;

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the muses met ;

There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names

Of many a Sylvan taken with his tiames ;

And there the ruddy satyrs oft provoke

The lighter fauns to reach thy lady's oak."

The tree here comincmoratcil by Jonson as having been
planted at Sir Philip Sidney's birth, was cntdown in 1768,
not, however, before it had received additional fame from
Edninnd Waller. His Sacharissa was the Lady Dorothea
Sidney; and the poet was paying her court at Pensiiurst
when he wrote these lines :

" Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sidney's birth."

Jonson expatiates long over the rural charms of Pens-
hurst, which delighted him on many a summer's holiday.
He celebrates the pastures by the river, the feeding-grounds
of cattle, the well-stocked game preserves, the fish-ponds,
and the deer-parlc, which supplied that hospitable board
with all good things in season.

" The painted partridge lies in every field,
And for thy moss is willing to be killed ;

frHAP.

«.]

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

ado,

vinf; been
1 in 1768,
anic from
Dorothea

Pons] urst

of Pons-
s holulay.
o'-o-rounds
ish-ponds,
ible board

And if the h.^.i-sworu Modway fail thy dish
Tliou hast tlic poiid^ timt pn v thee tribute' fish.
Fat aged carps tlint run into tiiy not,
And pil{es, now weary their own iiiiid to cat,
As loth tlie Hccoml draii!:;lit or oast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray."

Next he turns to the gardens : —

" Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as arc the hours ;
The early cherry, with the later plum.
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come ;
The blushing apricot and woolly peach.
Hang on thy walls, that eveiy child may reach."

Tlic trellised walls remind him of the ancient habitation,
which, though homely, is vencrnblc, rearing itself among
the humbler dwellings of the peasants, with patriarchal
rather than despotic dig'^i.^,

"And though thy w, lis !i" of tli ■ country stone,
They're reared witli w. man's r in, no man's groan ;
There's none that dwJi ahou' . lem wish them down,
But all come in, the !i. lor and the clown,
And no one empty-handed to sal.ite
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that tiiiidv they make
Tlie better cheeses, bring them ; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum or pear."

This poem, composed in the days when Philip's brother

Sir Robert Sidney, was master of Penshurst, presents so

charming a picture of the old-world home in which Philip

was born, and where he passed his boyhood, that I have

been fain to linger over it.
B

;irVf

H-

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

;■ I

'f. i

Sir Henry Sidney was sent to Ireland in 1556 as Vicc-
Troasnrer and General Governor of the royal revenues in
that kino-doMi. Ho distinguished himself, soon after his
arrival, by repelling an invasion of the Scots in Ulster, and
killing James MacConncl, one of their loaders, with his own
hand. Next year he was nominated Lord Justice of Ire-
land ; and, on the accession of Queen Elizabeth, he obtained
the contirmation of his ofliccs. In 1558 the queen nomi-
nated him Lord Presidont of Wales, which dignity ho hold
during the rest of his life. It does not exactly appear
when 1)0 first took the rank of Lord Deputy of Ireland,
a title corresponding to that of Lord Lieutenant. But
throughout the first seven years of Elizabeth's reign he dis-
charged functions there which were e(iuivalcnt to the su-
preme command. In 15G4 he received the honour of the
(Jartor, being installed in the same election with King
Charlos IX. of France. On this occasion he was styled
*'Thc thrice valiant Knight, Deputy of the Ilealm of Ire-
land, and President of the Council of Wales." Next year
he was again despatched to Ireland with the full title and
authority of Lord Deputy.

The administration of Wales obliged Sir Henry Sidney
to reside frequently at Ludlow Castle, and this was the rea-
son which determined him to send Philip to school at
Shrewsbury. Being the emporium of English commerce
with North Wales and Ireland, and the centre of a thriving
wool-trade, Shrewsbury had "then become a city of impor-
tance. The burgesses established there a public school,
which flourished under the able direction of Thomas Ash-
ton. From a passage in Ben Jonson's prose works it is
clear that the advantages of public-school education were
well appreciated at that time in England. Writing to a
nobleman, who asked him how ho might best train up his

■s^

^ "

I-l

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

sons, he says : " I wisli them sent to the best school, and a
public. They arc in more danger in your own family
among ill servants than amongst a thousand boys, however
immodest. To breed them at home is to breed them in a
shade, whereas in a school they have the light and heat of
the sun. They are used and accustomed to things and
men. AVhen they come forth into the commonwealth, they
find nothing new or to seek. They have made their friend-
ships and aids, some to last till their age." One such
friend, whose loving help was given to Sidney till death
parted them, entered Shrewsbury school together with him
on the 19th of November 1564. This was Fulke Greville,
a distant relative, and a boy of exactly the same age. To
the sincere attachment which sprang up between them, and
strengthened with their growing age, we owe oar most val-
uable information regarding INiilip's character ;ad opinions.
Fulke Greville survived his friend, became Lord l>rooke,
and when he died in 1G28 the words " Friend to Philip
Sidney " were inscribed upon his tomb. From the short
biography of his friend, prefixed to a collet tion of his own
works, which was dedicated to Sidney's memory, we obtain
a glimpse of the boy while yet at school: —

" Of his yoiitli I will report no other wonder l)ut this, that thour;h
I lived with him, and knew him from a eliild, yet I never knew him
other than a man ; with sueh staidness of mind, lovely and familiar
gravity as carried grace and reverence above greater years. His talk
ever of knowledge, and his very play tending to enrich his mind. So
as even his teachers found something to observe and learn above that
which they had usually read or taught. Which eminence, by nature
and industry, made his worthy father style Sir Philip in my hearing
(though 1 unseen) Lumen fumilice smcc."

According to our present notions, we do not consider it al-
together well if a boy between the ages of ten and fifteen

•IH

' Hi.,'

y f (

^i:

'IJ

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,

[chap.

wins praise for exceptional gravity. Yet Fnlko Greville
docs not call Philip bookish ; and we have abundant evi-
dence that, while he was early heedful of nourishing his
mind, he showed no less eagorness to train his body in such
exorcises as might be serviceable to a gentleman, and use-
ful to a soldier. Nevertheless, his friend's admiring eulogy
of the lad's deportment indicates what, to the end, remained
somewhat chilling in his nature— a certain stiffness, want
of impulse— want, perhaps, of salutary humour. He could
not take the world lightly— could not act, exccp' in rare
moments of anger, without rellection. Such a character is
admirable; and youths at our public schools, who remain
overgrown boys in their games until they verge on twenty,
might well take a leaf from Sidney's book. Put we can-
not refrain from thinking that just a touch of recklessness
would have made him more attractive. We must, how-
ever, remember that he was no child of the nineteenth cen-
tury, lie belonged to the age of Burleigh and of Bacon,
and the circumstances of his birth forced on him precocity
in prudence. Being the heir of Sir Henry Sidney and
Lady Mary Dndley, he could not but be early conscious of
the serious difliculties which perplexed his parents. Had
he not been also conscious of a calling to high thino-s, he
would have derogated from his illustrious lineage. His
gravity, then, befitted his blood and position in that still
feudal epoch, his father's eminent but insecure station, and
the tragic fate of his maternal relatives.

A letter written by Sir Henry Sidney to his son, while
still at school in Shrewsbury, may here be cited. It helps
to show why Philip, even as a boy, was earnest. Sympa-
thetic to his parents, bearing them sincere love, and owing
them filial obedience, he doubtless road with veneration,
and observed with loyalty, the words of wisdom — w cr

I.]

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

than those with which Polonius took farewell of Laertes
— dictated for him by the upright and valiant man whom
he called fjither. Long as it is, I shall give it in full ; for
nothing could better bring before our eyes the ideal of
conduct which then ruled English gentlefolk : —

" I liavc received two letters from you, one wiitteu In Latin, the
other in French ; wliich I take in good part, and wisli you to exercise
that practice of learning often ; for that will stand you in most stead
iu that profession of life that you are born to live in. And since this
is my first letter that ever I did write to you, I ".ill ivA that it be all
empty of some advices, which my natural care for you provtlveth me
to wish you to follow, as documents to you in this your tenilL-r age.
Let your first action be the lifting up of your mind to Almighty God
by hearty prayer; and feelingly digest the words you speak in prayer,
with continual meditation and thinking of liim to whom you pray and
of the matter for which you pray. And use this as an ordinary act,
and at an ordinary hour, whereby the time itself shall put you in re-
membrance to do that which you are accustomed to do in tliat time.
Apply your study lo such hours as your discreet master doth assign
you, earnestly ; and the time I know he will so limit as shall be both
suflBcient for your learning and safe for your health. And mark the
sense and the matter of that you read, as well as the words. So shall
you both enrich your tongue wiiii words and your wit w ith matter ;
and judgment will g'ow as years groweth in you. Be humble and
obedient to your master, for unless you frame yourself to obey others,
yea, and feel in yourself what obedience is, you shall never be able to
teach others how to obey you. Be courteous of gesture and all'able to
all men, with diversity of reverence according to the dignity of the
person : there is nothing that wiimeth so much witli so little cost.
Use moderate diet, so as after your iiieal you may find your wit fresher
and not duller, and your body more lively and not more heavy. Sel-
dom drink wine, and yet sometimes do, lest being enforced to drink
upon the sudden you should find yoiirself inflamed. Use exercise of
body, yet such as is without peril of your joints or bones ; it will in-
crease your force and enlarge your b-eath. Delight to be cleanl.v, as
well iu all parts of your body as in your garments : it shall make you
grateful in each company, and otherwise loathsome. Give yourself to

( 'i

N '

ill I

!'i I

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

be merry, for you degenerate from your father if yoii find not your-
self most able in wit and body and to do anything wlien you be most
merry; but let your mirth be ever void of ah .scurrility and biting
words to any man, for a wound ^iven by a word is oltcMiinii\-? harder
to be cured than that wiiicli is j,Mven witli the sword. J{,; you rather
a hearer and benrer away of other men's talk than a bcj,'inner and
procurer of speech ; otherwi.se you sliali be counted to dclii,'ht to hoar
yourself spealc If you iicar a wise sentence or an apt phrase commit
it to your memory with respect of the circumstance when you shall
speak it. Let never oatli be heard to come out of your moulii nor
word of ribaldry; detest it in otiiers; so shall custom make to your-
self a law against it in yourself. Be modest in each assembly ;" and
rather be rebuked of li^ht fellows for maidendike shanicfustness than
of your sad friends for pert boldness. Think upon every word that
you wiil speak before you utter it, and remember how nature hath
ramparted up, as it were, the tongtio with teeth, lips, yea, and hair
without the lips, and all betokening reins or bridles for the loose use
of that member. Above all things, tell no untruth ; no, not in trifles :
the custom of it is naughty. And let it not satisfy you that, for a
time, the hearers take it for truth ; for after it will be known as it is,
to your shame ; for there cannot be a greater reproach to a gentleman
than to be accounted a liar. Study and endeavour yourself to be virt-
uously occupied, so shall you make such a habit of well-doing in you
that you shall not know how to do evil, though you would. Kemom-
ber, my son, the noble blood you are descended of, by your mother's
side ; and think that only by virtuous life and good action you may
be an ornament to that illustrious family, and otherwise, through vice
and sloth you shall be counted lahm fjcnerii, one of the greatest'eurses
that can happen to man. Well, my little Philip, this is enough for
me, and too much, I fear, for you. JJut if I shall find that this^ light
meal of digestion nourisheth anything in the weak stomach of your
capacity, I will, as I lind the same grow stnmger, feed it with tougher
food.— Your loving father, so long as you live in the fear of (lod,'^

" II. SlDNKY."

To tills opistle Lady Mary Sidney added a postscript,
whioh, if it is less correct in .style and wei<>'lity with wise
counsel, interests us by its warm and n)otherly affection.

.«*>•

■^TTMirfr..

[CUAP.

inJ not your-
you be most
ty and biting
I i 1111 '3 iuirder
.; yi)n rather
)cginner and
liglit to hoar
iraso commit
en you shall
r mouth nor
ako to your-
iembly ; and
"iistiiess than
ry word that
nature hath
ill, and hair
ho loose use
ot in tiides :
I that, for a
own as it is,
a gentleman
If to be virt-
loing in you
J. Ilumem-
)ur mother's
on you may
;li rough vice
atoit curses
enough for
lit this light
ich of your
I'ith tougher
of (Jod,
Sidney."

Postscript,
witii wise
X'ction.

'■]

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

" Your noble and careful father hath taken pains (with his own
hand) to give you in this his letter so wise, so learned, and most req-
uisite precepts for you to follow with a diligent and humble tiiank-
ful mind, as I will not withdraw your eyes from beholding and rever-
ent honouring the same, — no, not so long time as to read any letter
from me ; and therefore at this time 1 will write no other letter than
this : and hereby I first bless you with my desire to God to plant in
you His grace, and secondarily warn you to have always before tlio eyes
of your mind those excellent counsels of my lord, your dear father,
and that you fail not continually once in four or five days to read
them over. And for a final leave-taking for this time, see that you
show yourself a loving obedient scholar to your good master, and that
my lord and I may liear that you profit so in your learning as there-
by you may increase our loving care of you, and deserve at his hands
ilie continuance of his great joys, to have him often witness with his
own hand the hojie he hath in your well-doing.

" Farewell, my little Pliilip, and once again the Lord bless you. —
Yom- loving mother, Mary Sin.NEY."

Ill tliose days boys did not wnit till tliey were grown
men before tlicy went to collei^'o. Sidney left Shrow.sbury
in 15G8, and began residence at Christ Church, lie was
still in his fourteenth year. Ihere he stayed until some
time in 1571, when l.e quitted Oxford without having tak-
en a degree. In this omission there was nothing singular.
His quality rendered bachelorship or mastershij) of arts in-
diflferent to him ; and academical habits were then far freer
than in our times. That he studied diligently is, however,
certain. The unknown writer named Philophilippus, \,ho
pret).\ed a short essay on "The Life and Death of Sir
Philip Sidney" to the Arcadia, f^paxks thus in his (juaint
language of the years spent at Oxford : " Here an excellent
stock met with the choicest grafts; nor couhl his tutors
pour in so fast as he was ready to receive." The Dean of
Christ Church, Dr. Thomas Thornton, had it afterwards en-

i \

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

I,.

I ' . ii

:: )

gmvod upon his own tomb at Ledbury that he had been
the preceptor of "Pliilip Sidney, that most noble Knight."
We possess few particulars which throw any light upon
Sidney's academical career. There is some reason, how-
«'-.er, to believe thai liberal learning at this period flourished
K'ss upon tlie banks of the Isis than at Cambridge and in
our public schools. Bruno, in his account of a visit to
Oxford ten years later, introduces us to a set of pompous
pedants, steeped in mediieval scholasticism and hp.aw with
the indolence of fat fellowships. Here, how( ccr, Sidney
made the -tcond great friendship of Ids youth. It was
with Edward Dyer,.", man of quality am! parts, who claims
distinction as an English poet [srincipally by one faultless
line: "My mind to nn; a kingdoir« is." Sir Edward Dyer
and Sir Fulke Grcville lived in bonds of closest ailection
with Sir Philip Sidney through his life, and ualked togeth-
er as pall-beaioi's at his funeral. That wis ;a! age in whkli
fni^r. Jhliip easily assumed the accents uf passionate love.
1 i.j.'AV n;.'- this occasion to quote verses which Sidney
wrote :t a Uler period regarding his two comrades. He
had reci .ly returned from Wilton to the Court, and found
there boih Greville and Dyer.

" My two and I be met,
A blessed happy trinity,

As tliree most jointly set
In firmest bond of unity.

Join hearts and hands, so let it bo;

Make but one mind in bodies tln-ee.

" Welcome my two to me,
The number best beloved ;

Within the lieart you be
In frieiidshi|) unrenioved.

Join hearts and hands, so let it be ;

Make but one mind in bodies three."

».]

LINEAGE, BIRTH, AND BOYHOOD.

And again, wlicn tired of the Court, and sighing for the
country, he offers up a prayer to Pan, according to the pas-
toral fashion of the age, in which his two heart's brothers
arc remembered : —

" Only for my two loves' sake,
111 whose love I plesisure take ;
Only two do me Uoiiglit
With their ever-pleasing sight;
Of all men to thee retaining
Crant me with those two remaiuuig."

As poetry tliese pieces are scarcely worth citation. But
lliey agreeably illustrate their author's capacity for friend-
ship.

It was also from Oxford that Sidney sent the first lettei
still extant in his writing. Tliis is a somewhat laboured
Latin epistle to his uncle Leicester. Elizabeth's favourite
had taken his nephew under special protection. It was
indeed commonly accepted for certain that, failing legiti-
mate issue, the Earl intended to make Philip his heir. This
expectation helps us to understand the singular respect
paid him through these years of early manhood. Sir Uen-
ry Sidney was far from being a rich man. His duties in
Ireland and Wales removed him from the circle of the
Court, and his bluntness of speech made him unacceptable
to the queen. Philip therefore owed more of his prestige
to his uncle than to his father. At this time Leicester ap-
pears to have been negotiating a marriage contract between
the lad at Christ Church and Anne Cecil, daughter of Lord
Burleigh. Articles had been drawn up. But the matter
fell through ; the powerful Secretary of State judging that
he could make a better match for his girl than with the
son of a needy knight, whose expectations of succeeding to
Leicester's estate were problematical. Politely but plainly

i':

i f

'* )

SIR rillLIP SIDNEY.

[chap. I

he extricated himself from the engagement, and bestowed
Anne upon Edward de Vere, the dissolute and brutal Earl
of Oxford. This passage in the life of Sidney is insignifi-
cant. That the boy of sixteen could have entertained any
strong feeling for his projected bride will hardly admit of
belief. One of his biographers, however, notices that about
the time when the matter terminated in Anne's betrothal
to the Earl of Oxford, Philip fell into bad health. Leices-
ter had to obtain permission for him to eat lieslj in Lenl
from no less a personage than Doctor Farkcr, the Arclj-
bishop of Canterbury.

IB! !

, 1 !

CHAPTER II.

FOKfilON TRAVfiL.

It is not the business of Sir Philip Sidney's biographer to
discuss Elizabeth's Irish policy at length. Yet his fathers
position as governor of the island renders some allusion to
those affairs indispensable. Sir Henry Sidney was a brave
and eminently honest man, the sturdy servant of his sov-
ereign, active in the discliarge of his duties, and untainted
by corrupt practice. But he caimot be said to have dis-
played the sagacity of genius in his dealings with the Irish.
He carried out instructions like a blunt proconsul — extir-
pating O'Neil's rebellion, suppressing the Butlers' war,
maintaining English interests, and exercising impartial jus-
tice. The purity of his administration is beyond all doubt.
Instead of enriching himself by arts familiar to viceroys,
he spent in each year of his office more than its emolu-
ments were worth, and seriously compromised his private
fortune. Instead of making friends at Court he contrived,
by his straightforward dealing, to offend the brilliant and
subtle Earl of Ormond. While Sir Henry was losing
health, money, and the delights of life among the bogs and
wastes of Ulster, Ormond remained attached to the queen's
person. His beauty and adroit flattery enabled him to
prejudice Elizabeth against her faithful henchman. Broken
i;i licalth by a painful disease contracted in the hardship

i:i

^. ' m

1 (

SIR i'lIILIP SIDNEY.

[ciup.

i':

i'.i

' i

1 . - '

( -

of successive campai-ns, maddened by Lis sovcrei-rn's re-
onmmat.ons, and dis,tr,„t..d by l.cr parsimony, Sir'lJonrv
Suluoy returned in 1571 to Jh.^Iand. He was now a man
;• forty-three, with an impaired constitution and a dimin-
Kshed estate. Jli. wife had lo.t her good looks in tiic
small -pox, which she caught while nursing the queen
through an attack of that malady. Of this noble lady so
patient in the -n-mr disasters of her troubled life, Fulkc
^..ev.lle wr ..: -5, hose rathor to hide herself from
the cur, , , cvc;. .f a delicate time than come upon the
stage M the world with any manner of disparagement;
this m.,ohance of sickness having oast such a veil over her
excellent beauty as the modesty of that sex doth manv
tunes upon their native a,.1 '. ' ,- ,pirits." Neither Sir
Henry Sidney nor Lady Aiary uttered a word of reproach
against thcr royal mistress. It was Elizabeth's r-ood fort-
une to be devotedly served by men and women ^hom she
rewarded with ingratitude or niggardly recognition. And
on this occasion she removed Sir Henry fro^m his dignity
of Lord Deputy, which she transferred to his brother-in-
law, Sir W illiam Fitz-William. As a kin.l of recou,pen«e
she made him the barren offer of a peerage. The distinc-
tion was great, but the Sidneys were not in a position to
accept It. A letter, addressee by Lady Mary to Lord T^ur-
leigh, explains the difficulty in which they stood Her
husband, she says, is "greatly dismaved with his hard
choice, which is presently offered him'; as, either to be a
baron now called in the number of manv far more able
than lu.nsclf to maintain it withal, or e' " , in refusinr. it
to incur her Highness's displeasure." She points out that
the title, without an accompanying gra..t of land, would be
an intolerab^ burden. Eliza eth had .learly no intention
of bestowing .tates on the S.uney family ; and Lady Mary

II.J

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

was forced to beg the secretary's good offices for mitigat-
ing the royal anger in the event of Sir Henry's refusal.
Of the peerage we Iicar no raon md it is probable that
Elizabeth took the refusal kintll She had paid the late
Deputy for his long service and li avy losses by a compli-
ment, his non-acceptation of which left her with a seat in
the House of Lords at iier disposal.

After leaving Oxford, Philip passed some months at
Ludlow with his father, who continued to be President of
Wales. Ill the spring of 15V2 the project of a French
match was taken up at Court. Mr. Francis Walsingham,
the rchidont ambassador at i'aris, had already opened ne-
f^otiations on the subject in the previous autui.in; and the
execution of the Duke of Norfolk for treasonable practice
with Mary, Queen of Scots, now rendered Elizabeth's mar-
riage more than ever politically advisable. It was to be
regretted that the queen should meditate union with the
Duke of Alcn^'on. H • was the youngest member of the
worthless family of Valois Papist, and a man green in
years enough to be her son. Yet at this epoch it seemed
not wholly impo>sible that France might still side with
the Protestant Powers. Catherine do' Medici, the queen-
mother, had favoured the Huguenot party for some years;
and Charles IX. was scheming the marriage of his sister
Margaret with Henry of Navarre. The interests, more-
ovoi of the French Crown were decidedly opposed to those
of Spain. The Earl of Lincoln was, therefore, nominated
Ambassador Extraordinary to sound the matter of his
queer contract with a prince of the French blood-royal.
Sir V Sidney seized this opportunity for sending

Philip on t' grand tour; and Elizabeth granted licence
to " her trusty and well-beloved Philip Sidney, Esq., to go
out of England into parts beyond the sea, with three serv-

(■I

:f I*

i I

SIU I'HILir SIDNEY.

[CHAfc

ants atul four horses, etc., to remain the space of two years
.ininediately followiiiir his departure out of the rea!in, for
the attaitiiiijj; the kiiowledoe of foreii^ni lani,niaj,'es.' On
the 20th of May the expedition left LondoiirrhUip cany-
ins^ a letter from his uncle Leicester to Francis Walsing-
liaiii. This excellent man, who was destined after some
years to become liis fathcr-in-Iaw, counted amont; the best
and wisest of Enulish statesmen. He was a man of Sir
llenry Sidney's, rather than of Leicester's, stamp; and it
is recorded of him, to his iionotir, that, after a life spent in
public service, he died so poor that his funeral had to be
conducted at .Hjht.

When Lincoln returned t(» Kn<,'land with advice in favour
of Alen(;on's suit, Philip stayed at Paris. The summer of
1572 was an eventful one in French history. Charles IX.
lind betrothed liis sister, Maro-aret uf N'alois, to llonry of
Navarre; and the Capital welcomed Catholic and lluiruc-
not nobles, the Hower of both parties which divided France,
on tern s of external courtesy and seeming friendship.
FulkeGievillc tells us that the king of Navarre was so struck
with IMulip's excellent disposition that he admitted him
to intimacy. At the same time Charles IX., who had been
installed Kii!-ht of the Garter on the same day as I'hilip's
father, appoiuied liim Gentleman in Ordinary of his bed-
chamber. The pate4it runs as follows : " That considering
how great the house of Sidenay was in England, and the
rank it had always held near the persons of the kings and
queens, their sovereigns, and desiring well and favourably
to treat the young Sir Philip Sidenay for the good and
commendable knowledge in him, he had retained and re-
ceived him," etc. On the 9th of August " IJaron Sidenay,"
as he is also described in this document, took the oaths
and entered on liis new office. His position at the French

II. 1

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

Court made him to some extent an actor in the ccrctnonial
of Henry's wedding, wluch took place upon the 18th of
Aufjust. It will be remembered that Margaret of Navarre
had previously been pledged to the Duke of Guise, the am-
bitious leader of the League, the sworn enemy to Reform,
and the almost openly avowed aspirant after the French
Crown. Before the altar she refused to speak or bend her
head, when asked if she accepted Henry for her husband ;
and her brother had to take her by the neck and force her
into an attitude of assent. Already, then, upon the nuptial
morning, ominous clouds began to gather over the political
horizon. When the Duke of Guise marched his armed
bands into Paris, the situation grew hazardous for the Hu-
guenots. Then followed the attack upon Coligny's life,
which exploded like the first cannon shot that preludes a
general engagement. Yet the vain rejoicings in celebra-
tion of that ill-omened marriage continued for some days ;
until, when all was ready, on the 24th of August, Paris
swam with the blood of the Huguenots. Anarchy and
murder spread from the Capital to ilie provinces ; and dur-
ing the seven days and more which followed, it is not known
how many thousands of Protestants perished. In Rome
Te Dcums were sung, and commemorative medals struck.
In England the Court went into mourning. The French
ambassador, when ordered by his master to explain the
reasons of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew to Elizabeth,
excused himself from the performance of this duty. His
words deserve to be recorded : " I should make myself an
accomplice in that terrible business were I to attempt to
palliate." The same man has also left a vivid account of
his reception at Woodstock when the news arrived. " A
gloomy sorrow sat on every face. Silence, as in the dead
of night, reigned through all the chambers uf the royal

". >

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^I'

f '

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

apartments. The ladies and courtiers were ranged on each
side, all clad in deep mourning; and as I passed them, not
one bestowed on mc a civil look or made the least return
of my salutes."

Philip had taken refuge at the English embassy, and to
this circumstance he possibly owed his life. The horrors
of St. IJartholoraew must, however, have made a teiriblc
impression on his mind ; for there was no street in I'aris
which did not resound with the shrieks of the assassinated,
the curses of their butchers, and the sharp ring of musket-
ry, lie knew that the king, intoxicated with a sudden
blood-thirst, had levelled his harrjuebus from that window
in the Louvre; ho knew that the Duke of Guise had tram-
pled with his heel upon Coligny's naked corpse. It can-
not be doubted that the bold and firm opposition which
Philip subsequently ofTcrod to Elizabeth's French schemes
of n)arriage had its root in the awful experience of those
days of carnage.

Early in September Lords Leicester and Burleigh de-
spatched a formal letter from the Privy Council to Francis
Walsingham, rocjuesting him to provide for the safety ot
young Lord Wharton and Master Philip Sidney by procur-
ing passports in due form, and sending them immediately
back to England. It seems, however, that Sir Henry Sid-
ney did not think a return to England necessary in his son's
case. Philip left Paris, passed through Lorraine, visited
Strasburg, stopped at Heidelberg, and came thence to Frank-
fort.

It would be interesting to know what social and politicaU
in)pressii)ns the young man, now in his eighteenth year,
carried away with him from I'aris. Had he learned the
essential baseness and phlegmatic wickedness of the Flor-
entine queen-mother? Had he discerned that the king,

" ^•

Jiirleiuli dc-

ii.j

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

crazy, misled, and delirious in his freaks and impulses, was
yet the truest man of all his miserable breed? Had he
taken a right measure of the Duke of Anjou — ghastly,
womanish, the phantom of a tyrant; oscillating between
Neronian debauchery and hysterical relapses into pietism?
And the Duke of Alen9on, Elizabeth's frog-faced suitor,
had ho perceived in him the would-be murderer of his broth-
er, the poisonous traitor, whose innate malignancy justified
his sister Margaret in saying that, if fraud and cruelty were
banished from the world, he alone would suffice to repcople
it with devils? Probably not; for the backward eye of
the historian is more penetrative into the realities of char-
acter than the broad, clear gaze of a hopeful gentleman
upon his travels. AVe sound the depths revealed to us by
centuries of laborious investigation. He only beheld the
brilliant, the dramatic, the bewildcringly fantastic outside
of French society, as this was displayed in nuptial pomps
and tournaments and massacres before him. Yet he ob-
served enough to make him a firmer patriot, a more deter-
mined Protestant, and an abhorrer of Italianated Courts.
At Frankfort he found a friend, who, having shared the
perils of St. Bartholomew, had recently escaped across the
Rhine to Germany. This was Hubert Languet, a man
whose conversation and correspondence exercised no small
influence over the formation of Sidney's character.

Languet was a Frenchman, born in 1518 at Vitcaux in
Burgundy. He studied the humanities in Italy, and was
elected Professor of Civil Law at Padua in 1547. Two
years later he made the acquaintance of Mclanchthon. Their
intercourse ripened into friendship. Languet resigned his
professorship in order to bo near the man whom he bad
chosen for his teacher; and under Melanchthon's influence
he adopted the reformed religion. From 1550 forwards
C

<>*

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

%f»

lie was recognised as one of the leading political agents of
the Protestant Powers, trusted by princes, and acquainted
with the ablest men of that party in France, Holland, and
the German States. No one was more competent to guide
Sidney through the labyrinth of European intrigues, to un-
mask the corruption hidden beneath the splendours of the
Valois Court, and to instil into his mind those principles
of conduct which governed reformed statesmen in those
troubled times. They were both staying, as was then the
custom, in the liousc of the printer Wcchel at Frankfort.
A few years later, Giordano Bruno also sojourned under
lliat hospitable roof, whence he departed on his fatal jour-
ney to Venice. The elder man immediately discerned in
Sidney a youth of no common quality, and the attachment
lie conceived for him savoured of romance. We possess a
long scries of Latin letters from Languet to his friend,
which breathe the tendcrcst spirit of affection, mingled with*
wise counsel and ever-watchful thought for the vonno- man's
higher interests. It was indeed one of Sidney's s^ncrular
tehcitics that he fell so early under the influence of char-
acters like Walsingham and Languet. Together with his
father, they helped to correct the bias which he might have
taken from his brilliant but untrustworthy uncle Leicester.
There must have been something inexplicably attractive in
'us person and his genius at this time; for the tone of
Languet's correspondence can only be matched by that of
Shakespeare in the sonnets written for his unknown friend.
Fulke Grcvillc has penned a beautiful description of
" this harmony of an humble hearer to an excellent teacher,"
which grew up botwcen Sidney and Languet at Frankfort;
but he is mistaken in saying that the latter threw up all
other business for the sake of attending his new -found
triend upon his three years' travel. It is true that they

'ti' ^ 1

11.]

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

went together to Vienna in the summer of 1573. But
Sidney visited Hungary alone, and in November crossed
the Alps without Languet to Venice, lie was accom-
panied by a gentleman of his own age and station, not
very distantly connecte 1 with him, n.^med Thomas Con-
ingsby. Two of his attendants. Griffin Madox and Lewis
Brysket, are also known to us. The latter writes thus of
their journey :

"Through many a Iiill and dale,
Througli pleasant woods, and many an unknown way,
Along the banks of many silver streams
Thou with him yodest; and with him didst scale
The craggy rocks of the Alps and Apennine ;
Still with the muses spoiting."

ill

l| !

One incident of the tour has to be recorded for the li<i-ht it
throws on Sidney's character. An innkeeper coutrived to
get his bill twice paid; and Sidney finding himself out of
pocket, charged Coningsby with having made away with
the money. In a letter to Languet he cleared the matter
up, and exculpated his travelling companion. But the in-
cident was not greatly to his credit. With all his gravity
and suavity of nature, he was apt to yield to temper and to
unamiablo suspicion. I shall have to revert to this point

again.

Since Sidney is now launched, without guide or tutor,
upon his Italian travels, it will not be out of place to col-
lect some contemporary opinions regarding the benefit to
be derived by Englishmen from Italy. In a fine passage
of "The Schoolmaster" Ascham relates a conversation
which he had at Windsor with Sir Richard Sackville on
this subject. His judgment was that young men lost far
more than they gained by an Italian tour. Too many of

f '■(

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

,1 :

hem returned Papists, or Atheists, experienced in ncw-
fan^trled vices, apt for treason, lying, and every form of
swinish debauchery. Taking for his text the well-known
proverb, " In</lesc italianato i un diavolo incarnato "—
which Sidney, by the way, has translated thus :

" An Englishman that is Italianato,
Dotli hgiitly prove a devil incarnate,"—

Ascham preaches an eloquent sermon, with allegories from
1 Into and Homer, to prove that Italy is but a garden of
Urco or an isle of sirens to our northern youth/ Parker
Howell Fuller, Hall, Gabriel Harvey, Marston, Greene, al!
utter the same note, and use the same admonishments,
proving how very dangerous an Italian tour was reckoned
in those days. Sidney, in a remarkable letter to Lano-uct
insists upon the point. Jle says he wishes the Turks c";)uld
come to Italy in order to find corruption there: " I am
quite sure that this ruinous Italy would so poison the Turks
themselves, would so ensnare them in its vile allurements
that they would soon tumble down without beino- pushed "'
\enicc, in particular, had an evil reputation. " There as
Ascham says, he saw in nine days' sojourn " more libe'rty
to sm than ever I heard tell of in our noble city of London
in nine years." He admits, liowever, that while he knows
of many who " returned out of Italy worse transformed
than ever was any in Circe's court," yet is he acquainted
with divers noble personages and many worthy .rontle-
men of England, whom all the siren songs of Italy could
never nntwinc from the mast of God's word, nor no en-
chantment of vanity overturn them from the fear of God
and love of honesty." To the former class belonged the
Earl of Oxford. Of the latter Philip Sidney wasT.n emi-

11.]

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

ncnt example. Like tlie bee which sucks honey from
poisonous flowers, he gained only good from the travels
which were so pernicious to his fellow -countrymen at
iariic.

His correspondence with Languet was doubtless useful
to him, while residing at Venice and Padua. From it we
learn something about his studies, which seem at this time
to have been chiefly in philosophy and science. Languet
urges him not to overwork himself; and he replies: "I
am never so little troubled with melancholy as when my
mind is employed about something particularly difficult."
Languet on another occasion dissuades him from geometry :
" You have too little mirthfulness in your nature, and this is
a study which will make you still more grave." lie recom-
mends him to devote his time to such things as befit a
man of high rank in life, and to prepare himself for the
duties of a statesman rather than for the leisure of a liter-
ary man. Sidney begs for a copy of Plutarch in Amyot's
translation, says he is ** learning astronomy and getting a
knowledge of music," and is anxious to read the Politics
of Aristotle. Meanwhile he frequented the sumptuous
houses of the Venetian nobles : " Yet I would rather have
one pleasant chat with you, my dear Languet, than enjoy
all the magnificent magnificences of these magnificoes."
lie seems indeed to have been a grave youth. Who his
intimate friends were, we do not know, ^krpi was away
at Mantua; so it is not likely that he made his acquaint-
ance. We hear, however, much of the young Count Philip
Lewis of Ilannau.

At Venice Sidney sat for his portrait to Paolo Vero-
nese, and sent the picture afterwards to Languet. What
lias become of this painting is not known. Possibly it still
lies buried in some German collection. Of all the por-

n i

' I

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i I . .1

,:i

if « J

'ij

SIR PUILIP SIDNEY.

[ciup.

traits which are supposed to represent Sidney, the best to
my mind is one now preserved at Warwick Castle. It is
said to have belonged to Fulke Greville, and therefore we
may trust its resemblance to the original. John Aubrey,
he useful anecdote-monger, tells us that he was "extreme-
ly beautiful. He much resembled his sister; but his hair
was not red but a little inclining, namely a dark amber
colour If I were to find a fault in it, methinks 'tis not
maseuhne enough; yet he was a person of great coun.o-e."
The Warwick Castle portrait answers very closely to this
descnption, especially ir, a certain almost girlish delicacy
of feature and complexion. That Sidney was indeed beau-
tiful may be taken for granted, since there is considerable
concurrence of testimony on this point. The only dissen-
tient I can call to mind is Ben Jonson, who reported that
be was no pleasant man in countenance, his face beino-
spoiled with pimples, and of high blood, and Ion..." Bu^'t
Jonson was only thirteen years of age when Sidney died
and the conversations with Drummond, from which this
sentence was quoted, abound in somewhat random state-
mcnts.

It was natural that a Telemachus of Sidney's stamp should
wish to visit Home before he turned his face northwards.
Lut his Huguenot Mentor, and perhaps also his friends at
home, so urgently dissuaded him from exposing, his imma-
turity to the blandishments of the Catholic Calypso, that .
he prudently refrained. After a short excursion to Genoa
he returned to Venice, crossed the Alps, and was ao-ain
with Languet at Vienna in July. Here the grave youth
who had set his heart on becoming perfect in all gentle ac-
complishments, divided his time between discourse on poli-
tics and literature, courtly pleasures, and equestrian exer-
cises. In the Defence of Poe.y he has given us an agreeable

II.]

FOREIGN TRAVEL.

picture of his Italian master in horsemanship, the gascon-
ading; Pugliano.

The winter of 1574-75 passed away at Vienna. In the
spring he attended the Emperor Maximilian to Prague,
where he witnessed the opening of the Bohemian Diet.
Thence he moved homewards through Dresden, Heidel-
berg, Stnisburg, and Frankfort, reaching London in June.
During his absence one of his two sisters, Ambrozia, had
died at Ludlow Castle. The queen took the other, Mary,
under special protection, and attached her to her person.
A new chapter was now ooened in the young man's life.
His education being finished, ho entered upon the life of
Courts.

•!l

■,t

f I
1

CHAPTER III.

ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY.

Sidney's prospects as a courtier were excellent. His
powerful uncle Leicester, now at the height of royal favor,
displayed marked partiality for the handsome youth, who
was not unnaturally regarded by the world as his pre-
sumptive heir. In July 1575 Philip shared those famous
festivities with which the earl entertained Elizabeth at
Kcnilworth; and when the Court resumed its progress, he
attended her Majesty to Chartley Castle. This was the
seat of the Earl of Essex, who was then in Ireland. The
countess, in his absence, received her royal guest ; and here
Sidney, for the first time, met the girl with whom his fort-
unes and liis fame were destined to be blended. Lady
Penelope Dcvereux, illustrious in English literature as Sir
Philip Sidney's Stella, was now in her thirteenth year;
and it is not likely that at this time she made any strong
impressio.i on his fancy. Yet we find that soon after the
return of Essex from Ireland in the autumn of 1575, he
had become intimate with the earl's family. At Durham
House, their London residence, he passed long hours dur-
ing the following winter; and when Essex went again to
Ireland as Earl-Marshal in July 1576, Philip accompanied
him. It should here be said that Sir Henry Sidney had
been nominated for the third time Lord Deputy in August

CH. III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 83

1575. Philip's visit was therefore paid to his father; but
he made it in company with the man whom lie liad now
conio to rci,'ard as his future father-in-law. Tiiero is little
doubt that had Lord Essex lived, the match would have
been completed. But the Earl-Marshal died at Dublin on
the 21st of September, after a painful illness, which raised
some apparently ill-founded suspicions of poison. IMiilip
was in Galway with ! i - father, and Essex sent him this
mcssaprc on iiis deathbed: "Tell him I sent him nothing-,
but I wish him well ; so well that, if God do move their
hearts, I wish that he might match with luy daughter. I
fall him son; lie is so wise, virtuous, and godly. If ho
go on in the course he hath begun, ho will be as famous
and worthy a gentleman as ever England bred." These
words are sufHcieut to prove that Philip's marriage with
Penelope was conteniplated by her father. That the
world expected it a|.pcars from a letter of Mr. Edward
Waterhouse to Sir Henry Sidney under date 14th Novem-
ber. After first touching upon the bright prospects opened
for "the little Earl of Essex," this gentleman proceeds:
"and I suppose all the best sort of the English lords, be-
sides, do expect what will become of the treaty between
Mr. I'hilip and my Lady Penelope. Truly, my Lord, I
must say to your Lordship, as I jiave said to my Lord of
Leicester and Mr. Philip, the breaking off from their
match, if the default bo on your parts, will turn to more
dishonour than can be repaired with any other marria'i-e in
England."

What interrupted the execution of tliis marriage treaty
is not certain. Penelope's mother, the widowed Lady
Essex, was privately wedded to the Earl of Leicester soon
after her first husband's death. The Sidneys were poor.
Lady Mary Sidney writes to Lord Burleigh about this

!:!:il

SIR PHILIP aiDNEir.

Vf!nAi>

time: "My present estate is such bv reason of my debts,
as I rnnnot go forward witl. any honourable course of liv-
incr." It is .(Mnarkablo that, so far as wo know, she placed
biit httle confidence in her brother Leiccst.'r, preferrinjr to
nppcal in difKculties to a friend like Cecil. Philip "was
often at a Joss to pay his debts. We possess, for instance
the copy of u long bill from Ids bootmaker v hid. he re-
quests his father's steward to dischar-c -for tne safc-uard
of his credit." Thus Leicester's marriage, which seriously
impaired Philip's prospects, Lady Mary's want of cordiality
toward her brother, and the poverty of the Sidneys, may
be reckoned among the causes which postponed Pench-pe's
betrothal. It should also here bo noticed that Sir Henry
Sidney entertained a grudge against the Earl of Essex.
Writing to Lord Leicester, lie couples Essex with his old
enemy the Earl of Ormond, adding that "for that their
nial.ce, I take God to record, I could brook nothin<. of
them both." We may therefore conclude that P!,ilip'.
father was nnfayourable to the match. But the chief
cause remains to be mentioned. Up to this time the pro-
posed bridegroom felt no loyer's liking for the lady
Languct frequently wrote, urging him to marry, and usinV
arguments similar to those which Shakespeare pressed on
his "fair friend." Philip's answers show that, unless he
was a J.v?. dissembler, he remained heart-free. So time
slipp' • : . Perhaps he thought that he miglit always
p uck i!.. ,080 by only asking for it. At any rate, he dis-
played re eagerness, until one morning the news reached
lum that his Penelope was contracted to a man unworthy
of her, Lord Rich. Then su.ldenly the flame of passion
which bad smouldered so obscurely as to be unreco-rnised
by his own heart, burst out into a blaze; and wh^t was
worse, he discovered that Penelope too loved liim. In the

in.] EN'TRAXCR INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 35

chapter devoted to Sidney'^ poetry I shaii return to this
subject. So much, however, had to be said liere, in order
to present a ri-^^ht conception of his character. For at
least four years, between the death of Essex, in Sefteinber
1576, and Pen .f,o's inuTiage, which wo may p' ic he

sprinrj or suniu.er of 1 , lie was aware that i,, athcr
with his hist h -ath had blessed rheir union. Yet . never
moved a step or showed any eagerness until it was too
late. It seems that this grave youth, poet as he was, pas-
sionate lovti as he undoubtedly became, and liasty as ho
occasionally showed himself in trifles, had a >ouicwh;it
politic and sluggish temperament. Fulki' Greville recorded
that iio never was a boy; Languct could chide him for
being sad beyond his years; he wrote himself, ;rnid the
distractions of Venetian society, that \< lircd hard

studies to drive away melancholy. Mureov indulged

dreams of higli and noble ambition. S culture, the
preparation of his whole nature for some -nattask in life,
occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of a woman's image.
This save'1 him from the faults and follies of his age; but
it rendcreu him cold, until the poet's fire leaped up and
kindled a slumbering emotion.

Not love, but the ambition of a statesman, then was
Sidney's ruling passion at this time. lie had no mind to
"sport with Amaryllis iti the shade," or even to "meditate
tiic thankless Muse," when work could be done for Em^-v
land and the affairs of Europe called for eiiergctic action.
In the spring of 1577 Elizabeth selected him for a uiission,
which flattered these aspirations. llod(<lpii of llapsburg
lia<l just succeeded to the imperial throne, and the Elector
I'alatinc had died, leaving two sons, Lewis and John
Casimir. She sent I"'liilip to congral ilate the emperor
and to condole with the bereaved princes. lie stipulated

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

f-l ■ ^

i /i

Hi IK

that, after performinrr the ceremonial part of this embassy,
he should be permitted to confer with the German Powers
upon the best means of maintainino- reformed principles
and upholding political liberties. Instructions were ac-
cordingly drawn up which empowered the youthful envoy
to touch upon these points. At the end of February he
set out upon liis tra.'els, attended by Fulke Groville and by
a train of gentlefolk. In the houses where he lodged he
caused tablets to be fixed, emblazoned with his arms,°undcr
which ran a Latin inscription to this effect: "Of the most
illustrious and well-born English gentleman, Philip Sidney,
son of the Viceroy of Ireland, nephew of the Earls of
Warwick and Leicester, Ambassador from the most Serene
Queen of England to the Emperor." This ostentation was
not out of harmony with the pompous habits of that age.
Yet we may perhaps discern in it Sidney's incapacity °to
treat his own affairs with lightness. He took himself and
all that concerned him au serieux ; but it must also be ob-
served that he contrived to make others accept him in like
manner. As Jonson puts it, when comparing himself,
under the name of Horace, with men of less sterling merit;

" If tlicy sliould confidently praise their works,
In tliem it would appear inflation ;
Whicli, in a full and well-digested man,
Cannot receive that foul, abusive name,
But the fair title of erection."

lie first proceeded to Heidelberg, where he failed to find
the Elector Lewis, but made acquaintance with the younger
prince, his brother Casimir. The palatinate, like many"of
the petty German states, was torn by religious factions.
The last elector had encouraged Calvinism ; but his son
Lewis was now introducing Lutheran ministers into his do-

'ii

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 37

minions. The Calvinists, after enduring considenible hard-
ships, had to emigrate; and many of thcin took refuge
witli Prince Casimir. It seems that before he reached
Heidelberg, Sidney had been met by Hubert Languet ; and
this good counseller attended liim through all his German
wanderings. They went together to Prague, wliere the
new emperor was liolding his Court. Here, even more
than at Heidelberg, the English Envoy found matter for
serious disquietude. Rodolph had grown up under Catho-
lic influences, and the Jesuits were gaining firm hold upon
his capital. Students of history will remember that a Jes-
uit Father had negotiated the participation of the Emperor
Ferdinand in the closing of the Tridentine Council. Aus-
tria, under his grandson Rodolph's rule, bid fair to become
one of their advanced posts in northern Europe. Sidney
meant, so far as in him lay, to shake the prestige of this
"extremely Spaniolated" and priestridden emperor. It
was his intention to harangue in Germany against t!ie
" fatal conjunction of Rome's undermining superstition
with the commanding forces of Spain." Fulke Greville
has sketched the main line of his argument; but it is hard-
ly probable that he bearded the lion in his den and spoke
his mind out before the imperial presence. The s ance
of the policy he strove to impress upon those Gciinan
princes who took the Protestant side, and upon all well-
wishers to the people, was that the whole strength of their
great nation could not save them from the subtle poison
which Sarpi styled the Diacatholicon, unless they made a
vigorous effort of resistance. Rome, by her insidious arts
and undermining engines — by her Jesuits and casuistical
sophistications — sapped the social fabric and dissolved the
ancestral loyalties of races. Into the dismembered and
disintegrated mass marched Spain vith her might of arms.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

ff ■

-r

i <

I i

her money, her treaties, marriages, and encouragement of
sedition. In short, Sidney nttered a prophecy of what
happened in the Thirty Years' War, that triumph of Jesu-
itical diplomacy. As a remedy he proposed that all tho
German Powers who valued national independence, and
had a just dread of Spanish encroachment, should "asso-
ciate by an uniform bond of conscience for the protection
of religion and liberty." In other words, he espoused the
policy of what was Icnown as the Foedus Evangeliciim.

Theoretically, this plan was not only excellent, but also
necessary for stemming the advance of those reactionary
forces, knit together by bonds of common interest and
common enthusiasm, which governed the Counter Refor-
mation. But unfortunately it rested upou no solid basis
of practical possibilities. A Protestant Alliance, formed to
secure the political and religious objects of the Reforma-
tion in its warfare v/itli Catholicism, had been the cherish-
ed scheme of northern statesmen since the days of Henry
VIII. The principles of evangelical piety, of national free-
dom, of progvessive thought, and c' Teutonic emancipation
upon regulated methods, might perhaps have been estab-
lished, if the Church of England could have combined with
the Lutherans of Germany, theCalvinists of Geneva, and of
France, Sweden, and the Low Countries, in a soHd confed-
eration for the defence of civil and religious liberty. But
from the outset, putting national jealousies and diplomatic
difficulties aside, there existed in the very spirit of Protest-
antism a power antagor.i to cohesion. Protestantism
had its root in critical aa ptical revolt. From the first
it assumed forms of bewilderrig diversity on points of d ^'•-
trine. Each of its sects passed at an early stage into dog-
matism, hardly less stubborn than that of the Catholic
Church. It alforded no common or firm groundwork for

\ ]

hould "asso-

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFK AND EMBASSY. 83

alliance. Lutherans, Z\vinglian,s, Anglicans, Anabaptists,
Hussites, Calvinists, Sacramentarians, Puritans, coukl not
work together for a single end. It has always been thus
with the party of progress, the Liberals of world-transform-
ing moments in the march of thought. United by no
sanctioned Credo, no fi.\ed Corpus Fidei, no community of
Conservative tradition ; owing no allegiance to a spiritual
monarch; depending for their being on rebellion against
authority and discipline ; disputing the fundamental prop-
ositions from which organisation has hitherto been ex-
panded, — they cannot act in concert. These men are in-
novator.s, scene-shifters, to whom the new scene, as in the
plan of God it will appear, is still invisible. They are
movers from a fixed point to a point yet unascertained.
Each section into which they crystallise, and where as sects
they sterilise, conceives the coming order according to it3
narrow prejudices. Eaob sails toward the haven of the
future by its own ill-balancod compass, and observes self-
chosen stars. The very instinc^. for change, the very ap-
prehension which sets so-called iteformers in motion, im-
plies individualities of opinion and incompatibilities of
will. Therefore they f^re collectively weak when ranged
against the ranks of orthodoxy and established discipline.
It is only because the life of the world beats in their hearts
and brains, because the onward faces of humanity are with
thoni that they command our admiration. The victory of
liberalism in modern Europe was won at the cost of retro-
grade movements — such as the extinction of free thought
in Il;'.ly and Spain, the crushing of the Huguenots in
France,"tlie bloody persecution of the Netherlands, the
Thirty Years' War, and the ossification of the Reformed
Churches into inorganic stupidity. And the fruits of the

victory fall not to any sect of Protestantism, but to a new
80

w >

•

SIR nilLlP SIDNEY.

[chap.

".\

spirit wliicli arose in Science and the Rcvolntion. To ex-
pect, tlievefore, as Sidney and the men with wliom he sym-
pathised expected, that a Protestant League could he form-
ed, capable of hurling back the tide of Catholic reaction
was little short of the indulgence of a golden dream. Facts
and the essence of the Reformation were against its possi-
bility. As a motive force in the world, Protestantism was
alreudy well-nigh exhausted. Its energy had already pass-
ed into new forms. The men of the future were now rep-
vosentcd by philosophers like BiUno and Bacon, by naviga-
tors of the world like Drake, by explorers of the heavens
like Galileo, by anatomists and physicists like Vesalius,
Scrvetns, Sarpi, Harvey.

Whatever Sidney's hopes and dreams may have been, the
relio-ious discords of Germany, torn asunder by Protestant
sectarians and worm-eaten to the core by Jesuitical propa-
gandists, must have rudely disilluded him. And no one
was better fitted than Languet to dissect before his eyes
the humours and imposthumcs of that unwieldy body pol-
itic. They left Prague at the end of April, travelled togeth-
er to Heidelberg, visited the Landgrave of llesse, and ar-
rived at Cologne in May. Here Sidney thought that he
must turn his face immediately homewards, though he great-
ly wished to pass into Flanders. Languet dissuaded him,
on grounds of prudence, from doing so without direct com-
mission from the queen. Great therefore was the satisfac-
tion of both when letters arrived from England, ordering
Sidney to compliment William the Silent, Prince of Orange,
on the birth of his son. During this visit to the Nether-
lands he made acquaintance with the two most distinguished
men there, and won the respect of both. Don John of
Austria, the victor of Lepanto, was then acting as viceroy
to the King of Spain. Sidney paid him his respects, and

[chap.

tion. To ex-
'liom he syiiv
ould be fonn-
lolic rcactio',
dream. Facts
.inst its possi-
cstantisin was
already pass-
wcvc now rep-
011, by naviga-
f the Iicavons
like Vesaliiis,

have been, the
by Protestant
suitical prcpa-

And no one
cforc liis eyes
3ldy body pol-
avellcd togeth-
IIcssc, and av-
ought that lie
lough hcgreat-
.lissnaded hiin,
)ut direct com-
as the satisfac-
[>land, ordering
incc of Orange,
to the Nethcr-
stdistingnishod

Don John of
ting as viceroy
is respects, and

m.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 41

this is the account Fulke Grcville gives of his recep-
tion : —

"Though at the fi4'st, in his Spanish liaughturc, he (Don Jolin)
gave him access as by descent to a youtli, of grace as to a stnniirer,
and in particidar competition, as he conceived, to an enemy ; yot after
a wliile that he had talvcn his just altitude, he foimd iiim.«elf ?o
stricken witli tills extraordinary planet that the beholders wondered
to see what ingenuous tribute that brave and high-minded prince
paid to his worth, giving more honour and respect to this hopeful
young gentleman than to the ambassadors of n)'-;lity princes."

What liappened at Sidney's interview with William of
Orange is not told us. That he made a strong impression
on the stadtholder appears from words spoken to Ftilke
Greville after some years. Greville had been sent as am-
bassador to the prince at Delft. Amonsr other thino's AVill-
iam bade him report to Queen Elizabeth his opinion " that
her Majesty had one of the ripest and greatest counsellors
of estate in Sir Philip Sidney that at this day lived in
Europe; to the trial of which he was pleased to leave his
own credit engaged until her Majesty might please to em-
ploy this gentleman either amongst her friends or enemies."
Sidney's caution prevented his friend from delivering this
message to a sovereign notoriously jealous of foreign inter-
ference in her home affairs.

Philip was in London again in June, when he presented
his respects to her Majesty at Greenwich. That he had
won credit by the discharge of his embassy appears from
a letter written by Mr. Secretary Walsingham to Sir Henry
Sidney soon after his arrival. " There hath not been any
gentleman, I am sure, these many years that hath gone
through so honourable a charge with as great commenda-
tions as he: in consideration whereof I could not but com-
municate this part of my joy with your Lordship, being no
3 D

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

1 1

1 ..

less a refreshing unto me in these my troublesome businesse.
than the soil is to the chafed stag." Henceforth we may
regard our hero as a courtier high in favour with the queen,
esteemed for his solid parts by "le foremost statesmen of
the realm, in correspondence with the leaders of the Re-
formed party on the Continent, and surely marked out for
some employment of importance. IIo had long to wait,
however, before that craving fo'- action in the great world
which we have already indicated as his leading passion,
could even in part be gratified. ]\IoanwhiIe it was his duty
to hang about the Court; and how irksome he found that
petty sphere of compliments, intrigues, and gallantries, can
be read in the impatient letters he addressed to Languet.
Their correspondence was pretty regularly maintained, al-
though the old man sometimes grumbled at his young
friend's want of attention. " Weigli well, 1 beseech you,
what it is to grudge tlirough so long a space of time one
single hour to friends who love you so dearly, and who are
more anxious for you than for themselves. By omitting
one dance a month you could have abundantly satisfied
us." In this strain Languet whites occasional 1}'. But his
frequent reference to Pliilip's "sweetest letters," and the
familiarity he always displays with his private affairs, show
that the young courtier was a tolerably regular correspond-
ent. It is difficult for elderly folk, when they have con-
ceived ardent affection for their juniors, to remember how
very much more space the young occupy in the thoughts
of the old than the old can hope to command in youthful
brains distracted by the multifarious traffic of society.
Languet had little to do but to ply his pen in his study.
Sidney had to follow the queen on progress, tiiflc with her
ladies, join in games of skill and knightly exercises with the
gentlemen about the Court. Yet it is certain that this life

[CUAP.

line businessc.
forth we may
itli the queen,

statesmen of
rs of the Ke-
arked out for
long to wait,
e great world
ding passion,

was his duty
le found that
allantries, can
I to Languet.
laintained, al-
it his young
beseech you,

of time one
, and who are
By omitting
iitly satisfied
ly. But his
}rs," and the
affairs, show
r correspond-
2y have con-
nember how
the thoughts
1 in youthful

of society.
in his study,
ifle with her
ises with the
that this life

ni] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 43

wearied him. lie was for ever seeking to escape; at one
time planning to join Prince Casimir in the Low Countries ;
at another to take part in Frobisher's expedition ; and more
than once contemplating " some Indian project." Languet
did his best, Lo curb these wandering ambitions. He had
conceived a very firm opinion that Sidney was born to be
a statesman, not a soldier of fortune, not an explorer of tlic
ocean. At the same time, he greatly dreaded lest his friend
should succumb to the allurements of fashionable idleness.
" My noble Sidney, you must avoid that persistent siren,
sloth." "Think not that God endowed you with parts so
excellent to the end that you should lot them rot in leisure.
Rather hold firmly that lie requires more from you than
from those to whom lie has been less liberal of talents."
" There is no reason to fear lest you should decay in idle-
ness if only you will employ your mind ; for in so great a
realm as England opportunity will surely not be wanting
for its useful exercise." Nature has adorned you with the
ricliest gifts of mind and body ; fortune with noble blood
and wealth and splendid family connection^ ; and you from
your first boyhood have cultivate I your intellect by those
studies which are most helpful to men in their struggle af-
ter virtue. Will you then refuse your energies to your coun-
try when it demands them? Will you bury that distin-
guished talent God has given you ?" The career Languet
had traced out for Philip was that of a public servant; and
he consistently strove to check the young man's restless-
ness, to overcome his discouragement, and to stimulate him
while depressed by the frivolities of daily life. It was his
object to keep Philip from roaming or w j-ig his powers
on adventure, while he also fortified his will tgainst the se-
ductions of an idle Court.
During this summer of 1577 Languet cnce or twice al-

•)

lll^

P ■ ii

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

ludes in very cautions language to some project of great
importance which liad recently been mooted between them
on the Continent. It involved tlie participation of emi-
nent foreigners. It required the sanction and active as-
sistance of the queen. AVhat tliis was we do not know.
Some of Sidney's biogra[)I)er.s are of opinion tliat it con-
cerned his marriage with a German noblewoman. Others
— perhaps with bettor reason— conjecture that his candidat-
ure for the Polish Crown had then been mooted. AVIicn
Ilcnri III. resigned tlic throne of Poland for that of France
in 1574 Stephen Pathori was elected hing. He lived un-
til 1585. Put in 1577, tlio year of Languet's mysterious
letters, he had not yet given substantial proof of his future
policy; and the Protestant party in Europe might have
been glad to secure a nominee of the English queen as can-
didate in the case of a vacancy. There is no doubt +liat a
belief prevailed after Sidney's death that the crown of Po-
land liad in some sort been offered him. Tlie author of
T/ic Life and Death of Sir Philij) Sidney mentions it. Sir
Robert Naunton asserts that the queen refused "to furtlier
his advancement, not onl; out of emulation, but out of fear
to lose the jewel of her times." Fuller says tliat Sidney
declined the honour, preferring to be "a subject to Queen
Elizabeth than a sovereign beyond the seas." It would be
far too flattering to Philip to suppose that a simple Eng-
lish gentleman in his twenty-third year received any actual
offer of a throne which a king of France liad recently va-
cated, and which was generally given by election to such
as could afford to pay dearly for the honour. Yet it is
not impossible that the Reformed princes of Germany may
have thought him a good pawn to play, if Elizabeth were
willing to back him. The Focdus Evangelicum, it must be
remembered, was by no means yet devoid of actuality.

in.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 45

Marv Sidney's recent ninrriagc to tlie Earl of Pembroke
had strengthened the family by an alliance with one of
England's chief noblemen. After coming home Philip
paid his sister a visit at Wilton, returning, however, soon
to Court in order to watch his father's interests. Sir Hen-
ry Sidney was still at his post as Lord Deputy of Ireland ;
and in his absence the usual intrigues were destroying his
credit with the queen. Brilliant, unscrupulous, mendacious,
Ormoiid poured calumnies and false insinuations into her
car. She gave the carl too easy credence, partly because
lie was handsome, and partly because the government of
Ireland was always costing money. There seems lilule
doubt that Sir Henry made no pecuniary profit for himself
out of his viceroyalty, and that he managed the realm as
economically and as justly as was possible. Ormond and
the nobles of his party, however, complained that the Lord
Deputy decided cases inequitably against them, that his
method of governmeni was ruinously expensive, and that
he tyrannously exacted from thenr land-taxes wliich had
been remitted by his predecessors. Philip undertook his
father's defence in a written statement, only the rough
notes of which, and those imperfect, have come down to
us. lie met the charge of injustice by challenging the ac-
cusers to show evidence. On Uie question of the land-tax,
or cess, which Ormond and others claimed to have remit-
ted, he proved the inequity and the political imprudence of
freeing great nobles from burdens which must be paid by
the poor. These poor, moreover, were already taxed by
their lords, and shamefully ill-treated by them. "And priv-
ileged persons, forsooth, be all the rich men of the pale,
the burden only lying upon the poor, who may groan, for
their cry C' , .ot be heard." Sir Henry had proposed to
convert the cess, computed at an average of ten pounds,

i 'l

i'.

J .

■ 1 '

f !

Sill PJIILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

1 .1

into a fixed annual [)ay!ncnt of five iDarlvS. At tliis the
nobles cried out that tlicj were being robbed. I'hilip
demonstrated that, accordin;^ to their own showing, a very
easy couiproinisc had Icon offered iheni. On the head of
economy, he was able to make it clear that his father's ad-
ministration tended to save money to the State, allowing
always for the outl;iy needed by an army in occupation of
a turbulent and disaffected country. Such a government
as that of Ireland could not be conducted cheaper. Ihit
some h.id urged that the Lord Deputy exceeded nieasure
in the severity of his justice and the cruelty of liis execu-
tive. Philip contended that a greater lenity than tiiat
w.'iich liis father showed would have been worse than folly.
What he wrote upon this point is worthy of careful peru-
sal at the present day. It reminds us that the Irish diffi-
culty has been permanent, and without appreciable altera-
tion, through three centuries. "Little is lenity to prevail
in minds so possessed with a natural inconstancy ever to
go in a new fortune, with a revengeful hate to all English
as to their only conquerors, and that which is most of all,
with so ignorant obstinacy in Papistry that they do in
their souls detest the present Government." And again :
"Truly the general nature of all countries not fully con-
quered is against it (/.f. against gentle dealing and conces-
sions). For until by time they find the sweetness of due
subjection, it is impossible that any gentle means should
put out the remembrance of their lost liberty. And that
the Irishman is that way as obstinate as any nation, with
whom no other passion can prevail but fear (besides their
history, which plainly points it out), their maimer of life,
wherein they choose rather all filthiness than any law, and
their own consciences, who best know their own natures,
give sufficient proof of. For under the sun there is not a

[ciup.

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 47

. At this the
jbh(Ml. I'hllip
ihowino- ji very
Dii the head of
his father's ad-
State, nllowiiii^
I occupation of

a goveniiiient
clioapcr. l)iit
ceded nieabiire
y of liis cxccii-
lity tlian that
3rsc than folly.
)f careful peru-

tlic Irish diffi-
rcciable altera-
iiity to prevail
istancy ever to

to all English

is uiost of all,
at they do in
' And ajrain :

not fully con-
no- and conces-
ectness of due

means should
'ty. And that
ly nation, with
' (besides their
nanner of life,
n any law, and
• own natures,
I there is not a

nation that live more tyrannously than thoy do one over
the other."

This defence seems to have satisfied Elizabeth and excul-
pated the Lord Deputy, without inipairin<^ its writer's cred-
it at Court. It is the first of a scries of senii-oflicial doc-
uuients, in which, more perhaps than in any other species
of composition, Sidney showed his power as a master of
languai^e. Waterhouse wrote to Sir Henry that it was the
most excellent discourse ho had ever read, adding, " Let no
man compare with Sir Philip's pen." During the dispute,
and before the queen had expressed her satisfaction with
the Lord Deputy's defence, Ormond addressed some re-
marks to Philip in the presence of the Court. The young
man made no reply, marking his hosti'ity by silence. It
was expected that a duel would follow upon this affront to
the great Irish earl. But Ormond, judging it expedient to
treat Sidney as a virtuous gentleman who was bound to
defend his father's cause, conceded him the indulgence of
a superior.

The storm which threatened Sir Henry Sidney blew
over, in great measure owing to his son's skilful advocacy.
Still Elizabeth retained her grudge against the Viceroy.
He had not yet contrived to flatter that most sensitive
member of the royal person — her pocket. Consequently,
the year 1578 scarcely opened before new grievances arose.
The queen talked of removing Sir Henry from his office —
with, perchance, the cumbious honour of a peerage. He,
on the other hand, presented bills to the amount of three
thousand and one pounds, for money disbursed from his
private estate in the course of public business. She re-
fused to sign a warrant for their payment, alleging, appar-
ently, that the Lord Deputy was creating debts of State in
his own interest. Sir Henry retorted — and all the extant

yf ■;>

- lit I i>

I. -I

SIR nilLIP SIDNEY.

[CIIAP.

documents tend to the belief that his retort was true — that
he had spent tluis much of his own moneys upon trust for
her Majesty ; and that he needed tlie sum, barring one
pound, for the payment of his daughter's marriage portion
to the Earl of Pembroke. Perusal of the correspondence
seems to me to j)rovo that, liowever bad a diplomatist and
stubborn a viceroy Sir Henry may have been, he was, at
any rate, a thoroughly honest man. And this honest man's
debts, contracted in her name and in her service, the queen
chose to repudiate. It is not wonderful that, under these
circumstances, the Lord Deputy thought of throwing up
his appointment and retiring into private life in lilngland.
Philip's persuasions induced liis father to abandon this de-
sign, lie pointed out that the term of oflice would expire
at Michaelmas, and that it would be more for the Deputy's
credit to tender his resiiination at that time without an
open rupturCo One of his letters shows how valuable in
these domestic counsels was the Lady Mary Sidney. Philip
writes that in the meantime — that is, between Ladyday and
Michaelmas — Sir Henry's friends would do their best to
heal the breach ; " Among which friends, before God, there
is none proceeds cither so thoroughly or so wisely as your
lady, my mother. For mine own part, I have had only
light from her."

These sentences afford a very pleasing insight into the
relations between father, mother, and eldest son. But the
icnsion of the situation for Philip at Court, playing his
part as queen's favourite while his father was disgraced,
shouldering the Irish braggarts whom she protected, and
who had declared war against her viceroy, presenting a
brave front before the world, with only an impoverished
estate to back him, — the tension of this situation must
have been too great for his sensitive nerves. We find that

iii.J ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 49

he indulged suspicions. Tilings transpired at Court vvliich
lie believed liad been committed only in most private cor-
respondence to Sir Henry, He wrote to his father : " I
must needs impute it to some men about you that there is
little written from you or to you that is not perfectly
known to your professed enemies." A few weeks after
penning these words he thought that he had caught the
culprlu in Mr. Edmund Molineux, Sir Henry's secretary.
This explains the following furious epistle, which no biog-
rapher of Sidney should omit in its proper place : —

" Mr. Molinkux— Few words are best. My letters to my fatlior
liave come to t!ie ears of some: neither can I condemn any but you.
If it be so, you have played the very knave with me ; and so I will
make you know, if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as
is past. For that is to come, I assure you, before God, that if ever I
know you to do so much as read any letter I write to my father with-
out his commandment or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into
you. And trust to it, for I speak In earnest. In the meantime, fare-
well.— From Court, this last of May 1578. By mo,

"PniLiP Sidney."

Philip had made a great mistake — a mistake not unlike
Uiat which betrayed him into false judgment of his com-
rade Coningsby. Molineux was as true as steel to his fa-
ther, as loyal as Abdiel to the house of Sidney. It was he
who composed for Hollingshed the heartfelt panegyrics of
Sir Henry, Sir Philip, and Lady Mary. On this occasion
he met the young man's brutal insults with words which
may have taught him courtesy. The letter deserves to be
given in its integrity : —

" Sjk— I have received a letter from you which as it is the first,
so the same is the sharpest that I ever received from any ; and there-
fore it amazeth me the more to receive such an one from you, since I
have (the world can judge) deserved better somewhere, howsoever it
3*

r -H

■^

■i t

' r

'\ ■

fill'

111

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[cnAP.

pleased you to condemn me now. But since it is (I protest to God)
without cause, or yet just ground of suspicion, you use me thus, I
bear tlie injury more patiently for a time, and mine innoceuev I hope
in the end shall tiy mine honesty, and then I trust you will confess
tliat you have done me wrong. And since your pleastn'e so is ex-
pressed that I shall not hcneefortii read any of your letters (although
I must confess I have heretofore taken both great delight and profit
in reading some of them) yet upon so hard a condition as you seem
to offer, I will not hereafter adventure so great peril, but "obey you
herein. Ilowbeit, if it had pleased you, you migiit have commanded
me in a far greater matter with a less penalty.— Yours, wiieu it shall
please you better to conceive of me, humbly to command,

" F. MoLINEfX."

We doubt not tliat Philip made Iionourable amends for
his unjust imputations, since good friendship afterwards
subsisted between him and Molineu.x. The incident, on
which I have thought fit to dwell, reveals something not
altogether pleasing in our heio's character. But the real
deduction to be drawn from it is that his position at this
time was well-nigh intolerable.

In the midst of these worrying. cares he remained in at-
tendance on tlic queen. It seems that he journeyed with
tl)e Court in all lier progresses; and in May he formed part
of the royal company which Leicester welcomed to his
house at Wanstead. The entertainment provided for her
Majesty was far simpler than that so famous one at Kenil-
worth in 1575. Yet it lias for us a special interest, inas-
much as here Philip produced his first literary essay. This
was a rural masque entitled. The Lady of the May. How
it came to be written we know not ; peradvcnture at two
sittings, between the evening's dance and retirement to bed.
The thing is slight and without salt. If it were not still
quoted in the list of Sidney's works, we should not notice
it ; and why it ever was printed I am unable to conjecture,

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 51

except upon tlie supposition that even in Elizabetli's days
the last drops from a famous pen, however dull they were,
found publishers. Of dramatic conception or of power in
diaif lie it shows nothing; nor are the lyrics tuneful.
i'; I . is plenty of flattery introduced, apparently to glut
til j .|;!ccn's appetite for mud-honey, but yet so clumsily
applied as to suggest a suspicion whether the poet were
not laughing at her. The only character which reveals
force of portraiture and humour is that of Rombus, the
pedagogue, into whose mouth Sidney has put some long-
winded speeches, satirising the pedantic and grossly igno-
rant style in vogue among village school-masters. Rombus,
in fact, is a very rough sketch for the picture of Master
Ilolof ernes, as may be judged by his exordium to Queen
Elizabeth —

"■Stage Direction. — Then came forward Master Rombus, ami, with
many special graces, made this learned oration ; —
"Now the thunder-thumping Jove tmnsfmid his dotes into your
excellent formosit}', which have, with your rcsplc-.iJent beams, tinis
segregated the enmity of these rural animals : I am ' potontissima
doniina,' a scliool-master ; that is to say, a pedagogue, cue not, a little
versed in tlie diseipliiiating of tlie juvenile fry, wlierein, to my laud I
say it, I use such geometrical propoition, as neither wanted mansue-
tudc nor correction: for so it is described —

" ' Parcare subjectos, et dobellire snpeibos.'

Yet hath not the pulchritude of my virtues protected me from the

contaminating hands of these plebeians ; for coming, ' solummodo,'

to have parted their sanguinolent fray, they yielded me no more rev-

eronoo tlian if I had been some 'peeorius asiuus.' I, even I, iliat am,

who am I '? ' Dixi ; verbus sapiento satum est.' But what said tiiat

Trojan yEneas, when he sojourned in tiic surging sulks of the sandif-

erous seas ?

" 'llaec dim meinonasse juvebit.'

Weil, well, ' ad propositos revertebo ;' the purity of the verity is, that

; ! I

,1'

iin !

Il'

: ;;■ 1 !

p.]

1 :;

\Ul

^ ' (i/

j l''f'

■t

SIR rillLIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

a certain ' pulchra piiclla profccto,' elected and constituted by tlie in-
tognited determination of all this topographical region, as the sover-
eign lady of this dame Muia's month, hath been, ' quodammodo,' hunt-
ed, as you would say; pursued by two, a brace, a couple, a east of
young men, to whom the crafty coward Cupid had, 'inquam,' deliv-
ered his dire dolorous dart."

During this summer riiilip obtained a place at Court,
the importance of wliich his friend Languet seems to have
exaggerated. Zouch says it was the post of cup-bearer to
the queen ; and in this statement there is no improbability,
but there is also nothing to warrant it. At any rate the
office failed to satisfy his ambition; for ho wrote com-
plainingly, as usual, of the irksomencss of Court existence.
How disagreeable that must in some respects have been is
made clear to us by Lady Mary's letters in the autumn of
this year. She was expecting her husband home from Ire-
land, lie had to reside with her at Hampton Court, where
she could only call one bedroom her own. To the faithful
Molineux she writes: —

" I have thought good to put you in remembrance to move my
Lord Chamberlain in my Lord's name, to have some other room
than my chiimber for my Lord to have his resort unto, as he was
wont to have ; or else my Lord will bo greatly troubled, when ho
shall have any matters of despatch.: my lodgings, you see, being very
little, and myself continually sick and not able to be much out of my
bed. Fur the night-time one roof, with God's grace, shall servo us.
Fo;- the liaytime, the queen will looic to have my chamber always in
a readiness for her Majesty's coming thither; and tiiough my Lord
himself can be no impediment thereto by his own presence, yet his
Lordship, trusting to no place else to be provided for him, w'ill be,
as I said before, troubled for want of a convenient place for the de-
spateh of such people as shall have occasion to come to him. There-
fore, I pray you, in my Lord's own name, move my Lord of Sussex
for a room for that purpose, and I will have it hanged and lined for

"^^^

**!

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 53

him with stuff from hence. I wish you not to be unmindful hereof;
and so for tiiis time I leave you to the Almighty. — From Chiswick,
this 11th October 15Y8."

It would appear that Lady Mary's very modest request
for a second room, wliicli si e undertook to furnish out of
her own wardrobe, was not at once granted. Anotlicr letter
to Molincux shows that he had made some progress in the
matter, but had not succeeded. Hampton Court, she writes,
however full it may be, has always several spare rooms.
Perhaps there are those who " will be sorry my Lord should
have so sure footing in the Court." Could not Molineux
contrive the loan of a parlour for her husband in the day-
time? Yet, after all, " when the worst is known, old Lord
Harry and his old Moll will do as well as they can in part-
ing, like good friends, the small portion allotted our long
service in Court." ^ There is something half pathetic and
half comic in the picture thus presented to our minds of
the great Duke of Northumberland's daughter, with her
husband, the Viceroy of Ireland and Wales, dwelling at
hugger-mugger in one miserable chamber — she well-nigh
bedridden, he transacting his business in a corner of it, and
the queen momently expected upon visitations, not always,
we may guess, of friendship or affection. Yet the touch
of homely humour in the last .sentence I have quoted from
the noble lady's letter, sheds a pleasant light upon the sor-
did scene.

Studying the details of Court life both in Italy and Eng-
land at this period, we are often led to wonder why noble-
men with spacious palaces and venerable mansions of their
own to dwell in — why men of genius whose brilliant a'ifts
made them acceptable in every cultivated circle — should
have submitted so complacently to its ignoble conditions.
Even those who seemed unable to breathe outside the sphere

[y (

:.l

!]:>

iW'

SIR PUILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

of the Court spoke most bitterly against it. Tasso squan-
dered his health, his talents, nay, his reason, in that servi-
tude. Guarini, after impairing his fortune, and wasting the
best years of his manliood at Ferrara, retired to a country
villa, and indulged his spleen in venomous invectives against
the vices and the ignominies he had abandoned. Marino,
who flaunted his gay plumage at Turin and Paris, screamed
like a cockatoo with cynical spite whenever the word Court
was mentioned. The only wise man of that age in Italy
was the literary bravo Aretino. He, having debauched his
youth in the vilest places of the Roman Courts, resolved to
live a free man henceforth. Therefore lie took refuge in
Venice, where he caressed his sensual appetites and levied
blackmail on society. From that retreat, which soon be-
came a sty of luxury, he hurled back upon tiie Courts the
filth which ho had o-athered in them. His dialoij-ue on
Court service is one of the most savage and brutally naked
exposures of depravity which satirical literature contains.
In England there was indeed a far higher tone of manliness
and purity and personal independence at the Court than
obtained in Italy. Yet listen to Spenser's memorable lines,
obviously poured forth from the heart and coloured by bit-
terest experience ; —

" Full little kiiowest thou, that hast not tried,
AVhat hell it is in suing long to bide :
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent ;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow ;
To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers' ;
To have thy asking, yet wait many years ;
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ;
To cat thy heart thi'ough comfortless despairs ;

[chap.

Tasso squan-
, in that servi-
nd wasting the
1 to a country
cctivcs against
ned. Marino,
^aris, screamed
he word Court
it age in Italy
debauched his
rts, resolved to
:ook refuse in
itcs and levied
hich soon be-
tiie Courts the
s dialogue on
brutally naked
iture contains.
le of manliness
be Court than
3morablc lines,
oloured by bit-

ed,

pent ;
It;
IV ;

rrow ;
peers' ;

.res ;
pairs ;

III.] ENTRANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY. 55

To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to bo undone :
Unhappy wight, born to disastrous end,
That doth his Ufe in so long tendance spend !"

Therefore we return to wondering what it was in Courts
which made gentlefolk convert broad acres into cash thr.t
they might shine there, which lured noblemen from their
castles and oak-shaded deer-parks to occupy a stuffy bed-
room in a royal palace, and squires from their moss-grown
manor-houses to jolt along the roads on horseback in at-
tendance on a termagant like Elizabeth or a learned pig
like James I. The real answer to these questionings is
that, in the transition from mediaeval to modern conditions
of life, the Court had become a social necessity for folk of
a certain quality and certain aspirations. It was the only
avenue to public employment; the only sphere in which
a man of ambition, wlio was neither clerk in orders nor
lawyer, could make his mark; the only common meeting-
ground for rank, beauty, wealth, and genius. Thus it exer-
cised a splendid fascination, the reflex of which is luminous
in our dramatic literature. After rcaling those sad and
bitter lines of Spenser, v/e should turn the pages of Fletch-
er's Valcntinian, wliere the allurements of the Court are
eloquently portrayed in the great scene of Lncina's attempt-
ed seduction. Or better, let us quote tlie ecstasies of For-
frunatus from the most fanciful of Dekker's pla) s : —

"For still ill all the regions I liave seen,

I scorned to crowd among the muddy throng

Of the rank multitude, whose thickened breath,

Like to condensed fogs, do choke that beauty

Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek.

No, I still boldly stepped into their courts,

For there to live 'tis rare, oh, 'tis divine !
31

?fl

I '[ii

If!

(.'i'i

Sin PHILIP SIDNEY,

[ciup.

There sliall you see faces angelical ;

There shall you sec troops of chaste goddesses,

Whose star-like eyes have power (might they still shine)

To make night day, and day more crystalline :

Near these you shall behold groat heroes,

White-headed counsellors, and jovial spirits,

Standing like fiery cherubims to guard

The monarch who in god-like glory sits

In midst of these, as if this deity

Had wiih a look created a new world.

The standers-by being the fair workmanship."

Philip, like so many of his contemporaries, continued to
waver between the irresistible attraction of the Court and
the centrifugal force which urged him to be up and doing,
anywhere, at any occupation, away from its baneful and
degrading idleness. Just now, in the summer of 1578, he
was hankering to join his friend, John Casimir, at Zutphen.
Elizabeth had nominated this prince to her lieutenancy in
the Low Countries, supplying him with money in small
ijuantities for the levying of troops. When he took the
tic'ld, Philip burned to accept an invitation sent him by the
prince. But first he had to gain his father's permission.
Sir Henry's answer is the model of kindness and of gentle
unselfishness. He begins by acknowledging the honour
paid his son, and commending Philip's eagerness. But
"when I enter into the consideration of mine own estate,
and call to mind what practices, informations, and wicked
accusations are devised against me, and what an assistance
in the defence of those causes your presence would be unto
rae, reposing myself so much both upon your help and judg-
ment, I strive betwixt honour and necessity what allowance
I may best give of that motion for your going." Then he
goes on to say that he leaves the consideration of these
matters to his son, and will in no wav check his inclination

III.

or 1'

EiNTllANCE INTO COURT-LIFE AND EMBASSY,
J consent. I

efiisc

ip sacrificed liis wishes, and

remained in England to assist his father. This act of filial
coiiiplianco cost him, as it happened, nothing; for Casimir's
dealings in the Netherlands brought no credit to himself or
his companions. None the less should we appreciate the
amiable trait in Sidney's character.

Sir Henry returned in due course to England in the au-
tumn, and tendered his resignation of the Irish Viceroyalty.
He still maintained his post as Lord President of Wales.
On New Year's Day, 1579, presents were exchanged, as
usual, between Elizabeth and her chief courtiers. Poor Sir
Henry, out of pocket as he was, presented her Majesty with
a jewel of gold, diamonds, pearls, and rubies, upon which
was wrought a figure of Diana. She retiirned a hundred
and thirty-eight ounces of gold plate. Lady Mary and
Philip offered articles of dress, receiving their equivalent in
plate. Prince Casimir, who had to answer for his malcon-
duct of affairs in the Low Countries, reached London in
the month of January. The queen gave him a gracious
reception, lie was nominated to a stall in St. George's
chapel, and entertained with various amusements. Among
other sports, we hear that he shot a stag in Hyde Park.
On the 12th of February he again left England with pres-
ents from the queen. A letter of the day significantly al-
ludes to her unwilling bestowal of money on the prince:
"There hath been somewliat to do to brinir her unto it,
and Mr. Secretary Walsingham bare the brunt thereof."

One incident of Casimir's visit must not be omitted.
Hubert Languet, old as he now was, and failing in health,
resolved to set his eyes once more on his beloved Philip.
"I am almost afraid," he wrote in January, " that my
great desire of seeing you may betray me into thinking I
am better than I am, yet I will do my very utmost to be

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap, in

ready for the journey, even though I should take it at the
peril of my life." lie came and went safely, had the
pleasure of conversing with Philip, and made friends witii
the chief members of the Sidney family, A letter written
in the autumn of the next year shows that this experienced
judge of men and cities formed no very favoumlilc opin-
ion of the English Court. *' I was pleased lu^t winter to
find you flourishing in favour, and highly esteemed by all
men. Yet, to conceal nothing, it appeared to me that the
manners of your Court arc less manly than I could wisli ;
and the majority of your great folk struck mc as more
eager to gain applause by affected courtesy, than by such
virtues as benefit the commonwealth, and arc the chief
ornament of noble minds and high-born personages. It
grieved me then, as also your other friends, that you
should waste the flower of your youth in such trifles. I
began to fear lest your excellent disposition should at last
be blunted, lest you should come by habit to care for
things which soften and emasculate our mind."

We have already seen that Sidney was not otherwise
than himself alive to these dangers, and that he chafed
continually at the "expense of spirit in a waste" of frivoli-
ties. As a couplet in one of his occasional poems puts it —

" Greater was the shepherd's treasure,
Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure."

From the same poem we learn that his friendship for
Fulke Greville and Edward Dyer continued to be his main-
stay at the Court; and when I enter upon the details of
his literary career, it will become apparent that much of
his time had been already spent with these and other cul-
tivated gentlefolk in the prosecution of serious studJCJ.
For the present it seems better not to interrupt the history
of his external life.

li.i:

CHAPTER IV.

THE FRENCH MATCH AND " THE ARCADIA."

The years ISVO and 1580 are of importance in the bi-

)liy of Sidney,

owing to the decided part he took in
the discussion of the French match. Elizabetirs former
suitor, d'Alen^on, now bore the title of Duke of Anjou,
by liis brother Henri's accession to the throne of France.
Time had cast a decent veil over the memory of St. Bar-
tholomew, and Anjou was now posing as the protector of
national liberties in the Low Countries. He thought the
opportunity good for renewing negotiations with the
Queen of England. That the Court of the Valois was
anxious to arrange the marriage admits of no doubt. The
sums of money spent in presents and embassies render
this certain, for Catherine de' Medici and her sons were
always in pecuniary difficulties. They could not afford to
throw gold away on trifles,

Elizabeth showed a strong inclination to accept the
duke's proposal. She treated his envoy, Du Simiers, with
favour, and kept up a brisk correspondence with Paris.
The match, however, was extremely unpopular with the
English people. In the autumn of 1579 there appeared a
pamphlet entitled: "The Discovery of the Gaping Gulf,
whereinto England is like to be swallowed, by a French
marriage, if the Lord forbid not the Banns, by letting her

(

I I

SIR PIIII.IP SIDNEY.

[niAP.

Majesty sec the Sin and Punishment thereof." This suf-
ficed to indicate the temper of the best part of tlic nation,
the I'rotestants, wlio saw tlieir religious find political liber-
ties in danger. Stubbs and Pago, the author and the
fit'ifitcr of this " lewd and seditious book," as it was termed
by royal proclamation, were each condemned to lose the
right hand. 8inl)bs, when the hangman had i).jrforincd
his office, waved his hat witli the left hand, cr}iiig "God
Rave the Queen !" I'agc pointed to his bloody hand upon
the groui"'. and said, "There lies the hand of a true Eng-
lishman I"

At Court opinion was divided. Elizabeth's flatterers,
with Oxford at their head, declared themselves loudly in fa-
vour of the match. Leicester opposed it; but Du Simievs'
opportune discovery of the secret marriage with Lady
Essex ruined his credit. The great carl had to retire in
disgrace. Camden relates that the queen banished him
until further notice to Greenwich Castlo. Fulke Greville
says "the French faction reigning had cast aspersions upon
his (Sidney's) uncle of Leicester, and made him, like a
wise man (under colour of taking physic) voluntarily be-
come prisoner in his chamber." Whether his retirement
was compulsory or voluntary matters little. For the time
he lost his influence, and was unable to show his face at
Court. Thus Philip who had already elected to "join
with the weaker party and oppose this torrent," found
himself at the moment of his greatest need deprived of
the main support which powerful connections gave him.

Greville has devoted a chapter to his action in this mat-
ter, analysing with much detail the reasons which moved
him to oppose the queen's inclination. It is not necessary
to report his friend's view of the case, since I shall shortly
have to present an abstract of the famous document which

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

f.l

Siuncy drew up for Elizabeth's perusal. Yet the exordium
to tills chapter may ho quoted, as representing in brief his
position at the rlose of 1679.

*' The next (loul)tliil stiif^e ho had to "c^ i,pon (howsoever it may
seem private) was (.'rounded ujion a puhiio and spei'ious proposition
of iiiai'iiaf,'c between the late famous (|in't>n and the Dulve of Anjr.u.
Witli whit'li ciiii'ii t, altiioii^h ii" ^aw tlie great and wi.se men "' tlie
time suddenly can iiii down, and every one fishing to eateh tlio queen's
liuniour in it; yet wlien lie considered tlio differoncc of years, person,
ediieation, state, and religion 'utween tlieni ; and tiieii "'ilh-il to mind
tlie success of our former alliances with the French ; he foun4 many
reasons to make question whether it would prove poetical or real on
their part. And if real, whether the balance swayed not ',nc(iually,
by adding much to them and little to his sovereign. The duke's great-
ness being only name and possibility; and both these either to wither
or to bo maintained at her cost. Her state, again, in hand ; and
though royally sufficient to satisfy that queen's princely and moder-
ate desires or expenses, yet perchance inferior to bear out those
mi.\od designs into which his ambition or necessities might entice or
draw her."

It came to pass, through Leicester's disgrace, that Philip
stood almost alone at Court as the resolute opponent of
tlie French faction. The profligate and unscrupulous Earl
of Oxford, now foremost in the queen's favour, w; - carrying
his head aloft, boastful of his compliance with ht r wishes,
and counting doubtless on the highest honours w lien the
match should be completed. An accident brought the
two champions of the opposed parties into persoiial col-
lision. One of Languet's letters enables us to fix the date
of the event in September 1579, and Greville's min te ac-
count of the same is so curious that I shall transcribe it
without further comment.

"Thus stood the Court at that time ; and thus stood this inge-uous
spirit ill it. If dangerously in men's opinions who are curious i ' the

ill.

- :^^^¥**''?'^**^°'-^ !j«,t ■&>*,,

<?«

1
%

'^i

* 1

[

V ^

ir i:

Sill PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

present, and in it rather to do craftil}' than well : yet, I say, that
princely lieart of Iiers was a sanctuary unto liim ; and as for the peo-
jile, in wlioni many turns tiie lasting images of worth are preferred
before the temporary \ i.-ioiis of art or favour, he could not fear to suf-
fer any thing there, w hieli would not prove a Icind of trophy to him.
... In this freedom of heart, being one day at tennis, a peer of this
realm, born great, greater by alliance, and superlative in the prince's
favour, abruptly came into the tennis-court; and, speaking out of
these three paramount authorities, he forgot to entreat that which he
could not K'gally command. When, by the encounter of a steady ob-
j(>ct, finding unrespectiveness in himself (though a great lord) not re-
spected i)y this princely spirit, lie grew to expostulate more roughly.
The returns of which style coming still from an understanding heart,
that knew what was due to itself and what it ought to others, seemed
(thiough the mists of my lord's passion, swollen with the wind of this
faction then reigning) to provoke in yielding. Whereby, the less
amazement or confusion of thoughts he stirred up in Sir Phili]), the
more shadows this great lord's own mind was possessed with; till at
last with rage (which is ever ill-diseii)liued) he commands them to de-
part the court. To this Sir Philip temperately answers; that if his
lordship had been ])ieased to express desire in milder characters, per-
chance he might have led out those that he should now find would
not be diiven out with any scourge of fury. Tins answer (like a bel-
lows) blowing up the sparks of excess already kindled, made my lord
scornfully call Sir Philip by the name of pnppi/. In which progress
of heat, as the tempest grew more and more vehement within, so did
their hearts breathe out their perturbations in a more loud and shrill
accent. The French Commissioners unfortuuately had that day au-
dience in those private galleries whose windows looked into the ten-
lus-court. They instantly drew all to this tumult : every sort of quar-
rels sorting well with their humours, especially this. Which Sir
Philil) i)erceiving, and rising with an inward strength by the prospect
of a mighty faction against him, asked my lord with a loud voice that
which ho heard clearly enough befoie. Who (like an echo that still
nndtiplies by reflexions) repeated this epithet of puppy the second
time. Sir Philip, resolving in one answer to conclude both the atten-
tive hearers and passionate actor, gave my lord a lie, impossible (as he
averred) to be retorted ; in respect all the world knows, puppies are
gotten by dogs and children by men.

.-»_-<&.

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

" Hereupon these glorious inequalities of fortune in his lordship were
put to a kind of pause by a precious inequality of nature in this gen-
tleman ; so that they both stood silent a while, like a dumb show in
a tragedy ; till Sir Philip, sensible of his own wrong, the foreign and
factious spirits that attended, and yet even in this question between
him and his superior tender of his country's honour, with some words
of sharp accent led the way abruptly out of the tennis-court ; as if so
unexpected an incident were not fit to be decided in that place.
Whereof the groat lord making another sense, continues iiis play,
without any advantage of reputation, as by tlic standard of humours
in those times it was conceived."

Thus the Earl of Oxford called Sidney a puppy ; and Sid-
ney gave him the lie. It was judged inevitable that the for-
mer would send a challenge and a duel would ensue. But
Oxford delayed to vindicate his honour. The Lords of the
Council intervened, and persuaded the queen to effect a
reconciliation. She pointed out to Sidney that he owed
deference to a peer of the realm. " lie besought her Maj-
esty to consider that although he were a great lord by
birth, alliance, and grace ; yet he was no lord over him."
As free men and gentlemen the earl and himself were
equals, except in the matter of precedency. Moreover, he
reminded Elizabeth that it had been her father's policy to
shield the gentry from the oppression of the grandees, in
the wise opinion that the Crown would gain by using the
former as a balance to the power and ambition of the lat-
ter. But having stated his case, he seems to have deferred
to her wishes. We do not hear that apologies were made
on either side. The matter, however, dropped ; Oxford so
far retaining his resentment that Sidney's friends believed
he entertained a scheme for his assassination.

After reading this passage, we may remember with what
spu'it on a former occasion Philip gave the cut direct to
Ormond. It is also interesting to compare his carriage

■■

!NI.

ill

' p i

' u

P: Ir

11'

I (I'll

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

upon both occasions with that of his nephew, the Viscount
rislc, who bearded Jaincs' favourite, James Hay, at that
time Viscount Doncaster, in his own chamber. A detailed
af^count of tliis incident, written by Lord I'lsle in vindica-
tion of his honour, is printed among the Sidney papers.
It casts valuable lio-ht upon the manners of the English
Court, and illustrates the sturdy temper of the Sidney
breed.

Philip contrived apparently to keep the queen's good-
will until the beginning of 1580; for she accepted his
present of a crystal cup on New Year's Day. But his. po-
sition at Court was difHcuIt. Oxford, it was commonly be-
lieved, had planned his murder; and being an Italianated
Englishman — in other words, a devil incarnate — he may
well have entertained some project of the sort. As the
avowed champion of the opposition, wielding a pen with
which no man could compete, Sidney thought the time had
now come to bring matters to an issue by plain utterance.
Therefore he drew up a carefully-prepared memorial, set-
ting forth in firm but most rcs[>ectful language I'lose argu-
ments which seemed to him decisive against the French
match. This he presented to Elizabeth early in 1580.
Immediately after its perusal, she began to show her re-
sentment, and Philip, like his uncle, found it convenient to
leave the Court. His retreat was Wilton, where he re-
mained in privacy for seven months.

I have elsewhere remarked that Sidney showed his pow-
ers as a thinker and prose-writer nowhere more eminently
than in documents, presenting a wide survey of facts, mar-
shalling a series of arguments, combining the prudence of
a statesman and the cunning of an orator. This memorial
to the queen is a gem in its own species of composition.
It well deserves the liigh praise which has been given it as

JV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

"at once the most eloquent and the most courageous piece
of that nature which the age can hoast. Every important
view of the subject is comprised in this letter, whicli is
long, but at the same time so condensed in style and so
skilfully compacted as to matter that it well deserves to
be read entire; and must lose materially either by abridg-
ment or omission," In it Sidney appeals to what Fulke
Greville quaintly calls " that princely heart of hers which
was a sanctuary unto him." lie enters tho sanctuary with
reverence, and stands alone there, pleading like a servant
before his mistress. lie speaks to Elizabeth in the char-
acter of a simple gentleman and loyal subject, relying on
no support of party, nor representing himself as the mouth-
piece of an indignant nation. This independent attitude
gives singular lucidity and beauty to his appeal. It is the
grave but modest warning of a faithful squire to his liege
lady in the hour of danger. Although extracts can do but
scanty justice to the merits of Sidney's oratory, I must
present such specimens as may serve as samples of his
English style and display his method of exposition. lie
begins as follows:—

" Most Feared and Beloved, Most Sweet and Gracious Sovereign
— To seek out excuses of this my boldness, and to arm the acknowl-
edging of a fault with reasons for it, miglit better show I knew I did
amiss, than any way diminish the attempt, especially in your judgment ;
who being able to discern lively into the nature of the thing done, it
were folly to hope, by laying on better colours, to make it more ac-
ceptable. Therefore, carrying no other olive branch of intercession,
than the laying of myself at your feet ; nor no other insinuation, ei-
ther for attention or pardon, but the true vowed sacrifice of unfeigned
love ; I will, in simple and direct terms (as hoping they shall only
come to your merciful eyes), set down the overflowing of my mind in
this most important matter, importing, as I think, the continuance of
your safety ; and as I know, the joys of my life. And because my

• 'It

:■ :

¥j

■i i

• (

,1 il

Mi'

SIR PHILIP SIDxXEY.

[chap.

words (I confess shallow, but coming from the deep well-spring of
most loyal affection) have delivered to your most gracious ear, what is
the general sum of my travelling thoughts therein ; I will now but
only declare, what be the reasons that make me think, that the mar-
riage with Monsieur will be unprofitable unto you ; then will I an-
swer the objection of those fears, which might procure so violent a
refuge."

Having finished these personal cxphinations, he proceeds
to show that the French marriage must be considered from
a double point of view, first as regarding the queen's estate,
and secondly as touching her person. Her real pow^r as
" an absolute born, and accordingly respected princess,"
rests upon the affection of her subjects, who are now di-
vided between Protestants and Catholics. The former,

"As their souls live by your happy government, so are tliey your
chief, if not your sole, strength : these, howsoever the necessity of hu-
man life make.? them lack, yet can they not look for better conditions
than presently they enjoy : these, how their hearts will be galled, if
not aliened, when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman
and a Papist, in whom (howsoever fine wits may find farther dealings
or painted excuses) the very common people well know this, that he
is the son of a Jezebel of our age : that his brother made oblation of
his own sister's marriage, the easier to make massacres of our breth-
ren in belief : that he himself, contrary to his promise, and all grate-
fulness, having his liberty and principal estate by the Ilugonot's
means, did sack La Charite, and utterly spoil them with fire and
sword. This, I say, even at first sight, gives occasion to all, truly re-
ligious, to abhor such a master, and consequently to diminish much
of the hopeful love they have long held to you."

The Catholics are discontented and disaffected. They will
grasp easily at any chance of a revolution in religion and
the State ; and to such folk the French match is doubtless
acceptable, not as producing good to the commonwealth,
but as offering them the opportunity of change.

IV.]

THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

" If then the affectionate side have their affections weakened, and
the discontented have a gap to utter their discontent, I think it will
gcem an ill preparative for the patient (I mean 3'our estate) to a great
sickness."

From tlftse general reflections upon the state of parties
in England, Sidney passes to a consideration of the Duke
of Anjou's personal qualities. The following paragraph is
marked by skilful blending of candour with reserve. Eliz-
abeth had declared a special partiality for the French prince.
It is her subject's duty to paint him as inconstant, restless
in ambition, uncertain in his affections, swayed by liglit-
braincd and factious counsellors, greedy of power at any
cost. His profession of the Catholic faith renders him a
dangerous tool in the hands of disaffected English Papists.
His position as next heir to the French Crown makes him
an inconvenient consort for the queen of Great Britain. It
is not likely that a man of his temper and pretensions
should put up with a subordinate place in his wife's king-
dom. And whv, asks Sidnev, has Elizabeth set her heart
upon a marriage so fraught with dangers? "Often have I
heard you with protestation say no private pleasure nor
self-affection could lead you to it." Is it because she looks
forward to the bliss of children ? If so she may marry
where the disadvantages arc less. But she has herself al-
leged that she is moved by " fear of stanJung alone in re-
spect to foreign dealings," and also by " doubt of contempt
in them from whom you should have respect." These two
points, Gince they bias the queen's mind, have to be sepa-
rately entertained. Leagues are usually cemented by the
desires or the fears of the contracting parties. What pub-
lic desires have Elizabeth and the duke in common?

"IIj of the Romish religion ; and if he be a man, must needs have
that man-like property to desire that all men be of his mind : you the

i !1 ;; I

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

[;»' .\X

erector and defender of tlie contrary, and the only sun that dazzleth
their eyes: he French, and desiring to malie France great ; your Maj-
esty English, and desiring notliing less than that France should not
grow great : he, both by hla own fancy and his youthful governors,
embracing all ambitious hopes ; having Alexander's image in his liead,
but perhaps evil-painted : your Majesty with excellent \^rtue taught
what you should hope, and by no less wisdom what you may hope ;
with a council renowned over all Chi'isteiidom for their well-tempered
minds, having set tlic utmost of their ambition in your favor, and the
study of their souls in your safety."

The interests and tlie danp-ers of France and England are
so diverse that these reahns have no fears in common to
unite them. Elizabeth, therefore, can expect nothing but
perplexity in her foreign dealings from the match. Is it
reasonable that she should hope to secure the affection of
her subjects, and to guard herself against their contempt, by
marriage with a Frenchman ? Can she be ignorant that
she is the idol of her people ? It is indeed true that the
succession is uncertain through lack of heirs of her body :

" Rut in so lineal a monarchy, wherever the infants suck the love
of their rightful prince, who would leave the beams of so fair a siui
for the dreadful expectation of a divided company of stars? Virtue
and justice are the only bonds of people's love ; and as for that point,
many princes have lost their crowns whose own children were mani-
fest successors ; and some that haa their own children used as in-
struments of their ruin ; not that I deny the bliss of children, but
only to show religion and equity to be of themselves sufficient stays."

It may be demurred that scurrilous libels have been vent'
cd against her Majesty, proving some insubordination in
her subjects. She ought, however, to " care little for the
barking of a few curs." Honest Englishmen regard such
attacks upon her dignity as blasphemous.

"No, no, most excellent lady, do not raze out the impression you
liavo made in such a multitude of hearts ; and let not the scum of

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND " THE ARCADIA."

such vile minds bear any witness against your subjects' devotions.
The only means of avoiding contempt are love and fear; love, as you
have by divers means sent into tlie deptli of tlicir souls, so if any-
thing can stain so true a form, it must be the trimming yourself not
in your own lilicness, but in new colours unto them."

u coininon to

In other words, Sidney means that the Queen's proposed
course will alienate instead of confirming the affections of
tlio nation. lie then passes to his peroration, which I shall
quote in full as a fair specimen of his eloquence: —

" Since then it is dangerous for your state, as well because by in-
ward weaiiiioss (principally caused by division) it is fit to receive
harm; since to your person it can be no way comfortable, you not
desiring marriage; and neither to person nor estate he is to bring
any more good than anybody ; but more evil he may, since the causes
that should drive you to this are either fears of that which cannot
happen, or by this means cannot be prevented ; I do with most hum-
ble heart say unto your Majesty (having assayed this dangerous help)
for your standing alone, you must take it for a singular honour God
hath done you, to be indeed the only protector of his Church ; and
yet in worldly respects your kingdom very sufficient so to do, if you
make that religion iipon which you stand, to carry the only strength,
and have abroad those that still maintain the same course ; who as
long as they, may be kept from utter falling, your Majesty ia sure
enough from your mightiest enemies. As for this man, as long as he
is but Monsieur in might, and a Papist in profession, he neither can
nor will greatly shield you ; and if he get once to be king, his defence
will be like Ajax's shield, which rather weighed them down than de-
fended those that bare it. Against contempt, if there be any, which
I will never believe, let your excellent virtues of piety, justice, and
liberality daily, if it be possible, more and more shine. Let such par-
ticular actions be found out (which be easy as I think to be done) by
which you may gratify all the hearts of your people. Let those in
w horn you find trust, and to whom j-ou have committed trust in your
weighty affairs be held up in the eyes of your subjects. Lastly, do-
ing as you do, you shall be, as you be, the example of princes, the or-
nament of this age, and the most excellent fruit of your progenitors,

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[chap.

and the perfect mirror of your posterity.— Your Majesty's faithful,
humble, and obedient subject, p, Sydney."

In the early spring of 1580 Sidney went to stay at Wil-
ton, and roniuincd there during the summer. His sister,
the Countess of Pembroke, for whom Jonson wrote the fa-
mous epitaph, and whom Spenser described as

"Tiie gentlest shepherdess tliiit lives this day,
And most resembling both in sliape and spriglit
Her brother dear,"

was united to him by the tenderest bonds of affection and
by common literary interests. Good judges, among whom
Jonson may be rookoned, valued her poetry at least as high
as Philip's ; and this opinion is confirmed by what remains
to us of her comi/osition'^. Tlie accent of deep and pas-
sionate feeling which gives force to some of the Astrophel
and Stella sonnets, is indeed lacking to her verse. But if
we are right in believing that only the first forty-two psalms
in their joint translation belong to him, her part in that
work exhibits the greater measu/e of felicity. It was appar-
ently upon this visit to Wilton that the brother and sister
began to render the Psalms of David into various lyrical
metres. After the Vulgate and the Prayer-book all trans-
lations of the Psalms, even those done by Milton, seem tame
and awkward. Nor can I except the Sidneys from this
criticism. In an essay, then, which must of necessity be
economical of space, I shall omit further notice of this ver-
sion. The opportunity, liowcver, is now given for digress-
ing from Philip's biography to the consideration of his
place and achievements in English literature.

It is of importance to bear steadily in mind the date of
Sidney's birth in order to judge correctly of his relation to
predecessors and successors. Wyatt, Surrey, Sackville, and

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA." 71

Norton had alicfidy acclimatised Italian forms of poetry
and classical principles of metre upon P]nglish soil. But
very little of first-rate excellence can be referred to this pe-
riod of our Renaissance. A form of the sonnet peculiar
to English literature, and blank verse, destined to become
its epic and dramatic metre, were the two chief results of
these earliest innovating experiments. Fiilke Grcville, him-
self no mean poet, was born in 1554, the same year as Sid-
ney ; Raleigh had been born in 1552; Spenser and Lyly
in 1553 ; Drayton followed in 15G3 ; Shakespeare and Mar-
lowe in 1564; Donne not till 1573, and Jonson one year
later yet; Wyatt and Surrey were both dead some while
before Sidney saw the light ; and Sackville, though he still
lived, was not much occupied with literature. It will there-
fore be seen that he belonged to that intermediate group of
writers, of whom Spenser was the greatest, and who pre-
ceded the brilliant burst of genius in the last decade of
the sixteenth century. It was as the morning star of an
unexampled day of lyric and dramatic splendour that his
contemporaries hailed him.

In the year 1578 Philip attended Queen Elizabeth on one
of her progresses when she stayed at Audley End, and there
received th? homage of some Cambridge scholars. Among
these came Gabriel Harvey, a man of character and parts,
but of no distinguished literary talent. He was what we
now should call a doctrinaire ; yet he possessed so tough a
personality as to exercise considerable influence over his
contemporaries. Harvey enthusiastically declared himself
for the remodelling of English metres on the classic meth-
od. The notion was not new. Ascham, in the School-
master, ])o'mted out "how our F^-^lish tongue in avoiding
barbarous rhyming may as well receive right quantity of
syllables and true order of versifying as cither Greek or

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

Latin, if a cunning man liavc it in handling." Ho quoted
Bishop Watson's hexameters in proof of this proposition:—

"All travellers do glailly report great praise of Ulysses
For that ho knew many men's manners and saw many cities."

Yet his good sense saved him from the absurdities into
which Stanyhurst, tlio transhitor of tlie Aeneid, fell when
ho attempted Virgil in a " rude and beggarly " modern im-
itation of the Latin rhythm. Ascham summed the ques-
tion up in a single sentence, prophetic of the future course
of English versification. " Although Carmen llexametrum
doth rather trot and liobble than run smoothly in our Eno--
lish tongue, yet I am sure our English tongue will receive
Carmen lambicum as naturally as either Greek or Latin."
Harvey was not so finely gifted as Ascham to perceive the
native strength and weakness of our language, lie could
see no reason why the hexameter should not flourish, and
wrote verses, which, for grotesqueness, i.ay pass muster with
the most " twitching and hopping" of tlieir kind. Robert
Greene, who also tried his hand at the new style, composed
smoother but more insipid numbers in the eclogue of Alex-
is. But Harvey, as I have said, exercised the influence of
an imperious personality ; and one of his friends was Ed-
mund Spenser. Through Harvey, Sidney became acquaint-
ed with Spenser; and it ;<? well known that the latter ded-
icated The Shepherd's Calendar to him in 1579. The
publication was anonymous. The dedication ran as fol-
lows :— "To the noble and virtuous gentleman, most worthy
of all titles, both of learning and chivalry. Master Philip
Sidney." The envoy opened with these charmiu"- trio-

lets : —

" Go, little book ! thyself present.
As child whose parent is unkeut,
To him that is the president

iv.J THE FREN'CU MATCH AND "THE AUUAin.i." 78

Of nobleness and diivnlry ;
And if that envy hark iit tlico,
As sure it will, for succour (lee
Under the shadow of his wing ;
And, askfed wlio thee fortli did bring,
A shepherd's swain, say, did thee sing,
All as his straying ilock he fed ;
And when his lionour has thee read
Crave pardon for thy hardihead."

In the midst, then, of liis Court lifo Sidney made friends
wiili Harvey and witli Spenser. He associated his dearer
intimates, Fnliic Grevillc and Edward Dver. in tlie same
companionsliip. And thus a little academy, formed ap-
parently upon the Italian model, came into existence. Its
critical tendency was indicated by the name Areopagus,
given it perliaps in fun by Spenser; and its practical ob-
ject was the reformation of English poetry upon Italian
and classical principles. Unless I am mistaken, no mem-
ber of the club applied its doctrines so thoroughly in prac-
tice as Sidney. It is true that Harvey wished to have it
inscribed upon his grave that he had fostered hexameters
on English soil. But in the history of our poetical litera-
ture Harvey occupies no place of honor. It is also true
that S[)enser elaborated some lame hexameters. But his
genius detected the imposture; he wrote to Harvey, point-
ing out the insurmountable difficulties of English accent,
and laufrhing at the metre as being "either like a lame
gosling that draweth up one leg after, or like a lame dog
that holdeth one leg up."

Sidney, with his usual seriousness, took the search after
a reformed style of English poetry in earnest. He made
experiments in many kinds and various metres, which are
now preserved to us embedded in the text of his Arcadia.
Those poems form the most solid residuum from the cxer-
4* F

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SIR rillLIl' SIDNEY.

[chap.

of-

ill

cises of the Aroopai^iis. Tlicy arc not very valuable; but
tliey arc inlerestinj^ as sliowiiiij what tlic lituiaiy tenijjor
of Eiiirland was, before the publication of the lucri/ Queen
ami the overwhclmiM!^ series of the romantic dramas di'-
cided the f;tte of English poetry. Like Gorhodnc and
other tnii^edies in the manner of Seneca, these "reformed
verses" were doomed to be annihilated by tlie stronj^ blast
of the national n'cnius. IJiit they have their importance
for the student of crepuscular intervals between the dark-
ness and the day-sprino; ; and it must not be forojottcn that
their author did not intend them for the jjublic eye. While
studvinu and usini; these verses as documents for the elu-
cidation of literary evolution, let us therefore bear in mind
that we are guilty of an indiscretion, and are pryiny; on
the privacy of a gentleman who never sought the suffrage
of the vulgar.

It was at Wilton, then, in 1580, that Sidney began the
Arcadia in compliance with his sister's request. The dedi-
catory epistle teaches us in what spirit we ought to ap-
proach the pages which he left unfinished, and which were
given to the press after his decease:

"irore now have you, most dear, and most worthy to be most dear
lady, tlr 'die work of mi'x' ; wliicli, I foar, like the spldor'ti woh, will
be thou^ litter to be swept away than worn to any other purpose.
For my part, in very truth, as the cruel fathers among the Greeks
were wont to do to the babes they would not foster, I could well find
it in my heart to cast out in Gome desert of forgetfulness this child
which I am loath to father. But you desired me to do it, and your
desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now it is done
only for you, only to you. If you keep it to yourself, or to such
friends who will weigh error in the balance of good-will, I hope for
the father's sake it will be pardoned, perchance made much of, though
in itself it have deformities. For, indeed, for severer eyes it is not,
being a triHe, i^nd that triilingly handled."

[chap.

valuable ; but
litoiary teuiper
c Fani/ Queen
itic draiuas (ic-
Gorhoduc and
eso " roforuied
lie stronjj blast
L'lr importance
iveen the daik-

forj^ottcn that
lie eve. While
its for the elu-
e bear in mind
are prying' on
lit the suffrage

Iney bci>"an the
est. The dedi-
! ought to ap-
nd which were

y to be most dear
spider's web, will
ly other [)iii'|)ose.
noiig the Greeks
I could well liiid
fulness this child
o do it, and your
Now it is done
irself, or to such
id-will, I hope for
3 much of, though
er eyes it is not,

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA." 76

These words were doubtless penned long after the first
sheets of the ArcuiUa. That they were sincere is proved
by Sidney's dyin^: request to liave the inanus(Mi|)t de-
stroyed. He goes ^u to say that " his chief safety shall
be the not walking abroad ; and his chief protection the
using of your name, which, if much good-will do not de-
ceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater oflend-
er." Wo have, therefore, the strongest possible security
that this famous Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney, this " charm
of ages," as Young pompously calls it, which passed through
seventeen editions before 1074, was intended by its author
only for his sister and a friendly circle. Yet, though we
must approach it now like eavesdroppers, wc may read in
it, better perhaps than elsewhere, those tendencies of Eng-
lish literature wliich were swallowed up and trampled over
by the legionaries of the great dramatic epoch.

It is not improbable that Lyly's Euphiics, which first
saw the light in 1579, suggested to Sidney the notion of
writing a romance in a somewhat similar style, lie did
not, however, catch the infection of Lyly's manner; and
the Arcadia, unlike Enphues, has no direct dichictic pur-
pose. Critics, soon after its appearance, imagined that thoy
could discern in its structure hidden references to the main
events of the age. But this may be considered a delusion,
based upon the prevalent tendency to seek allegories in
works of art and fancy — the tendency to which Tasso
bowed when he supplied a key to the moralities of the
GernsaJeinme, and which induced S{Xinscr to read esoteri.j
meanings into the Orlando Furioso. Sidney had clearly
in mind the Arcadia of Sanuazzaro ; he also owed much
to Montemayor's Diana and the Greek romantic novelists.
The style at first is noticeably Italian, as will appear from
certain passages I mean to quote. After a while it be-

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[chap.

comes less idyllic and ornate, and at last it merges into ra-
{)idity of narration. To sustain the manner of the earlier
pages, Avhich remind us of Boccaccio and Sannazzaro,
throughout the labyrinthine intricacies of the fable, would
have been tedious. Perhaps, too, we may connect the al-
teration of literary tone with Sidney's departure from
^Vilton to the Court.

I shall not attempt a complete analysis of the Arcadia.
The main story is comparatively slender; but it is so com-
plicated by digressions and episodes that a full account of
the tangled plot would take up too much space, and would
undoubtedly prove wearisome to modern readers. Horace
Walpolo was not far wrong wlien he asserted that "the
patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade
through" that jungle of pastoral, sentimental, and heroical
adventures, A brief outline of the tale, together with some
specimens of Sidney's descriptive and sententious styles,
must, however, here be given, since it is not very likely
that any readers of my book will be impelled to turn the
pages of the original.

Musidorus, Prince of Thessalia, and Pyrocles, Prince of
Macedon, were cousins. An affection, such as bound the
knights of elder Greek romance together, united them even
more than the nearness of their blood. Pyrocles, being the
elder, taught his friend all that he knew of good, and bravo,
and gracious. Musidorus learned willingly ; and thus the
pair grew up to manhood in perfect love, twin flowers of
gentleness and chivalry. When the story opens the two
heroes liave just been wrecked on the Laconian coast. A
couple of shepherds, Claius and Strephon, happened to be
pacing the sea-shore at that moment. They noticed a young
man floating on a ooffer, which the waves washed gradually
landward. He was " of so goodly shape and well-pleasing

**</

IV. J THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA." 77

favour that one would think death had in liini a lovely
countenance ; and that, though he were naked, nakedness
was to him an apparel." This youth proved to be Musi-
dorus. Pyrocles meanwhile remained upon the wreck;
and, while the shepherds were in the act to rescue him, he
was carried off by pirates under the eyes of liis sorrowing
comrade. There was nothing for it but to leave him to
his fate; and Mnsidorus, after a moment of wild despair,
yielded to the exhortations of the good shepherds, who
persuaded him to journey with them to the house of a
just and noble gentleman named Kalander. The way
was long; but, after two days' march, -it brought them
to Arcadia. The description of that land is justly cele-
brated.

" Tlie third day after, in the time tliat the morning did strew roses
and violets in the heavenly floor, against the coming of the sun, the
nightingales (striving one with the other which could in most dainty
variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their
sleep ; and rising from under a tree (which that night had been their
pavilion), they went on their journey, which by-and-by Avelcomed Mu-
sidorus'8 eyes (wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with delight-
ful prospects. There were hills which garnished their proud heights
with stately trees: humble vallies, whose base estate seemed comfort-
ed with the refreshing of silver rivers : meadows enamelled 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-tunctl birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with
sober security, while the pretty lambs with bleating outcry 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 sing-
ing ; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and
her hands kept time to her voice-music. As for the houses of the
coimtry (for many houses came under their eye), they were all scat-
tered, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off as that it
barred mutual succour; a show, as it were, of an accompanable soli-
tariness and of a civil wildness."

I-

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

M' I

I'j

In due course of time tliev arrived at the house of Ka-
lander, where Musidorus was hospitably received.

"Tlie house ilself was built of fair anJ strong stone, not affecting
so miicli any extraordinary kind of fineness as an lionourable repre-
senting of a firm stateliness." " Tlie servants not so many in number
as cleanly in apparel and serviceable in behaviour, testifying even in
their countenances that their master took as well care to be served as
of them that did serve."

Perhaps Sidney, when he penned these sentences, thought
of Penslmrst. At any rate they remind us of Jonson's
lines upon that venerable country .seat. The pleasance, also,
had the same charm of homeliness and ancient peace : —

" Tlie backside of the house was neither field, garden, nor orchard ;
or rather it was botli field, garden, and orchard : for as soon as the
descending of the stairs had delivered them down, they came into a
place cunningly set with trees of the most taste-pleasing fruits : but
scarcely had they taken that into their consideration, but that they
were suddenly stepped into a delicate green ; of each side of the green
a thicket, and behind the thickets again new beds of flowers, which
being under the trees, the trees were to them a pavilion, and they to
the trees a niosaical floor, so that it seemed thiit art therein would
needs be delightful by counterfeitii!g his enemy error and making or-
der in confusion."

Here Musidorus sojourned some while, until he happened
to hear that his liost's son, Clitophon, liad been taken pris-
oner by the Helots, who were now in revolt against their
I.aconian masters. Musidorus begged permission to go to
the young man's rescue ; and when he reached the rebels,
he entered their walled city by a stratagem and began a
deadly battle in the market-place. The engagement at first
was general between the Ilelots and the Arcadians, but at
length it resolved itself into a single combat, Musidorus at-
tacking the leader of the Ilelots with all his might. This

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

duel remained for some time equal and uncertain, when
suddenly the brigand chief threw down his sword, exclaim-
ing-, " What I hath Palladius forgotten the voice of Dai-
phantus?" It should here be said that Pyrocles and Musi-
dorus had agreed to call each other by these assumed names.
A joyful recognition of course ensued. Pyrocles related
the series of events by which he had been forced to head
the rebels, after being captured by them. Clitophon was
released, and all returned together to Arcadia.

At this point the love intrigue, which forms the main
interest of what Milton called " the vain amatorious poem
of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia,'' begins to unfold itself.
An eccentric sovereign, Basilius, Prince of Arcadia, was
married to an accomplished and beautiful woman, Gynecia.
They had two daughters, Pamela the elder, and Philoclea
the younger, equally matched in loveliness of mind and
person, yet differing by subtle contrasts of their incompa-
rable qualities. Basilius, in a fit of jealousy and suspicion,
had left his palace, and was now residing with his wife
and daughters in two rustic lodges, deep-embowered by the
forest. Gynecia, Philoclea, and himself occupied one of
these retreats. Pamela dwelt in the other, under the care
of a clownish peasant family, consisting of Dametas, his
hideous wife Miso, and their etill more odious daughter
Mopsa. It need not be related how Musidorus fell in love
with Pamela and Pyrocles with Philoclea. In order to be
near the ladies of their choice, the princes now assumed
new rames and strange disguises, Pyrocles donned Ama-
zon's attire and called himself ZelmanCc Musidorus became
a shepherd and was known as Dorus. Both contrived to
win the affections of the princesses, bat meanwhile they
got entangled in embarrassing and dangerous complications.
Dorus had to feign love for the disgusting Mopso- Zel-

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[chap.

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mane was persecuted by the passion of both Basilius and
Gynecia; Basilius deeming him a woman, Gynecia recog-
nising a man tlirougli his disguise. When Milton con-
demned the Arcadia as "a book in that kind full of mirth
and witty, but among religious thoughts and duties not
worthy to be named, nor to be read at any time without
due caution," he was assuredly justified by the unpleasant
situation created for Zelmane. A young man, travestied
as a girl, in love with a princess, and at the same time har-
assed by the wanton solicitations of both her father and
Ler mother, is, to say the least, a very risky subject for ro-
mance. Yet Sidney treated it with sufficient delicacy, and
contrived in the end to bring both Basilius and Gynecia to
their senses. " Loathsomely loved and dangerously loving,"
Zelmane remained long in this entanglemont; but when he
and riiiloclea eventually attained their felicity in marriage,
both of them concealed Gynecia's error. And she " did,
in the remnant of her life, duly purchase [their good opin-
ion] with observing all duty and faith, to the example and
glory of Greece ; so uncertain arc mortal judgments, the
same person most infamous and most famous, and neither
justly."

I have dwelt on this part of the story because it antici-
pates the pluts of many Elizabethan dramas which turned
upon confusions of sex, and to which the custom of boys
acting female parts lent a curious complexity. If space
allowed I might also follow the more comic fortunes of
Dorus,and show how the talc of Amphialus (another lover
of rhiloclea) is interwoven with that of Pyrocles and Musi-
dorus. This subordinate romance introduces one of the
longest episodes of the work, when Cecropia, the wicked
mother of Amphialus, imprisons Zelmane, Philoclea, and
Pamela together in her castle. It is during this imprison-

•v,j

Basilius and

^another lover

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA." 81

inont that Pamela uttei-s the prayer made famous by the
fact that Charles I. is supposed to have used it just before
his execution, I will quote it here at length, both for its
beauty of style and for the sake of this historical associa-
tion : —

"0 All-soeing Liglit and Eternal Life of all things, to whom noth-
ing is either so great that it may resist, or so sinull tliat it is con-
temned ; look upon my misery witli Thine eye of mercy, and let Thine
infinite power vouchsafe to limit out some proportion of deliverance
unto me, as to Thee sliall seem most convenient. Let not injury,
Lord, triumph over me, and let my faults by Tiiy hand be corrected,
and make not mine unjust enemy the minister of Tliy justice. But
yet, my God, if, in Tiiy wisdom, this be the aptest chastisement for
my inexcusable folly, if this low bondage be fitted for my over high
desires, if the pride of my not enougli humble heart be thus to be
broken, Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what sor-
row Tiiou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee :
let my craving, Lord, be accepted of Thee, since even that proceeds
from Thee ; let me crave, even by the noblest title which in my great-
est affliction I may give myself, that I ain Tiiy creature, and by Tiiy
goodness, wiiicli is Tiiyself, that Tliou wilt suffer some beam of Tiiy
majesty so to shine into my mind that it may still depend confidently
on Thee. Let calamity be the exercise, but not the overthrow of my
virtue ; let their power prevail, but prevail not to destruction. Let
mv greatness be their prey; let my pain be tlic sweetness of their re-
venge; let them, if so it seem good unto Tliee, vex me with more and
more punishment ; but, Lord, let never their wickedness have such
a hand but that I may carry a pure mind in a pure body."

Among the papers given to Bisliop Juxon by Charles
upon the scaffold was this prayer, slightly altered in some
particulars. His eneniics made it a cause of reproach
against him, especially Milton, in a memorable passage of
" Iconoclastes," from which I have already quoted certain
phrases. " Who would have imagined," writes the Latin
secretary, " so little fear in him of the true all-seeing Deity,

I .

iii^

SIR PHILLP SIDNEY.

[CIIAP.

II I

'hi

ij)

.1 If ,

f:il .\

f ■

"^S

(I I,- j

so little reverence of the Holy Ghost, whose office it is to
dictate and present our Christian prayers, so little care of
truth in his last words, or honour to liimself or to liis friends,
or sense of his afflictions, or that sad hour which was upon
him, as immediately before his death to pop into the hand
of that grave bishop who attended him, as a special relique
of liis saintly exercises, a prayer stolen word for word from
the mouth of a heathen woman praying to a heathen god;
and that in no serious book, but in the vain amatorious
poem of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia V Charles' defenders
pointed out that the papers given to Juxon had been seized
by the regicides, and accused them of foisting this prayer
in on purpose to have the o{)portunity of traducing their
victim to Puritan England. It is also noticeable that it
does not appear in the first edition of Eikon Basilike, nor
in Dr. Earl's Latin version of that book. However the case
may be. Dr. Johnson showed good sense when he wrote:
" The use of it (the prayer) by adaptation was innocent; and
they who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension
of their malice could contrive what they wanted to ac-

cuse.

Pamela's prayer has led nie so far away from the intri-
cacies of Sidney's Arcadia that I shall not return to fur-
ther analyses of the fable. The chief merits of the book,
as a whole, seem to be an almost inexhaustible variety of
incidents, fairly correct character-drawing, purity of feeling,
abundance of. sententious maxims, and great richness of
colouring in the descriptive passages. Its immense popu-
larity may be ascribed to the fact that nothing exactly like
it had appeared in English literature ; for Eiiplaies is by
no means so romantically interesting or so varied in mate-
vial, while the novels of Greene are both shorter and more
monotouous. The chivalrous or heroic incidents are so

IV.] THE FRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA."

well combined with the sentimental, and these sigain are so
prettily set against the pastoral background, that, given f\n
appetite for romance of tiie kind, each reader found some-
thing to stimulate his curiosity and to provide him with
amusement. The defects of the Arcadia arc apparent; as,
for instance, its lack of humour, the extravagance of many
of its situations, the whinisicality of its conceits, and the
want of solid human realism in its portraits. These defects
were, however, no bar to its popularity in the sixteenth cen-
tury ; nor would they count as such at present were it not,
as Dr. Zouch pertinently remarks, that " the taste, the nian-
ners, the opinions, the language of the English nation, have
undergone a very great revolution since the reign of Queen
Ehzabeth." Such a revolution condemns all works which
fascinated a bygone age, and which are not kept alive by
humour and by solid human realism, to ever-gradually-decp-
ening oblivion.

Before concluding this chapter there is another point of
view under which the Arcadia must be considered. Sidney
interspersed its prose with verses, after the model of Sannaz-
zaro's pastoral, sometimes introducing them as occasion
suggested into the mouths of his chief personages, and
sometimes making them the subject of poetical disputes
between the shepherds of the happy country. Some of
these poems are among the best which he composed. I
would cite in particular the beautiful sonnet which begins
and ends with this line: "My true love hath my heart, and
I have his;" and another opening with — "Beauty hath
force to catch the human sight." But what gives special
interest to the verses scattered over the pages of Arcadia
is that in a large majority of tliem Sidney put in practice
the theories of the Areopagus. Thus we have English
hexameters, elegiacs, sapphics, phaleuciacs or hendecasylla-

! ! i

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

t'": i •

h ' I'

E' 1 i'

olcs, asclepiads, and anacreontics. I will present some
specimens of each. Here then are hexameters : —

" Lady reserved by the heavens to do pastors' company honour,
Joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,
Here you fully do find this strange operation of love,
How to the woods love runs as well as rides to the palace ;
Neither he bears reverence to a prince nor pity to beggar,
But (like a point in midst of a circle) is still of a nearness.
All to a lesson he draws, neither hills nor caves can avoid him."

One elegiac couplet will suffice : —

" Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,

Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am."

Nor will it be needful to quote more than one sapphic

stanza : —

" If mine eyes can speak to do hearty errand,
Or mine eyes' language she do hap to judge of,
So that eyes' message be of her received,
Hope, we do live yet."

The hendecasyllablcs, though comparatively easy to write
in English, hobble in a very painful manner, as thus: —

" Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason
In this strange violence to make resistance,
Where sweet graces erect the stately banner
Of virtue's regiment, shining in harness."

So do the asclepiads, which, however, arc by no means so
easy of execution : —

"0 sweet woods, the delight of solitariness! -
how much I do like your solitariness !
Where man's mind hath a freed consideration
Of goodness to receive lovely direction ;
Where senses do behold the order of heavenly host.
And wise thoughts do behold what the Creator is."

li! !

resent some

no means so

IV.] THE TRENCH MATCH AND "THE ARCADIA." 85

The .nnacreontics, being an iambic measure, come off
somewhat better, as may be jndgcd by this transcript from
a famous fragment of Sappho : —

" My Muso, what ails this ardour?
Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,
My voice is hoarse, my tliroat scorched,
My tongue to tliis my roof cleave;',
My fancy amazed, my thoughts dulled.
My lieart doth aciie, my life faints,
iuy soul begins to take leave."

It is obvious from tliese quotations that what the school
called "our rude and beggarly rhyming" is not only more
natural, but also more artistic than their " reformed verse."
Indeed, it may be said without reserve that Sidney's ex-
periiitents in classical metres have no poetical value what-
soever. They are only int:resting as survivals from an
epoch when the hexameter seemed to have an equal chance
of survival with the decasyllabic unrhymcd iambic. The
same is true about many of Sidney's attempts to acclima-
tise Italian forms of verse. Thus we find embedded in the
Arcadia terza rima and ottava rima, sestines and madrigals,
a canzone in which the end of each line rhymes with a
syllable in the middle of the next. So conscientious was
he in the attempt to reproduce the most difficult Italian
metres that he even attempted terza rima with sdnicciolo
or trisyllabic rhymes. I will select an example : —

"If sunny beams shame heavenly habitation.
If tluee-leavea , seem to the sheep unsavory.
Then base and sore is Love's most high vocation.
Or if sheep's cries can help the sun's own bravery.
Then may I hope my pipe may have ability
To help her praise who decks me in her slavery."

But enough of this. It has proved a difficult task to in-

',t>

SIR rillLir SIDNEY.

[chap. IV.

\ *

trodiicc tevza riina at all into English literature; to make
8o exceptionally exactini^ a species of it as the sdrucciolo
at all attractive, would almost be beyond the powers of Mr.
Swinburne. The octave, as handled by Sidney, is passable,
as will appear from the even How of this stanza : —

" VVliile tlms tlicy ran a low but levelled race,
Wiiile tlms they lived (this was indeed a life!)
With nature pleased, content with present case,
p'ree of proud fears, i)ravc befrgary, smiting strife
Of clime-fall court, the cuvy-hatchiiig place,
While those restless desires in great men rifo
To visit folks so low did much disdain,
This while, though pi or, they in themselves did reign."

Of the sestines I will not speak. Tliat form has always
seemed to me tedious even in the hands of the most ex-
pert Italian masters; and Sidney was not the sort of poet
to add grace to its formality by any sprightliness of treat-
ment. It should be noticed that some of the songs in the
Arcadia are put into the mouth of a sad shepherd who is
Sidney himself, riiillisides (for so he has chosen to Latin-
ise tlie first syllables of his Christian and surnames) ap-
pears late in the romance, and prepares us to expect the
higher poetry of Astrophel and Stella.

CHAPTER V.

LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MARRIAGE.

While riiilip was in r ircmcnt at Wilton two events of
interest happened His nephew, William Herbert, saw the
light upon the 28tli of April ; and Edmund Spenser left
England for Ireland as secretary to the new Viceroy, Lord
Grey of Wilton. The birth of the future Earl of Pem-
broke forcibly reminds us of Sidney's position in the his-
tory of English literature. This baby in the cradle was
destined to be Shakespeare's friend and patron ; possibly
also to inspire the sonnets which a publisher inscribed in
Shakespeare's name to Master W. H. We are wont to re-
gard those enigmatical compositions as the product of
Shakespeare's still uncertain manhood. But William Her-
bert was yet a child when his uncle Philip's life-work end-
ed, Astrophcl and Stella had circulated among its au-
thor's private friends for at least four years when Zutphen
robbed England of her poet-hero. At that date little Her-
bert, for whom Shakespeare subsequently wrote the lines —

" Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?" —

this little Herbert was but in his seventh year.

It is also possible, but not probable, that, while Philip

was away in Wiltshire, his half-affianced bride, the daugh-
33

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

fciup.

tcr of tl.e Earl of Essex, ,c.,,vc l.or Land to another suitor
Her p;i.ard.an, tl.e Earl of Huntingdon, wrote upon the 10th
of March in 1580, to Lord Burloi^.h, that ho considered
Lord liich "a proper gentleman, and one in y-ars very fit
for my Lady Penelope Dcvcreux, if, with the favour and
likin.ir of her Majesty, the matter might be brought to
pass. Lord Rich certainly married Penelope Devereux-
but whether it was in 1580, or rather in 1581, admits of
discussion. To nx the exact date of her betrothal is a
matter of some mo.nent. I must therefore point out that,
at that time in Englan.l, the commencement of the year
dated olHcially from March 25. In private correspond-
ence, however, the 1st of January had already begun to
mark the opening of a new year. Privately, then, Lord
Huntingdon's letter may have carried the date, 1580, as we
understand it; but, officially, it must have been reckoned
into the year which we call 1581. Now this letter is en-
dorsed by Curieigh or his secretary, officially, under the
year 1580; and, therefore, wc have a strong presumption
in favour of Penelope's not having been engaged to Lord
Rich until 1581, seeing that the month of March in 1580
counted then for our month of March in 1581 When I
review Asfrophd and Stella it will appear that I do not at-
tach very great importance to this question of d-itcs. But
I think It safer, on the evidence, to place Stella's marriage
in the spring or summer of 1581. °

Lord Rich was the son of the Lord Chancellor of Eno--
Jand, who had lately died, bequeathing to his heir a ver^y
substantial estate, and a large portion of his own coarse
temperament. If wc may trust the Earl of Devonshire's
emphatic statement, made some twenty-five years later to
King James, this marriage was not to the mind of the
lady. Ho says that Penelope, " being in the power of her

fcHAl'.

fjnotlicr suitor,
upon the 10th
lie considered
I y^ars veiy fit
'ic favour and
e brought to
pe Devereux;
•81, admits of
betrothal is a
)oint out that,
t of the year
e corrcspond-
idy begun to
!y, then, Lord
3, 1580, as we
cen reckoned
3 letter is en-
ly, under the
presumption
figcd to Lord
arch in 1580
^1. When I
t I do not at-
' d'ltcs. But
'a's marriaffc

)llor of Eng-
I heir a very
own coarse
Devonshire's
ears later to
mind of the
)owcr of her

v.]

LIFE AT C'OUUT AGAIN, AND MAUUIAUK.

friends, was married against her will unto one against
whom she did protest at the solemnity and ever after; be-
tween whom, from the very first day, there ensued con-
tinual discord, altiiough the same fears that forced her to
marry constrained her to live with him." I may here re-
mind my readers of her subsequent history. During her
husband's lifetime she left him and became the mistress of
Sir Charles Blount, to whom she bore three children out
of wedlock, lie advanced to the peerage with the in-
herited title of Lord Mountjoy, and was later on created
Earl of Devonshire; while Lady Rich, in spite of her
questionable conduct, received, by i)atent, the dignity and
precedence of the most ancient Earldom of Essex, Hav-
ing been divorced from Lord Rich, she was afterwards at
liberty to marry her lover; and in 1G05 she became the
Countess of Devonshire. James refused to countenance
the nuptials. He liad tolerated the previous illicit connec-
tion. But his opinions upon divorce made him regard its
legalisation with indignant horror. Stella died in 1007 a
disgraced woman, her rights of wifehood and widowhood
remaining unrecognised.

Li the course of the summer (1580), Leicester left his
retirement and returned to Court. It was understood that
though still not liking the Frencii match, he would in fut-
ure offer no opposition to the ion's wishes ; and on these
terms he induced Philip also . j make his peace with her
Majesty. Wo find him, according'y, again in London be-
fore the autiwiin. Two of the longest private letters from
his I, may be referred to this period. They are address-
ed to his brother Robert Sidney, who afterwards became
Lonl Leicester. This voung man was then upon his trav-
els, spending more money than his father's distressed cir-
cumstances could wed afford. Philip sent him supplies,

K if

» 1

I tl

S ••

I ■>

1 .1,

1 -

i '

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

using language of great delicacy and warm brotherly affec-
tion : " For the money you have received, assure yourself
(for it is true) there is nothing I spend so pleaseth ine, as
that which is for you. If ever I have ability, you will find
it ; if not, yet shall not any brother living be better beloved
than you of me." " For £200 a year,^ assure yourself, if
the estates of England remain, you shall not fail of it;
use it to your best profit." Where Philip found the
money may be wondered ; but tliat he gave it with good
grace is unquestionable. Probably ho received more from
the queen in allowances than we are aware of; for he
ranked among the favoured courtiers then known as " pen-
sioners." As was the fashion of those times, he lectured
liis brother somewhat pompously on how to use the op-
portunities of the grand tour. Kobert was constantly to
observe the " viruie, passion, and vices " of the for'eio-n
countries through which he travelled.

"Even in the Kingdom of China, whicli is ahiiost as far as the
Antipodes from us, their good laws and customs are to be learned ;
but to luiow their riches and power is of little purpose for us, since
that can neither advance nor hinder us. But in our neighbouring
countries, both tliese things are to be marked, as well tlio lattei"
which contain things for themselves, as the former, which seek to
know both those, and how their riches and power may be to us avail-
able, or otherwise. Tiie countries fittest for both these are those you
are going into. France is above all other most needful for us to
mark, especially in the former kind; next is Spain and the Low
Couiitiies; then Germany, which in my opinion excels all others as
much in the latter consideration, as the other doth in the former, yet
neither are void of neither ; for as Germany, methinks, doth excel in
good laws, and well administering of justice, so are we likewise to
consider in it the many princes with whom we may have league, the
places of trade, and moans to draw both soldiers and furniturcT thence
in time of need. So on the other side, as in France and Spain, we are
principally to mark how they stand towards us both in power aud in-

7.] LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MARRIAGE. 91

cliiifition ; so arc tliey not without good and fittin;:; use, even in tho
generality of wisdom to be Ivnown. As in France, tlie courts of par-
liament, tiicir subaltern Jurisdiction, and their continual keeping of
paid soldiers. In Spain, their good and grave proceedings; their
keeping so many provinces under them, and by what manner, with
the true points of honour ; wherein since they have the most open
conceit, if tliey seem over curious, it is an easy matter to cut off wlien
a man sees the bottom. Flanders likewise, besides the neighbourhood
with us, and the aiuiexed considerations thereunto, hath divers tilings
to be learned, especinliy their governing their merchants and other
trades. Also for Italy, we knew not what we have, or can have, to
do with them, but to buy their silks and wines ; and as for the other
point, except Venice, whose good laws and customs we can hardly
proportion to ourselves, because they are quite of a contrary gov-
ernment ; there is little there but tyrannous oppression, and ser-
vile yielding to them that have little or no right over them. And
for the men you shall have there, although indeed some be excel-
lently learned, yet are they all given to counterfeit learning, as a
man shall learn among them more false grounds of things than in
any place else that I know; for from a tapster upwards, they are all
discoursers in certain matters and qualities, as horsemanship, weap-
ons, painting, and such are better there than in other countries ; but
for other matters, as well, if not better, you shall have them in near-
er places."

The second of the two epistles (dated from Leicester
House, Oct. 18, 1580) contains more personal matter.
" Look to your diet, sweet Robin," he says, " and hold up
your Itcart in courage and virtue ; truly great part of my
comfort is in you." And again : " Now, sweet brother, take
a delight to keep and increase your music ; you will not
believe what a want I find of it in my melancholy times."
It appears, then, that Diilip, unlike many gentlemen of
that age, could not touch the lute or teach the " saucy
jacks" of the virginal to leap in measure. Then follows
another bit of playful exhortation : " I would by the way
your worship would learn a better hand ; you write worse

^il

! 4i

! i
i

11 '!■ f|

II /!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

on, d.ct,and consequently of your complexion; remem-
ber Grahor est veniens ia prdchro corpore virtus^ If Ben
Jonson .as right in what he said of Phih-p's complexion
tins adv,ee had its ground in tiresome expe.ience. On th
■subject of manly exercises he has also much to say • "At
horse-nans ip .hen you exercise it, read Crison ^huuiio.
and a book tlmt ,s called La Gloria del Cavallo, witha
bat you may jo.n the thorough contemplation of it with
the exerce ; and so shall you profit n.ore in a month than

" When you play at weapons, I would have von T^f f) • i
an .„,,o,.,..,,, ,„ay „„. ,„„ .k, ,„,,„, fo ,rXl 1,7,'
liances are not i ii"- in cnvno^t fm. n,„ ,• <> , "'

...t., o,.e. : .:a „::':r :;:n .;;: , : : : zr:: °"z

niakoyo,, „ strong ,„„„ .„ „,„ ,„„„,, ,„j b„,„.e„ f ' Jt
pass«,t,,„„ta„ ,io,n- or t.vo ,■.««,, cxei-ciac- tl,,. r„., , ,' '"""''"J'

diNgo,,.,,, a„. » „.a„ ,„„ CO., i.::z^;':z::::>z^"

St,Klics como i„ for tl.cir duo sl.arc of attention. " Tako
d«l,sl,t ,ko,v,sc ,„ the umtlrcnaticls ; Mr. Savilo is excel-
lent .„ ti,e,„. I tl,i„lc ,„u understand .1,0 spWre; i "o
do. I care httlo for any ™o,-o astrono„,y in yc^, A,ith „"'
.c and seo,„ct,.y I would „isl, you .ere Jll seen in, Ins
both „. urattc. of „„,„ber aud ,„e.as„,.c y„„ „,ig,,t C^l
fecl.ng and aefvo judgn.ent. I „„uld you did bear t ,e
mccbameal instrninents, wherein tl.e Dutch e.«el." It „,av
be sa,d w.th ..cference to this ,,a,-..graph that M,-. S.-.vile
was 1 obert S.dney's travelliug .„>,,„„.' The sphere ep
re cuted raed.eval a.C-ouo.ny. Based upon the faditional
■nterpretafou of the Ptole.uaie doctrine, it lent its If to

- V,

V.j LIFE AT COURT AGAIX, AND MARRIAGE. 9a

theoretical disquisitions upon cosmology in general, as well
as to abstruse speculations regarding the locality of para-
dise and heaven, the elements, and superhuman existences.
On the point of style Philip observes: "So you can speak
^ and write Latin, not barbarously, I never require great study
* in Ciceronianism, the chief abuse of Oxford, qui dam verba
sectantur res ijtsas negliguntr History being Robert Sid-
ney's favourite study, his brother discourses on it more at
large.

I have quoted thus liberally from Philip's letters to Rob-
ert Sidney, because of the agreeable light they cast upon
his character. It is clear they were not penned for perusal
by the public. " JMy eyes are almost closed up, overwatched
with tedious business," says the writer; and his last words
are, "Lord! how I have babbled." Yet, though hastily
put together, and somewhat incoherently expressed, the
thoughts are of excellent pith ; and one passage upon' his-
tory, in particular, reads like a rough sketch for part of the
"Defence of Poesv."

After weighing the unaffected words of brotherly coun-
sel and of affectionate interest which Philip sent across
the sea to Robert, we are prepared for Sir Henrv Sidney's
warm panegyric of his first-born to his second' son. He
had indeed good hopes of Robert; but he built more on
Philip, as appears from the following sentence in a letter
to Sir Francis Walsingham : " I having three sons, one of
excellent good proof, the second of great good proof, and
the third not to be despaired of, but very well to be liked."
Therefore he frequently exhorted Robert to imitate the
qualities of his " best brother." " Perge, perge, my Robin,
in the filial fear of God, and in tlie meanest imagination of
yourself, and to the loving direction of your nTost loving
brother. Imitate his virtues, exercises, studies, and actions.

■ ' \:

i M

SIR PHILIP SIDNEV.

[crfAP.

.'t I

^"k

Ho .s 1,0 rare orn.nmont of this „go, tl,e very formula,- that
a oT ''°"' '■°""' «™"™™ «f °" Cert Jo f ™
0,, flat toy of l„m or „( „j.,„|f . ,,„ ,__,,|^
v.rtocs hat over I fo„„d in any ,na„. Onco a-ain I 1
.muato h.,„." And onco moro, at a late,- datof-FoIl™
your d,sc,-eet and virtuous b,-otl,o,--s rule, «-ho >vith Jo
d.serot,on, to his great c„„„„e„dation, won iovo, and coZ
variously ply eeremony ,vith ceremony,"

The last extant letter of Languot to Philip was written
n October of th.s yoa,-. Tho old ,„a„ oonUtulatos Z
fnond upon returning to the Court; but ho adds a o em

^nh Enghsh affiurs co„fir„,ed his bad opinion of Eliza-
both s Court e ,elo. lie saw that she was arbitrary i„ I
d,tr,but,o„ of wealth and honours; he feared lost Philil
ments should bo ignored, while son,o n,o,-o worthies fa-
vo„„te was bo,ng pampc-ed. Oneo he had hoped that
1>- «erv,ee of tho queen would speedily advance 1 to

^h l,ty of that young hopeful life being wasted upon for-
n>aht,os and pasthnes; and for England ho prophesied a
con„ng t,n,o of factions, complicated by sc'ous rj.„

in "; ," "° ''"" "' •• -''d^od .uau, slow-rde-
chn.ng towards tho grave, aniid forebodings which the im

had now just eleven ,„o„tl,s more to live. He diej in
Soptember 1,81 at Antwe,-p, nnrsed through his ijst ill

»ay. and followed to the tomb by William, Prince of
Cjnge. Among the poems given to Philliside in the i

the t„„c when Languofs death had brought to Philip's

) '.'

v.] LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MARRIAGE. 93

memory the dobt of gratitude he owed this faithful couu-
sollor : —

"Tlie song I sang old Languet had me taught,
Languet the sliepherd best swift Ister knew
For cleilvly reed, r.nd hating what is nauglit.

For faitliful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true ;
With his sweet sicill my rkilless youth he drew
To have a fechng taste of Him that sits
Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits.

" He said the music best thilk powers pleased
Was sweet accord between our wit and will
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
And lowest sink not down to jot of ill ;
Witli old true tales he wont mine ears to fill,
How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,
Spoiling their flocks, or while 'twixt them they strive.

" He lik5d me, but pitied lustful youth ;

His good strong staff my slippery years upbore ;
He still hoped well because I loved truth;
Till forced to part, with heart and eyes even sore,
To worthy Corydon he gave me o'er."

On New Year's Day, 1581, Philip presented the queen
With a heart of gold, a chain of gold, and a whip with a
golden handle. Those gifts symbolised his devotion to her
and her right to chastise him. The year is marked in his
biography by his first entrance into Parliament, as knio-ht
of the shire for Kent. He only sat two months ; but d'ur-
ing that short period he joined the committees appointed
to frame rules for enforcing laws against Catholics, and for
suppressing seditious practices by word or deed against her
Majesty. The French match was still uppermost^in Eliza-
beth's mind. She hankered after it; and some of the
wisest heads in Europe, among them William the Silent,

i ■■:!

[■ ':\

h i/

■I !

■I ;

SIR PUILIP SIDNEY.

[ciup.

approved of the project. Yet she was unable to decide
Ihe Duke of Anjou liad raised questions as to the event.
uahty of England becoming dependent on the French
Crown; Avhich it might have been, if he had married the
Queen, and succeeded to his childless brother. This made
her pause and reflect. She was, moreover, debatin- the
scheme of an alliance with Henri III. against Spain." Be-
tween the two plans her mind wavered. As Walsincrham
^vrote to Burleigh : " When her Majesty is pressed to the
marriage, then she seemeth to effect a league; and when
the league is yielded to, then she liketh better a marriage-
and when thereupon she is moved to assent to marriage'
then she hath recourse to the league ; and when the mo!
tion IS for the league, or any request is made for money,
then lier Majesty returncth to the marriage."

These hesitations seem to have been aligmented by the
urgency of the French Court. On the IGtJi of April Fran-
cis of Bourbon arrived from Paris at the head of a mag-
nificent embassy, with the avowed object of settlino- pre-
liminaries. They were received with due honour b'y the
principal nobles of Elizabeth's Court, all open opposition
to the marriage having now been withdrawn by common
consent. Among the entertainments provided for the en-
voys during their sojourn in London, Fhilip played a con-
spicuous part. Together with the Earl of Arnrdel, Lord
AVindsoi- and Fulke Greville. he prepared a brilliant display
of chivalry. Calling themselves the Four Foster Children
of Desire, they pledged their word to attack and win if
possible, by force of arms, the Fortress of Perfect Bean'ty.
Ihis fort, which m., understood to be the allegorical abode
of queen, was erected in the Tilt Yard at Whitehall.
Se. . times the number of the challengers, young gentle-
men of knightly prowess, offered themselves as defenders ,

[chap,

lablo to decide
IS to tliG event,
on the French
ad n)amed tlie
'1'. This made
•, debating the
st Spain. Be-
lS WaLsinghatn
pressed to the
uc ; and when
or a marriage;
it to marriajre.
when the mo^

do for money,

nented by the
of April Fran-
3ad of ca mag-
f settling pre-
lonour by the
en opposition
I by common
xl for the en-
played a con-
\rur del, Lord
iliiant display
stcr Children
Ic and win, if
rfect Beauty,
^orical abode
It AVhitchall.
oung gentle-
as defenders ,

T.J LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MARRIAGE. 97

of the fortress ; and it was quite clear from the first how
the tournament would end. This foregone conclusion did
not, however, mar the sport; and the compliment intended
to F]lizabeth would have been spoiled, if the Foster Chil-
dren of Desire could have forced their way into her Castle
of Beauty. The assault upon the Fortress of Perfect Beau-
^ ty began on the 15th of May and was continued on the
10th, when the challengers acknowledged their defeat.
They submitted their capitulation to the queen, by the
mouth of a lad, attired in ash-coloured clothes, and bear-
ing an olive-branch. From the detailed accounts which
survive of the event, I will only transcribe what serves to
bring Philip Sidney and his train before us. The passa<re
describes his entrance on the first day of the lists :—

"Then proceeded Master Pliilip Sidney in very sumptuous manner
witli ar.nour, part blue and the rest gilt and engraven, with four
spare horses, liaving caparisons and furniture very rich and costlv
as some of cloth of gold embroidered with pearl, and some embroid-
ered with gold and silver feathers, very richly and cunninglv wrou-ht
He hau four pages that rode on his four spare horses, who had cas-
soclv coats and Venetian hose, all of cloth of silver, laied with -old
lace, and hats of tlie same with gold bands and white feathers "and
each one a pair of white buskins. Then had he thirty gentlemen
and yeomen, and four trumpeters, who were all in cassock coats and
VeneHan hose of yellow velvet laied with silver lace, yellow velvet
caps with silver bands and white feathers, and every one a pair of
white buskins ; and they had upon their coats a scroll or band of
Oliver, which came scarf-wise over the shoi Ider, and so down under
the arm, with this posy or sentence written > non it, both before and'
behind : tiic 710s tion nobis.^'

It behoves us not to ask, but we cannot help wondering,
where the money came from for this costly show. Proba'
bly Philip was getting into debt. His appeals to friends
with patronage at their disposal became urgent durin<r the

A \i'i

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

I i

III'' 'I

ensninjr months. Though he obtained no post which com-
bined public duties with pay, a sinecure worth £120 a year
was given him. It must be said to his credit that he did
not so much desire unearned money as some lucrative ap-
pointment, entailing labour and responsibility. Tliis the
queen would not grant; even an application made by him
so late as the summer of 1583, begging for employment
at the Ordnance under his uncle Warwick, was refused.
Meanwhile his European reputation brought invitations,
which prudence bade him reject. One of these arrived
from Don Antonio of Portugal, a bastard pretender to that
kingdom, calling upon Philip Sidney to join his forces.
The life at Court, onerous by reason of its expenditure,
tedious througli indolence and hope deferred, sweetened
chiefly by the companionship of Grevillo and Dyer, wore
tiresomely on. And over all these months wavered the
fascinating vision of Stella, now a wife, to whom Phillisides
was paying ardent homage. It may well be called a dan-
gerous passage in his short life, the import of which we
shall have to fathom when we take up Astrophel and Stella
for perusal. Courtly monotony had its distractions. The
French match, for instance, afforded matter for curiosity
and mild excitement. This reached its climax when the
Duke of Anjou arrived in person. He came in November,
and stayed three months. When he left England in Feb-
ruary 1582, the world knew that this project of a marriage
for Elizabeth was at an end. Si<lney, with the flower of
English aristocracy, attended the French prince to Antwerp.
There he was proclaimed Dnke of Brabant, and welcomed
with shows of fantastic magnificence. We may dismiss
all further notice of liim from the present work, with the
mention of his death in 1584. It happened on the first
of June, preceding the Prince of Orange's assassination by

I /

Jil Ihtl

I'll :: .

v.] LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MARRIAGE. 99

just one month. People thougl.t that Anjou also had been
murdered.

The greater part of the year 1582 i:^ a blank in Philip's
biography. We only know that lie was frequently absent
from the Court, and in attendance on liis father. Sir Ilen-
ry Sidney's affairs were seriously involved. The Crown
refused him substantial aid, and kept him to his post at
Ludlow Castle. Yet, at the beginning of 1583, we find
Philip again in waiting on the queen ; presenting her with
1 golden fxower-pot, and receiving the gracious gift of a
lock of the royal virgin's hair. In January Prince Casimir
had to be installed Knight of the Garter. Philip was
chosen as his proxy, and obtained the honour of knighthood
for himself. Henceforward he takes rank as Sir Philip
Sidney of Penshurst.

Never thoroughly at ease in courtly idleness, Philip
formed the habit of turning his eyes westward, across the
ocean, towards those new continents where wealth and
boundless opportunities of action lay ready for adventurous
knights. Frobisher's supposed discovery of gold in 1577
drew an enthusiastic letter from liim. In 1578 he was
meditating some "Indian project." In 1580 he wrote
wistfully to his brother Robert about Drake's return, "of
which yet I know not the secret points; but about the
world he hath been, and rich he is returned." In 1582
his college friend, Richard llakluyt, inscribed the first col-
lection of his Voyages with Sidney's name. All things
pointed in the direction of his quitting England for the
New World, if a suitable occasion should present itself,
and if the queen should grant him her consent. Bm'mcr
the spring of 1583 projects for colonisation, or plantation
as it then was termed, were afloat among the west country
gentlefolk. Sir Humphrey Gilbert and his half-brother

100

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

I I

"Walter Ralcigli, witli Sir George Pcckham and others,
thought of renewing tlie attempts they had already made
in 1578. Elizabeth in that year liad signed her first char-
ter of lands to be explored beyond the seas, in favour of
Sir Humphrey Gilbert; and now she gave a second to Sir
Philip Sidney. It licensed and authorised him

"To discover, search, find out, view, and inhabit certain parts of
America not yet discovered, and out of tliose countries by liini, liia
heirs, factors, or assignees, to have and enjoy, to him, his heirs, and
assignees for ever, sucii and so much (luantity of ground as siiall
amount to the number of tliirty iunulred tliousand acres of ground
and wood, witli all commodities, jurisdictions, and royalties, both by
sea and land, with full power aiid authority that it should and might
be lawful for the said Sir Philip Sidricy, his heirs and assignees, at
all times thereafter to have, take, and lead in the same voyage, to
travel thitherwards or to inhabit there with him or them, and every
or any ul them, such and so many her Majesty's subjects as should
willingly accompany him and tlicm and every or any of them, with
sufficient shipping and furniture for their transportation."

In other words, her Majesty granted to Sir Philip Sidney
the pretty little estate of three millions of acres in North
America. It is true that the land existed, so to say, in nu-
hibus, and was by no means sure to prove an El Dorado.
It was far more sure that if the grantee got possession of
it, he would have to hold it by his own strength ; for Brit-
ain, at this epoch, was not pledged to support her colonics.
Yet considering the present value of the soil in Virginia
or New England, the mere fantastic row of seven figures
in American acres, so lightly signed away by her Majesty.
is enough to intoxicate the imagination. IIow Philip
managed to extort or wheedle this charter from Ellizabeth
we liave no means of knowing. She was exceedingly jeal-
ous of her courtiers, and would not willingly lose sight of

[chap.

1 and others,
already iniido
her first char-
, in favour of
second to Sir
ini

certain parts of
rios by hiiu, hia
n, his heirs, and
groiiiij ns sliall
acres of ground
»y allies, both by
loukl and might
nd assignees, at
same voyage, to
tliem, and every
jjeets as sliould
y of them, with
Lion."

Philip Sidney
ores in North

to sa}', in nu-
in El Dorado.

possession of
;;t]i ; for Brit-
; her colonies,
lil in Virginia

seven figures

■ her Majesty.
How Philip

rom Elizabeth
^eedingly jeal-

■ lose sight of

T.] LIFE AT COURT AGAIN. AND MARRIAGE. 101

them. When Philip two years later engaged himself in a
colonising expedition, we shall see that she positively for-
bade him to leave England. Now, however, it is probable
she knew that he could not take action on her gift. She
was merely bestowing an interest in speculations which
cost her nothing and might bring him profit. At any rate
the matter took this turn. In July 1583 he executed a
deed relinquishing 30,000 acres, together with "all royal-
ties, titles, pre-eminences, privileges, liberties, and dignities "
which the queen's grant carried, to his friend Sir George
Peckham. °

The reason of this act of resignation was that Philip
had pledged his hand in marriage to Frances, daucrhter of
Sir Francis AValsingham. So far back as December 1581
there arc indications that his friendship with Walsii.crham
and his family was ripening into something more intimate
We do not know the date of his marriage for certain ; but
It IS probable that he was already a husband before the
month of July.

A long letter addressed in March 1583 by Sir Henry
Sidnoy to Walsingham must here be used, since it throws
the strongest light upon the circumstances of the Sid-
ney family, and illustrates Sir Henry's feeling with re-ard
to his son's marriage. The somewhat discontented tone
which marks its opening is, I think, rather apolocretical
than regretful. Sir Henry felt that, on both sides, the
marriage was hardlj- a prudent one. He had expected
some substantial assistance from the Crown throu-rh Wal-
smgham's mediation. This had not been granted Tand he
took the opportunity of again laying a succinct report of
Jus past services and present necessities before the secreta-
ry of state, in the hope that something might yet bo done
to help him. The document opens as follows :"—

'n-h

102

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

" Dkah Sir— I have undcrstooa of late that coldiieis is thought in
mo in proeocdinj^ in the matter of niarriago of our children. In
truth, hir, it is not so, nor so ."hail it over be found ; for coiiipremit-
ting the consideration of tlie articles to the EnvU named by jou, and
to the Earl of Huntingdon, I most willingly agree, and protest, and
joy in the alliance with all my heart. J5ut sin.'c, by your letters of
the ad of January, to my gieat di^coiiifort I fmd there is no hope of
relief of her Majesty for my decayed estate in her Highness' service,
I am the more careful to keep myself able, by sale of part of that
which is lefi, to ransom me out of tlie servitude 1 live in for my
debts ; for as I know, sir, that it is the virtue which is, or that you
suppose is, in my son, that you made choice of him for your daugh-
ter, refusing haply far greater and far richer matches than he, 80
was ray confidence great that by your good means I might have ob-
tained some small reasonai)le suit of her Majesty ; and therefore I
nothing regarded any present gain, for if I liad, I might have re-
ceived a great sum of money for my good will of my son's marriage,
greatly to the relief of my private biting necessity."

After this exordium, Sir Henry takes leave to review his
actions as Viceroy of Ireland and Governor of Wales, with
the view of showing how steadfastly he had served his
queen and how ill he had ' en recompensed.

" Three times her Majesty hath sent me her Deputy into Ireland,
and in every of the three times I sustained a great and a violent re-
bellion, every one of which I subdued, and (with honourable peace)
left the country in quiet. I returned from each of these three Depu-
tations tlnee hundred pounds worse than I went."

It would be impertinent to the subject of this essay were
I to follow Sir Henry in the minute and interesting account
of his Irish administration. Suffice it to say that the let-
ter to Walsingham is both the briefest and the most mate-
rial statement of facts which we possess regarding that pe-
riod of English rule. Omitting then all notice of public
affairs, I pass on to confidences of a more personal charac-

[CBAF.

j?i8 is thought in
ur children. In
; for couiprcmit-
ined by jou, and
and protest, and
y your letters of
jro is no liopc of
lij^liiicss' service,
; of part of that
I live in for my
;li is, or tliat you
for your daugh-
clios than he, so
I niiglit iiave ob-
aiid tlicrefore I
niiglit linvc rc-
■f sou's marriage,

e to review his
of Wales, with
lad served his

•)uty into Ireland,
; and a violent re-
lonourablc peace)
these three Depu-

this essay were
resting account
ay that the let-
the most mate-
;arding that pe-
lotico of public
Dcrsonal charac-

T.] I.IFK AT COURT AOAIN, AND MAIilUAGE. l03

ter. After dwelling upon sundry cmbassit s and other eni-
ploym -ts, he proceeds: —

"Truly, sir, by all these I neither w >n nor saved; but now, by
your patioiiet', once again to my great aiul high olKce— for great it is
in tliat in .«onie sort I govern the third part of tiiis realm under her
most excellent Majesty ; high it is, for l>y that I have precedency of
great per.-onages and far my betters : happy it is for the people whom
I govern, as before is written, and most happy for the commodiry that
I liave by the authority of that plint; to do good ev-^-y day, if I have
grace, to one or other; wherein I confess I feel no small feiieity;
but for any profit I gather by it, God and the people (sc-ing my
manner of life) knowetli it is not possible how I should gather
any.

"For, alas, sir! how can I, not having one groat of pension be-
longing to the office ? I have not so much ground as will feed a
mutton. I sell no justice, I trust you do not hear of any order taken
by me ever reversed, nor my name or doings in any court ever
brouglit in question. And if my mind were so base and contempti-
ble as I would take money of the people whom I command for my
labour taken amo-vr t],o,ii, yet could they give me ntme, or very little,
for the cans .-; iii;u .vmie before me are causes of people mean
base, and raxiy very Ix- gars. Only £'20 a week to keep an honour-
able house, .nu 100 n;;i ks a year to bear foreign cliarges I have;
... but true b-'^oka of u.' 3ount shall be, when you will, showed unto
you that I spen ■Lovo x30 a week. Here some may object that I
npon the same keep my '.vife and her followers. True it is she is
ngw with me, and hatli i.'in this half year, and before not in many
years ; and if both she ami I had our food and house-room free, as
we have not, in my conscience we have deserved it. For my part, I
■\m not idle, but every day I work in Hiy fimotion; and she, for her
old service, and marks yet remaining in her face taken in the same,
meriteth her meat. When I went to Newhaven I left her a full fair
lady, in mine eye at least the fairest; and when I returned I found
her as foul a lady as the small-pox could make her, which she did
take by continual attendance of her Majesty's most precious person
(sick of the same disease), the scars of which, to her resolute dis-
comfort, ev^r since have done and doth remain in her face, so as she
liveth solitarily, siait mdicorax in domkilio suo, more to my charge
34 °

w»

104

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

than if we had boarclcJ together, as we did before that evil accident
happened."

The epistle ends witli a general review of Sir Henry's
pecuniary situation, by which it appears that the Sidney
estate had been very considerably impoverished during his
tenure of it.

"The rest of my life is with an over-Ion- precedent discourse
manifested to you. But this to your little com fort I cannot omit,
tluit wliereas nu' father had but one son, and he of no great proof,
beinc- of twentx^four years of age at his death, and I having three
sonsl one of ;xcellent good proof, the second of great g^^od proof
and the third not to be despaired of, but very well to be bl<ed ; if I
die to-morrow next I should leave them worse than my father let
me by £20,000; and I am now iifty-four years of age, toothless and
trembling, being £5000 in debt, yea, and £30,000 worse than I was
at the dealli of n.v most dear king and master, King Edward \ I.

" I have not of the crown of England of my own getting, so much
ground as I can cover with n>y foot. All my fees amount not to 100
marlvs a year. I never had since the <iueen's reign any extraordi-
nary aid by license, forfeit, or otherwise. And yet for all that was
a.m'e and somewhat more than here is written, I cannot obtain to
have in fee-farm £100 a year, already in my own possession, paying

the rent. . , ,.

" \nd now dear sir anJ brother, an end of this tragical discourse,
tclious for pu to read, but more tedious it would have been if it
had come written with my own hand, as first it was. Trag.cal.I
n>av well term if, for that it began with the joyful love and great
lildn- with likeliliood of matrimonial match between our most dear
and "sweet children (whom G^l bless), and endeth witli declaration
of mv unfortunate and hard estate.

"Our Lord bless vou with long life and happiness. I pray you,
sir, commend me most heartily to my good lady, cousin, and sister
vour wife, and bless and kiss our sweet daughter. And if you wid
vouchsafe, bestow a blessing upon the young knight. Sir Pliihp."

There is not much to say of Philip's bride, lie and slie
hved together as man and wife barely three years. Nothing

[chap.
vil accident

ii- Ilcnry'a
ho Sidney
diirini!; liis

nt discourse
•aunot omit,
great proof,
having three
, good proof,
c liked ; if I
ly father left
toothless and
o than I was
Iward VI.
ling, so much
nt not to 100
my cxtraordi-
• all that was
not obtain to
cssion, paying

LIFE AT COURT AGAIN, AND MAUUIAGE.

105

v.]

remains to prove that she was either of assistance to htm
7L oontravv. After his death she contr^^ted a seere
ariaoe with Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex; and
Ten :he lost this second husband on the scaSold she
adopted the Catholic relioion and became the wife ot
Lord Clanricarde. In this series of events I can see no -
inc. to her discredit, considering the manners of that ee
tury Her daughter by Philip, it is known, made a b.iU-
"n .narriace .ith the Earl of Rutland. Her own repeated
nuptials m^y be taken to prove her personal attractiveness^
Sir Philip Sidney, who must have been intimately aequamted
^it^LaracL, chose her for his wife while h.^as.on

for Penelope Devereux had scarcely cooled ; and he did so
!:hlfrt the inducements .hich wealth or brilliant fortunes
might have offered.

: .«!

ical discourse,
ave been if it
s. Tragical,!
love and great
our most dear
ith declaration

. I pray you,
nin, and sister,
Lud if you will
iir rhilip."

lie and she
ars." Nothing

r {(

1 il

.' ,1

CHAPTER VI.

ASTKOPHEL AND STELLA."

Among Sidney's .nisccUanoous poems tl.ere .s " U -=• -' ^^
l,as been «,ppo.ed, not without reason I '\"'^''" '^'%
his feelings npon tl.o event of Lady Penelope Dc>e.euxs
marriage to Lord Rich.

" Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread:
For liove is dead :

All love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain:

Worth, as naught worth, rejected,
And faith fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female frenzy.

From them that use men thus,

Good Lord, deliver us !

"Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead ?

His death-bed, peacock's folly ;
His winding-sheet is shame ;

His will, false-seeming holy ;
His sole executor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy,
From sucii a female frenzy,
From them that use n.cn thus,
Good Lord, deliver >d !

ik>

CHAP. VI.] "ASTROniEL AND STELLA."

107

" Alas ! I lie : rage hath this error bred ;
Love is not dead ;

Love is not dead, but sleepcth
In her unmatched mind,

Where she his counsel keepeth
Till due deserts she find.

Tiicrefore from so vile fancy,

To call such wit a frenzy.

Who Love can tempor thus.

Good Lord, deliver us !"

These stanzas snffioiontly set forth the leading passion
of Astrophel and Stella. That scries of poems celebrates
Sir Philip Sidney's love for Ladv Rich after her marriage,
his discovery that this love was returned, and the curb
which her virtue set upon his too impetuous desire. Be-
fore the publication of Shakespeare's sonnets, these were
undoubtedly the finest love poems in our language ; and
thon<rh exception may be taken lo the fact that they were
written for a married woman, their parity of tone and
philosophical elevation of thought separate them from the
vulo-p.r herd of amatorious verses.

f have committed myself to the opinion that Astrophel
and Stella was composed, if not wholly, yet in by far the
o-reater part, after Lady Rich's marriage. This opmion bc-
Tno- contrary to tlie judgment of excellent critics, and op-
po'sed to the wishes of Sidney's admirers, I feel bound to
state my reasons. In the first place, then, the poems would
have no a.eaning if they were written for a maiden. When
a friend, quite early in the series, objects to Sidney that

" Desire
Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire
Of sinful thoughts which do in ruin end,"

what significance could these words have if Stella W6re still

ill.

'. ^ : «■

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

. \

■ f' I '■ ■

108

free » Stolla, lluongWout tw.,.tl,Ud» of tlic .cries (aftor No.
W,i.),.nalc; no co„=c,Jmo,.t of her love for Astro,jK
a',d V sl,e i-orMstently vepeU l,is ardent woonig. ^^hy

:;;!„id *« „,;>. do,. .o,if .he »,« at ^^^^f^^x

f„.her', aea.,..bea «i,„ a„d „.an,- - J^J /^ Ji:
objected tlmt the reasons for the licaku...
fo mal en.va!;en,e„t to Sidney are not l<no«n, both le and
sZtre^o^iLlv -onseious that the n.an-.age con d not
LpJ To\his I answer that a wife »jn»^^^^^^^^^^
lover's advances differs fmn, a unuden s ; and Ste la s e
fnsal in the poems is clearly, to my n,,nd at '- ; ' ^'^
,„,„.ried u<,n,an. Sidney, moreover, does not Innt ,.t m
kind fate or trno love hindered in its coarse by msnnnonnt
th e blcles. He has, on the other hand, plenty to say
ahon. the nnworthy husband, Stella's ignoble bondage, and

"Iff i:astrn;,ed. .e are not snre that we possess

th onnc.s and songs of .Utro.ke, an, SUila .n etr

ri„ht order. May we not conjeetnve that '1-;--;'"'"

purposely or nniutcllisently shuffled by the pnbhsh ,, who

!„rL.tit i.uslv obtained copies of the loose sheets! And

'I will nJt close inspection of the text -'''f' "- ""^

rmpmal allns.ons, by means of which we «"»" l>-^'« '

assign some of the more compromising poems to dates be

fore Penelope's marriage?

There are two points here for consid.nation, which 1
„i, cndcavonr to treat .separately. The first edition of
t,ro,yi a,ul S,elU was printed in 150t ")• ^1-"-^- "
,„a„. Where this roan obtained his manuscript does not
appear. But in the dedication he says -It was my foitnne
Z many davs since to light npon the famous device of
A^ir^phll and *>«<-, which carvying the general com-
mendation of all men of judgment, and being reported to

TI.]

" ASTIlOniEL AND STELLA."

109

be one of the rarest things that ever any EngUshman set
abroach, I have thought good to publish it." further on
he adds: "For n.y part I have been very eareful in he
printing of it, and whereas, being spread abroad in wntten
copies,1t had gathered nmeh corruption by ill-wnters, I
bal-e used their help and advice in correcting and restoring
it to his first dignity that I know were of sk.U and expe-
rience in those^^atters." U these sentences have any
meaning, it is that Astrophel and Stella circuited widely
in manuscript, as a collected whole, and not in scattered
sheets, before it fell into the hands of Newman.^ It was
already known to the world as a "famous device, a rare
thincr ;" and throughout the dedication it is spoken of as a
sino-Te piece. ^Vhat strengthens this argument is that the
Countess of Pembroke, in her lifetime, permitted Astroj.M
and Stella to be reprinted, together with her own corrected
version of the Arcadia, without making any alteration in

its arrangement. , ,,

If „o cxaininc tl.o pocns with minute attention xve 9 mil,
I tl,ink,l.e led to the conclusion that they have not been
shufBcd, but that we possess then, n, the order in wlneh
Juiney vrote then. To begin witl. the first n,nc sonnc
forn, a Icind of exordium. They set forth the object r
which the whole scries was composed, they celebrate Stell., »
mental and personal charms in general, they charactcose
Sidncv's stvle and source ot inspnat.on, and cr.t.c.sc the
aBectitions-of his contemporaries. In the -ond p a ,
we find that many of the sonnets are wr.t e. m sequence.
I ,vill cite, for exau.ple, Nos. 31-i.4, Nos. 38-40, Nos. 09-
,2 Nos. 87-92, Nos. 93-100. Had the order been c.ther
un'intelligently or intentionally confused, it U ^t Fo^aWe
that those sequences would have survtvcd cut, e. And jn
this point I may notice that the intcsperscd lyncs oeeui m

110

SIR rniLir sidnta'.

[chap.

'S W'

1 ^ tl.ot ;e In tiftv in close connection witli
theirrvopcrrl.ieos,tliatistosa),inci ,,,„,,. t,,:,^.

tl,c subiect-niattc.- of accompanying sonnets. It n,.> tl.ira

: bo observed that .l».-<,;./..( ^-'l S'Ma, as we bavo , ,e -

, ibits a natnml r.,ytl>n, and .levelopn.ent of -"»'"«; ''^
admiration an,lebasrln,tl,r„„gb expectant pass.on,f«llo„ea

bv Lope snstained at a bish piteb of cntbasiasm, down to
e;ent,laldiseonva,emontandn«,,.ati.,n Asll,omasNa^^^

said in bis preface to the first e.htu.n . ^ Tbo .''"=«, »«'°''
Le is Melpomene, wbose .h.l.y -bes dipP-l - the mk of

i. ^^.v, +<^ .Iron ".'i.pn 1 ;ko tncm uc;a\ inc ai-
tears as yet socm to aiop •.••-n

^.ent cvuel cl.ast.y, tl.c pvologao hope the .,.lo,ue d^-
tah. " That the serl.s ends uhrnptly, as thoug;!. it. author
ifa'a aband..n..l it fro,n weariness, should also be notice^
This is natural in the case of ly.ics.vvluch wore clearly the
outpourinn- of ihe poet's inmost feelings. ^^ hen he had
:rdetenninedto^a.tofftheyol:eoi:aps.onw^^

could not but have bee. injur.n. to h.s -t^er so^ A^ -
.hel stopped sini^incr. lie wa. not round.ng off a subject
an tieaU eonte^.plated from outside. There was no en^
voy to be written whe. once the alin.ent of love had been

'^' A\tr tcvard to the .econd question T have raised, name-
Iv, whethe; elose inspec.on will not enable us to fix dates
for the composition of Astrophel and 5^.n«, and thus to
rearrange the order of its pieces, I must say that very few
of the poems seem to me to offer any sohd ground f or cnt-
ieism of this kind. Sonnets 24, .So, and 87 clearly allude
to Stella's married name. Sonnet 41, the famous Havmg
this day my horse, my hand, my lance, ' may refer to Sid-
ney's assauft upon the Castle of Perfect Beauty ; but since
he was worsted in that mimic siege, this ---.« ^o"^^] '
The mention of " that sweet enemy France " might lead us
equally well to assign it to the period of Anjou s visit In

[COAP.

tion with
[lay third-
avci it, ex-
lent, from
I, followed
I, down to
)iniis Nash
hief actor
the ink of
. The av-
)iloo'ue do-
its author
be noticed,
clearly the
icn he had
sion which
self, A stro-
ll a subject
was no en-
;^e had been

aiscd, name-
to fix dates
and thus to
lat very few
nnd for crit-
learly allude
5US " Having
refer to Sid-
;y ; but since
ms doubtful,
iiiftht lead us
>u's visiL In

TI.]

"ASTROrilEL AND STELLA."

Ill

either case, the date would be after Stellas betrothal to
Lord Rich. Sonnet 30, " ^Vhcther the Turkish new moon
minded be," points to political events in Europe which were
takin.r place after the beginning of 1581, and consequent-
ly about the period of Penelope's marriage. These hvc
sonnets fall within the first forty-one of a series which
numbers one ;.and.-ed and eight. After them I can dis-
cover nothing but allusions to facts of private life, Astro-
phel's absence from the Court, Stella's temporary illness, a
stolen kiss, a lover's quarrel.

In conclusion,! would fain point out that any one who
may have composed a series of poems upon a single theme,
extcndinn- over a period of many months, will be aware how
unpertincnt it is for an outsider to debate their order.
Nothino- can be more certain, in such species of composi-
tion, tlmn that thoughts once suggested will be taken up for
more elaborate handling on a future occasion. Thus the
contention between love and virtue, which occurs early m
Astrojyhel and Stella, is developed at length towards its
close The Platonic conception of beauty is suggested near
the commencement, and is worked out in a later sequence.
Sometimes a motive from external life supplies the poet
with a single lyric, which seems to interrupt the lover's
monologue! Sometimes he strikes upon a vein so fruitful
that it yields a succession of linked sonnets and intercalated

songs.

I have attempted to explain why I regard Astrophel and
Stella as a single whole, the arrangement of which does not
materially differ from that intended by its author. I have
also expressed my belief that it was written after Penelope
Devereux became Lady Rich. This justifies me in saying,
as 1 <li<I upon a former page, that the exact date of her
marriao-c s.ems to rac no matter of vital importance in Sir

r ii

l' ' ■

SIR nilLIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

I- i 1

A. ' ■■

\f.X

.! l.liti ' : •; ll

112

lM,ilip Sulney-s bi«i;rapby. My tl.cory of tl.o love »l,icb

t portrays. i» *»' ''"» ""» '"'""' "^ '° '"° '""n T'', i
.£ am t.,at the co„«cio„H„es» of the h-revocab e at .bat

: eat „,a.le it break into the Id,,.! of -^^J^^
,vhieh i, peculiarly snite.l t.u- poet.c treatment &' '•"'">
,val,l son.e of I'bilip's time; but it ,s clear hat , he
te av ho„e»tlv,ana to her lover belpfally, by the hrm
btsentle refnsM of hi, overtures. Thronghout these po-
e , , ou»b I reeo.nise their very genuine eraot.on I can-
:: 'help riUcerning the note of what '^^'^f^'^^
poetical exassevation. In other words, I ^^ "» ^;';:;.
hat SiJnev would in act have really gone so ar as he p,o
' 'eslo ciesire. On paper it was easy to dcman.l more
ms r <n,slv, in hot or cold blood, he would have atteurpt-
; To this-Irtistic exaltation of a real feeling the ebosen
„„n of composition both traditionally and art.st.cal y lent
t"l Finaly,whe„ all these points have been duly con-
ttd. we mult not forget that society at tl-'t c^ - »
lenient if not lax, in matters of Ibe passions, btell. sposi
at Court, while she was the aelcnowledged m.stress of
S r Charles Blount, suffices to prove this ; nor have .c any
r Lou to suppose that I'bilip was,iu t'-.-P-'j^" ,,
.pirit without blot " than his contcu.poranes. S"me of '. s
death-bed n.cditatious indicate sincere repcu ance fo, past
tl s; but that his liaison with Lady Kiel, .nvolvcd noth-
t^ worse than a young .nan's infatuation, »PP-- -"*;
°°vading tone of A.lrojAel ond SIclla. A motto m.ght
be chosen for it from the COth sonnet:

.. I raanot brag C ford, naicli less of dccJ."

The critical cobwebs »hich beset the personal romance

of Mtrophel and Stella have now been cleared away Read-

rs of tl cse pages know bow I for one interpret ,ts prob-

••ASTKOPUEL AND STEIXA."

113

Icms. Whatever opinion 0,oy .my form upon a top,o
„l,icl, has exercised many ingenions mind,, we are aWo at
Ith to approach the work of art, and to .tudy it. beau-
ertcether! Ko,ardi„S one point, 1 would fan, .ul,m^
,vord of preliminary warning. However arUheul n ,^h
sive may appear the style of those lovo poems let us p.e
p ™ onrseWes to find real feeling and snbs.antud thought
expressed iu them, It was not a mere rhotor.cal emh.o.d-
cry of phrases which moved downright Ben Jouson to ask .

» Hath not great Sidney Stella set
Where never star shone brighter yet?"

It was no flimsv string of pearled conceits svlnch J row from
Richard Craslnuv In his most exalted moment that allusion

to:

" Sydnaean showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head widi flowers."

The elder poets, into whose ken Mropkel -•'«'"'"--;
,iko athing of unimagined and unap,rehended b aut h d
„. doubt or its sincerity. The <,uau,tness of t» tiof^s
and the condensation of its symbohsu, were proofs to ti n.
of passion stirring the deep soul of a fi„ely-g,tted,h,gh j-
dulted man. They read it as we read In J/™"-"'. -
knowledging some obscure passages, recogn.s.ug some awk
Lrdnesrof"incoherent utterance, l,ut tak.ng these on m,s
„s evidences of the poet's heart loo charged with ~,'..ff for
orZry methods o'f expression. What did Shakespeare
make Achilles say 1

" My mind is troubled, like a fountain starred,
And I myself see not the bottom of it."

Charles Lamb puts this point well.
6

" The images which

SIR nilLlP SIDNEY.

[cnAP.

114

Jic Leforn our feet (thou-h by some accounted tho only
natural) ar. least natural lur the high Sydnaean l-ve to ex-
press its fancies. Thoy may serve for the lovo of 1 ihullus,
or the dear autlior of the Schoolmistn.'^s ; for passions that
weep and whine in elc.ijics and pastoral l.alla.ls. I a.n sure
Milton (and Lamb nug-ht have added Shakespeare) never

iuv.-d at this rate."

The forms adopted bv Sidney in his Astrophcl and Stella
sonnets are various ; but none of them correspond exactly
to the Shakespearian type- four separate quatr U)s clinched
with a final couplet, lie adheres move closely to Italian
models, especially in his handling of the <,ctave ; although
we Iv . oui, .vvo specimens (Nos. 29, 94) of the true 1 c-
trarchan species in tho treatment of the sextet. Sidney
preferred to close the sta.iz. with a couplet. 1 he best and
most characteristic of his compositions are built in this
wav two quatrains upon a pair of rhymes, arranged as a,
h i a, a, 6, h, a ; followed by a quatrain c, c/, o, d, and a coup-
let e e The pauses frequently occur at the end of the
eichtU line, and again at the end of the eleventh,., that
th" closing couplet is not abruptly detached from the stnict-
ure of the sextet. It will be observed from the quotations
which follow that this, which T indicate as the most dis-
tinctively Sidneyan type, is by no means invanible. To
analyse each of the many schemes under which h, . onnets
can be arranged, would be unprofital le in a book which
does not pretend to deal technically with this form of m-
zi Yet I may auu that he often employs a ty}) i the
sextet, which i^ commoner in French than in Italian or
Engli. L poetry, with this rhvming order : c, c, d, e, e, d. 1
have i 'unted ts enty of this sort.

The first sonnet, which is compos. ' in lines of twelve
syllables, sets forth the argument :

les of twelve

VI.]

"ASTROl'IlEL ANI» STELLA."

115

" Loving ill truth, and fain in vcr«c my love to sliow,

That hhe, dear she.n.i-lit talio hou.c pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure n.iKli" uiae her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge i t pity win, and pity giaeo ohlnin ;
1 .sought fit woi to i)aint the blaekest face of woe,

Studving iiiveutions fine her wits to entertain.
Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence woul.l flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my suu-burnod brain.
But words came halting forth, wanimg invention'., stay;

Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame study's blows;
Another's feet still -.■emed but stranger's in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless m my throes,
Biting mv truant pen, beating myself for spite—

' Fool,' said my Muse to me, ' look in thy heart and u nte

This means that Sidney's love was sincere ; but that he
first souoht expression for it in phrases studied from fa-
mous models. He wished to please his lady, and to move
her pity. Uis efforts proved ineffectual, until the Muse
came and said: "Look in thy heart and write." Like
Dante, Si(i "y then declared liimself to be one :

" Che quando,
Amore spiia, noto; ed a qmd modo
Ch'ei detta dentro, vo signitieaudo."

Furff. 24. 52

' Love only reading unto me this art."

Astrophd and Stella, sonnet 28.

The 3d, 6th, 15th, and 28th sonnets return to the same
point. He takes poets to task, who

' With strange similes enrich each line.
Of herbs or beasts w uich Ind or Afric hold "

(No. 3.)

He describes how

"Some one his song in Jove, and Jove's strange tales attires.
Bordered with bulls and swans, powdered wifh golden ram;

ii-

' i.

I w

nil

^^^. SIR rillLIP SIDNEY.

Another, liumblcr wit, to shcpliPi.rs pipe letires,
Yet hiJing royal blood full oft in runil vein."

ilu iuvcighs against

" You that do seiuch for <:very purling spring

Wliich from the ribs of old Parnassus (lows;

And every Hower, not sweet perhaps, whieh grows
Near thereabouts, into yoiir poesy wrMig ;
Ye that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows ;

You that poor Petrarch's long deceased woe8,
With ncu horn sighs, and denizened wits do sing."

lie girds no less against

" You that with allegory's curious frame

Of other's children changelings use to make."

I CHAP.

(No. 6.)

(No. 16.)

(No. 28.)

All these are on the wrong tack. Stella is sufficient source
of inspiration for him, for them, for everv singer. Urn
theoretical position does not, however, prevent him from
fallinc^ into a vorv morass of conceits, of which we have an
early "example in the 9th sonnet. Marino could scarcely
have executed variations more elaborate upon the smgle
theme :

" Queen Virtue's Court, which some call Stella's face."

I mav here state that I mean to omit those passages in As-
tropiicl and Stella which strike mo as merely artificial. I
want if po-ssible, to introduce readers to what is perennially
and iiumanly valuable in the poetical record of S,r riulip
Sidney's romance. More than enough will remain of emo-
tion simplv expressed, of deep thought pithily presented, to
fill a longJr chapter than I can dedicate to his book of the
heart.

UI I

I CHAP.

(No. 6.)

VI.)

••ASTUOl'lIEL AND STELLA."

117

owa

(No. 15.)

(No. 28.)

icicnt source
inger. This
it liim from
b we have an
)iild scarcely
)!! the single

,'s face."

issages in As-
r artificial. I
is perennially
of Sir Philip
nii.iin of erao-
f presented, to
is book of the

The 2d sonnet describes the growth of Sidney's passion.
Love, he says, neither smote him at first sight, nor aimed an
upward shaft to pierce his heart on the descent.' Long
familiarity made him appreciate Stella. Liking deepened
into love. Yet at the first he neglected to make his love
known. Now, too late, he finds him-^elf hopelessly enslaved
when the love for a married woman can yield only torment.

" Not lit fust sif^lit, mtr witli a dribbfjd sliot,

Love gave the wound, w hicli, while I breutlie will bleed ;

Jlul known worth did in mine of lime proceed,
Till by degrees il had full coniiue.st got.
I saw and liki'd ; I liked, but iovbd not ;

1 loved, but Htraight diil not wluit Love decreed :

At length to Love's decrees I forced agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.

Now even tliat footstep of lost liberty
la gone ; and now, like slave born Muscovite,

I call it praise to suffer tyranny ;
And now employ the remnant of my wit

To make myself believe that all is well,

While with a feeling skill I paint my hell."

In the 4th and nth sonnets two themes are suggested,
which, later on, receive fuller development. The first is the
contention between love and virtue ; the second is the Pla-
tonic concept i'Ui of beauty a.s a visible image of virtue.
The latter of these motives is thus tersely set forth in son-
net 25:

" The wisest scholar of the wight most wise

By Phoebus' doom, with sugare'd sentence says

' This, at least, is how I suppcwo wc ought to interpret the word
dribbed. In Elizabethan English thi.s seems to have been technically
equivalent to what in archery is now called elevating as opposed tu
shooting point blank.

(

118 SIR rUlLlP SIDNEY. [cuap.

Tliat virtue, if it once met with our eyes,

Stnuige flamea of love it in our souls would raise."

Here, at the commencement of the series, Sidney rather
plays with the idea than dwells npon it:

"True, tliat true beauty virtue is indeeil,

Wlioi'eof this beauty can be but a shade,
Wliicli cluiueuts with mortal mixture breed.

True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,
And should in .soul up to our country move;
True, and yet true— that I must Stella love." (No. 5.)

In the 10th sonnet he opens a dispute with Reason, which
also is continued at intervals throughout the series :

" I rather wished thee climb the Muses' hill.
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heaven's cour.se or heaven's inside to see ;
Why should'st thou toil our thorny soil to till?

Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be;
Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave Love to V»'ill."

(No. 10.)

The next explains how Cupid lias taken possession of
Stella's person ; only the fool has neglected to creep into
her heart. The li^th expands this theme, and concludes
thus :

"Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powers

Having got up a breach by fighting well.
Cry ' Victory ! this fan- day all is ours !'

no ; her heart ;s such a citadel.
So fortified with wit, stored with disdain,
That to win it is all the skill and pain." (No. 12.)

At this point, then, of Astrophel's love-diary, Stella still
held her heart inviolate, like an acropolis which falls not
with the falling of the outworks. lu the 14th he replies

■Ill, iminn iliiill[il|-» rHfTii|»nry

VI. J

' ASTRO i'lIEL AND STELLA.

119

to a friend who expostulates because he yields to the sinful
desire for a married woman :

"If tliat be sin which doth the manners frame,

Well staved with trutli in word and faith of deed.

Ready of wit and fearing nauglit but shame

If that be sin wliicli in fixed liearts dotli breed
A loatliing of all loose uncha.stity ;
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be."

(No. 14.)

The IGth has one
with love :

fine line. At first Sidney had trifled

" But while I thus with this young lion played,"

1 fell, he says, a victim to Stella's eyes. The 18th bewails
his misemployed manhood, somewhat in Shakespeare's
vein :

" My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys ;
My wit doth strive these passions to defend,
Which, for reward, spoil it with vain annoys." (No. 18.)

The 21st takes up the same theme, and combines it with
that of the 14th:

"Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics, blame
My young mind marred."

It is clear that Stella's love was beginning to weigh
heavily upon his soul. Friends observed an alteration in
him, and warned him against the indulgence of anything
so ruinous as this passion for a woman who belonged to
another. As yet their admonitions could be entorlained
an'l playtuily put by. Sidney did not feel himself irrevo-
cably engaged. He still trifled with love as a pleasant epi-
sode in life, a new and radiant experience. At this point
two well-composed sonn<^ts occur, which show how he bo-

til

,i <

r ti

120

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

haved before tlio world's eyes with the burden of his nas-
cent love upon his heart :

"The curious wits, seeing dull peusiveness

Bearing itself in my long-settled eyes,

Whence those same fumes of mehuieholy rise,
With idle pains and missing aim do guess.
Some, that know how my spring I did address,

Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies ;

Others, because the prince of service tries,
Think that I think state errors to redress.
But harder judges judge ambition's rage.

Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place,
Uolds n^y young brain caplived in golden cage.

fools, or over-wise ! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart." (No. 23.)

" Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words or answers (juite awry
To them that would make speech of speech arise;
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
That poison foul of l)ubbling pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, tiiat only I
Fawn on myself and others do despise.
Yet |)ride, I think, doth net my soul possess,

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass;
But one worse fault, ambition, I confess,

That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place ^
Bends all his powers— even unto Stella's grace."

(No. 27.)

Now, too, begin the scries cf plays upon the name Rich,
and invectives against Stella's husband. It seems certain
that Lord Kich was not worthy of his wife. Sidney had
an unbounded contempt for him. He calls him "rich
fool " and " lout," and describes Stella's bondage to him as

[chap.
' his nas-

"ASTROPIIEL AND STELLA."

121

es;

(No. 23.)

(No. 27.)

name llicli,
ems certain
Sidney had

him

re ti» lam as

"a foul yoke." Yot this disdain, however rightly felt,
ought not to have found vent in such sonnets as Nos. 24
and 78. The latter degenerates into absolute offensiveness,
when, after describing t\\Q faux jaloux under a transparent
allegory, he winds up wi''\ the question:

" Is it not evil that sucli ii devil wants horns ?"

The first section of Astrophcl and Stella closes with
sonnet 30. Thus far Sidney has been engaged with his
poetical exordium. Thus far his love has been an absorb-
ing pastime rather than the business of his life. The 31st
sonnet preludes, with splendid melaucholy, to a new and
deeper phase of passion :

" With how siul steps, moon, thou dimb'st the skie.s 1

How silently, and with how wan a lace!

What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ?
Sure, if that long-with-love-accptainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;

I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace *

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Tlien, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be ?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love dot) ^ossess ?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness y"

Sidney's thoughts, throughout these poems, were often
with the night; far oftener than Petrarch's or than Shake-
speare's. In the course of our analysis, we shall cull many
a meditation belonging to the hours before the dawn, and
many a pregnant piece uf midnight imagery. What can
be more quaintly accurate in its condensed metaphors than
the following personification of dreams? —
(!* I

3 I

122

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

" Morpheus, the lively son of deadly sleep,
Witness of life to them tluit liviiiR die,
A prophet oft, nn<l oft ai. liislovy,^^
A poet eke, as humours fly or creep."

[chap.

(No. 32.)

In the 33d sonnet nvc find tlic first hint that Stella
might have reciprocated Astrophel's love :

" I niii^ht, unhappy word, woe me, I might !

And then would not, or could not, seo my bliss :
Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night,

I fmd how hctiVLM.ly day, wretch, I iiid nnss.
Heart, rend thyself ; thou dost thyself but right !

No lovely Paris made thy Helen his ;
No force, no fraud roblicd thee of thy delight,

Nor fortune of thy fortune author is !
But to myself myself did give the blow.

While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me.
That I respects for both our sakes must show :

And vet could not, by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near: punished eycs,^
That I had been more foolish or more wise!"

(No. 33.)

This sonnet has f.enerally been taken to refer to Sidney's
indolence before the i>erio<l of SteUa's tnarriage; m ^vhlch
case it expands the line of No. 2 :

"I loved, but straight did not what Love decrees."

It may, however, have been written t.pon the occasion of
some favourable chance whirl, he noolected to seize; and
the master phrase of the whole co.nposition, '' respects for
both our sakos," rather j.oints to this interpretation. \N c
do not know enough of the obstacles to Sidney s jnatch
with Penelope Devercux to be .piite sure whether such re-
spects" existed while she was at liberty.

T\mo is nothing now left for him but to vent Ins regrets

T^\

[chap.

(No. 32.)
jat Stella

19:

(No. 33.)

• to Sidney's
e; in which

CCS."

occasion of
o seize; and
' respects for
tation. We
Iney's match
ler such " ve-
nt hi.s regrets

VI.]

■ ASTIlOrilPU. AND STELLA.

128

and vain longings in words. But what are empty words,
what eonsohition can they bring?

" Ami, all, what Iiopc tliat liope .sliould once see day,
Whore Cupid is sworn page to cliastity?" (No. 35.)

Each day Stella makes new inroads upon the fortress of

his soul.

" Through my loiig-battcred eyes

Whole armies or thy beauties entered in :

And there long since, love, thy lieutenant lies." (No. 36.)

SteUa can weep over talcs of unhappy lovers she has never
known. Perhaps if she could think Ins case a fable, she
might learn to pity him :

" Then think, my dear, that you hi me do read
Of lover's ruin -some thrice-sad tragedy.
I am not I ; pity the tale of me !"

(No. 45.)

He entreats her not to shun his presence or withdraw the
heaven's light of her eyes :

"Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me,
Wiiere virtue is made strong by beauty's might!"

Nay, let her gaze upon him, though that splendour should
wither up his life:

" A kind of grace it is to kill with speed." (No. 48.)

He prays to her, as to n deity raised high above the stress
and tempest of his vigilant d

aiscd
esires;

"Alas, if from the iieiglit of virtue's throne

Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought
U|)on a wretch tliat long thy grace hatii sought,
Weigh then how 1 l)y thee an> overthrown

(No. 40.)

It is here, too, that the pathetic outcry, " my mind, now
cf the basest," now (that is) of the lowest and most luuu-

i I

lUii

iti '

124

Sill rillLlP SIDNEY.

[chap.

bled, is forced from him. Then, returning to the theme
of Stella's uncouqueniblc virtue, he calls her eyes

" The schools where Venus hath learned chastity." (No. 42.)

From the midst of this group shine forth, like stars, two
sonnets of pure but of very different lustre :

" Come, sleep ! sleep, the certain Ur.ot of peace.
The baiting-place of wit, tlie liaiin of woe.
The poor man's wualtli, tlie prisono/s release,

Tir indifferent judK*-' Ij^'t^veen the Iiigh luid low !
With shield of proof shield me from out the press

Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw ;
make in me tliose civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf of ndse and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head ;

And if these things, as being Uiine in right.
Move not thy heavy grace, thou siialt in me,
Livelier tliun elsewhere, Stella's image see." (No. 39.)

" Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance

Guided so well that I obtained the prize.

Both by the judgment of the English eyes

And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,

Town-folks my strength ; a daintier judge ai)plies

His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ;

Some lucky wits impute it Imt to chance ;

Others, because of both sides I do take

My blood from them uii<. did excel in this,

Tliink nature me a man-at -aruis did make.

How far tliey shot awry ! the true cause is,

Stella lookeil on, and from her heavenly face

Sent forth the bi'ams whicli made so fair my race."

(No. 41.)

[chap.
he theme

(No. 42.)
stars, two

VI.J

" ASTKOPHEL AND STELLA."

125

(No. 39.)

ilics
li rise ;

CO.'

(No. 41.)

Sometimes he feels convinced that this passion will be his
niin, and strives, but strives in vain as yet, against it:

"Virtue, awake ! Beauty but beauty is;

I may, I must, I can, I will, I do
Leave following that whieli it is gain to miss.

Let her go ! Soft, but here she comes ! Go to.

Unkind, I love you not ! me, that eye

Doth make my heart to give my tongue the lie !"

(No. 47.)

Sometimes he draws strcngtli from the same passion; at
another time the sight of Stella well-nigh unnerves his
trained bridle-hand, and suspends his lance in rest. This
from the tilting-gronnd is worth preserving :

" In martial sports I had my cunning tried,

And yet to break more staves did me address.
While with the people's shouts, I must confess,

Youth, luck, and praise even filled my veins with pride;

When Cupid, having me, his shive. descried
In Mars's livery prancing in the press,
' What now, Sir Fool !' said he : I would no less :

' Look here, I siiy !' I looked, and Stella spied,

Who hard by made a window !-end fortii light.

My heart tlien quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes ;

One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight,

Nor trumpet's sound I lieard nor friendly cries :

My foe came on, and beat the air for me.

Till that her blush taught me my shame to see."

(No. 53.)

The quaint author of the Life and JJeath of Sir Philip
^iV/rtey, prert.K'!d to the J raa/m, relates how: "many no-
bles of the lomalo se.v, venturing as far as modesty would
permit, to si-vhTv their affections unto him; Sir Philip
will not read ilic claractors of their love, though obvious
to every eye." '* lis passage finds illustration in the next
sonnet :

126

!■';■

i 1 ■"

'.'til

1 ' ■ ■^^*^''

•' 1

' 1

Sill rillLli' SIDNEY.

" Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourisli spi'cial locks of vo\v5d hair,

Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ;

Tlu! courtly nymphs, iiccpiainted with the moan
Of them which in their lips love's standard hoar,
' What he !' say they of me: ' now I dare swear

He cani\ot love ; no, no, let him alone !'

And tiiink so still, so Stella know my mind !
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art:

But you, fair maids, at length this trui; shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart:

Diunb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;

They love indeed who (juake to say they love."

[chap.

(No. 64.)

Up to this point Stella has been Sidney's saint, the
adored object, remote us a star from his heart's sphere.
Now at last she confesses that she loves him. But her
love is of pure and sisterly temper; and she mingles its
avowal with noble coimsels, little to his inclination.

" Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine

With rage of love, I called my love unkind;
She in whose eyes love, tliough uufelt, doth shine,

Sweet said that 1 true love in her should find.
I joyed ; but straight thus watered was my wine:

Tliat love she did, but loved a love not blind ;
Wliieli would not let me, whom she loved, decline

From nobler course, fit for my Ijirth and mind ;
And theiefore by her love's autliority
Willc<l nie these tempests of viiiu love to fiy.

And anchor fast myself on virtue's shore.

Alas, if this the only metal be

Of love new-coincd to lu'lp my beggary,

Dear, love me not, that you may love mo more !"

(No. 62.)

His heated senses rebel against her admonitions ;

[chap.

(No. 54.)

siiint, the

,'s sphere.

But her

iiinfvlcs its

oil.

ne,
I.

iiie
tiii ;

)re!

(No. 62.)

V,.] "ASTROPUEL AND STELLA."

" No more, my deiir, no more these counsels try ;

give my passions leave to run their lace;

Let fortune lay on me her worst (iisgrace ;
Let folk o'erehargeil with brain against mc cry ;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye ;

Let mo no steps but of lost labour trace ;

Let all the earth with scorn recount my case;
But do not will mo from my love to fly !"

127

(No. 64.)

Then lu seeks rehef in trifles, riaylng upon his own

coat of arms (" or, :i pheon azure "), he tells Love how he

nursed iiini in liis bosom, and how they both must surely

be of the same lineage :

" For when, naked boy, thou couldst no harbour find
In this old world, grown now so too-too wise,

I lodged thee in my heart, and being blind
By nature born, I gave to thee mine eyes . . .

Yet let this thought thy tigrish courage pass,
That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee ;

Since in thine arms, if learned fame truth hath .iproad,

Thou bear'st the arrow, I the arrow head."

No. 65.)

Stella continues to repress his ardour :

" I cannot brag of word, much less of deed . . .
Desire still on stilts of fear doth go."

Yet once she blushed when their eyes met; and her blush
" iruiltv seemed of love." Therefore he expostulates with
lior upon her cruelty :

"Stella, the only planet of my light,

Light of my life, and life of my desire,

Chief good whereto my hope doth only aspire,
World of my wealth, and heaven of my delight ;
Why dost thou spend the treasin-es of thy sprite,

Witli voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre.

Seeking to quench in me the noble fire
Fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight ?" (No. 68.)

(No. 66.)

;

',M\

■^li

' if

* 111

i . .

II;

; I ■■!

128

SIR rillUP SIDNKV.

[CIIAF.

Siidclenlv, to close this contention, wo find him t tlie

hoij,^lit of liis felicity. Stella hiw relented, yieldinjr hun

thc"kingdoin of her hcuif, but adding the condit'on that
he must love, as she docs, virtuously :

" joy too liiL'li for my low style to show !
O blitJH (it lor a nobler state llinn inc!
Envy, put out lliine eyes, iest :ltoii do see
Wlmt oceans of deliglit in me do iKnv !
My friend, tliiit oft saw tlirouf-li all masks my woe,
Come, come, and let mo pom my^elf on tlife :
Gone is the winter of my misery ;
My spriiif,' appears; see what heic doth f;row !
For Stella luith, with words where faith doth shine,

Of her iiigh heart given me the monarchy;
I, I, I, may say that she is mii !

And thoui;h she };ive but thus euii'lUidnally,
This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take,
No kings be crowned but they some covenants make."

(N'o. 69.)

Now, tlie stanzas wliich have so lon^,' eased his sadness,
shiill be turned to joy :

" Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy ;
Trebles sing high, .so well as basi^es deep ;
Grief but Love's winter-livery is; the boy

Hath cheeks to smile, so well as eyes to weep."

And yet, with the same breath, he says:

" Wise silence is best music unto bliss." (No. VO.)

In the next sonnet he .shows that Stella's virtuous condi-
tions .h) not satisfy. True it is that whoso looks upon
her face,

" There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason. . . . •

But, ah, desire still cries : Give me some food!"

(N'o. 71.)

[CIUP

t tlio
; liiin
dition tliat

iin

10,

iiftkc."

(No. <)0.)

his sadness,

v'l

" ASTROPIIEL ANP STELLA."

129

F.irewtil tlniii to desire:

•' Dcsiie, llion<;h tliou my oltl companion a -t,
And oft so clings to my \)u ■• love that, I
One from the other scarcely ■ " "Icscry,
While each doth blow the lire o art;

' from thy fellowship I n miit part."

(No. 7 "J.)

it is cliaractoristic of the fluctuations b^th of fcelinir and
circumstance, so minutely followed in Astrophcl's love-
diary, that, just nt this moment, when he has resolved to
part with desire, ho breaks out into this juMlant song upon
the stolen kiss:

" Have I ciiught my heavenly jewel,
Teaching sleep mosi ( Av to be !
Now will Ito:^ ' - tliat she.
When she wak. too cruel.

" Since sweet sleej r eyes hath charmed,
The two only tiurts of Love,
Now will I with that boy prove
Some play while he U ilisarmbd.

(No. 70.)

•tuous condi-
) looks upon

" llcr tongne, waking, still refuseth,
(Jiving frankly niggard no:
Now will I atleni])'. lo know
What no her tongue, sleeping, useth.

" See the hand that, waking, guaideth,
Sleeping, grants a free resort :
Now will 1 invade th' ort ;
Cowards Love vith loss rew.irdeth.

!" (\o. 71.)

" But, fool, think of the danger
Of her high and just disdain !
Now wiii 1, alas, refrain:
Love fears nothhig else but ange.-

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130

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

Yet those lips, so sweetly swelling,
Do invite a stealing kis.i :
Now will I but venture this ;

Who will read, must first learn spelling.

[CUAP.

" Oh, sweet kiss ! but ah, she's waking;
Lowering beauty chastens me :
Now will I for fear hence flee ;
Fool, more fool, for no mere taking !"

Seveival pages are occupied with meditations on this lucky
kiss. The poet's thoughts turn to alternate ecstasy and
wantonness.

" I never drank of Aganippe's well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell ;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit !

" How falls it then that with so smooth an case

My thoughts I speak ; and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse test wits doth please ?"

The answer of course is :

"Thy lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.

(No. 74.)

In this mood we find him praising Edward IV., who risked
his kingdom for Lady Elizabeth Grey.

• " Of all the kings that ever here did reign,

Edward, named fourth, as "rst in praij^e I name;
Not for his fair outride, nor well-lined brain,

Although less gifts imp feathers oft on fame :
Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame

His sire's revenge, joined with a kingdom's gain;
And gained by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame

That balance weighed what sword did late obtain ;

[CIIAP.

TI.]

"ASTROI'HEL AND STELLA."

181

n this lucky
ecstasy and

I flow

ic?"

(No. 74.)
., who risked

Nor that he made the flower-de-luce so 'fraid,
Tliougli strongly hedged of bloody lions' paws,

Tlint witty Lewis to him a tribute paid:

Not tliis, not that, nor any such small cause ;

13iit only for tliis worthy knight durst prove
To lose his crown rather than fail his love."

(No. 15.)

me:

me
btain :

A sonnet on the open road, in a vein of conceits worthy of
rhilostratus, closes the group inspired by Stella's kiss :

" High way, since you my ciiicf Parnassus be.
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweot.
Tempers her words to trampling horse's feet

More oft than to a chamber-melody :

Now blessed you bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left shall meet.
My Muse and I must you of duty greet

With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.

Be you still fair, honoured by public heed ;
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot;

Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed ;
And that you know I envy you no lot

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss —

Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss." (No. 84.)

And now a change comes over the spirit of Sidney's
dream. It is introduced, as the episode of the len kiss
was, by a song. We do not know on what occasion he
may have found himself alone with Stella at night, when
her husband's jealousy was sleeping, the house closed, and
her mother in bed. But the lyric refers, I think, clearly
to some real incident — perhaps at Leicester House :

" Only joy, now here you are
Fit to hear and ease my care,
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward for sharpest pain ;
Take me to thee and thee to me :—
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

11 f

l^>*

i, '

' i

' \

i!
t

■ 1,

' 1 i
1.

132 SIR rillLIP SIDNEY.

" Nij^lit, liath closet! all in her cloak,
Twiiildliig stars love-thoughts provoko ;
Danger hence, good care doth keep ;
Jealousy himself doth sleep :
Take me to tliee and thee to me : —
' No, 1)0, no, no, my deav, let be !'

" Better place no wit can find
Cupid's knot to loose or bind ;
These sweet flowers, our fine bed, too
Us ill their best langnnge woo :
Take me to thee and thee to me : —
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

"Thia small light tlie moon bestows,
Serves thy beams but to disclose ;
So to raise my hap more high,
Fear not else ; none can us spy :
Take me to thee and thee to 7ne : —
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

" That you heard was but a mouse ;
Dumb sleep holdeth all ti e house ;
Yet asleep, metliinks they say.
Young fools, take time while you may:
Take me to thto and thee to me : —
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

" Niggard time threats, if wo miss
Tills large offer of our bliss,
Lo.ig stay ere he grant the same :
Sweet then, wh'' eh thing dotii frame,
Take me to tl t thee to me : —

' No, no, no, no, iny dear, let be !'

" Your fail' inotiier is a-bed,
Candles out and curtains spread ;
She thinks you do letters write:
Write, but first let me endite :

fciIAP.

fCHAP.

▼I.] •'ASTROPIIEL AND STELLA." 183

Take me to tlieo and tliec to me :■—
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

" Sweet, alas ! why strive you thus ?
Concord better litteth us ;
Leave to Mars the strife of hands ;
Your power in your beauty stands :
Take nie to thee and thee to nie: —
' No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !'

" Woo to me ! and do you swear
Me to hate ? but I forbear :
Cursed be my destinies all,

Tiiat brought me so high to fall !
Soon with my death I'll please thee :—
" No, no, no, no, my dear, let be !' "

It will be noticed that to all liis pleadings, passionate or
playful, and (it must b.- admitted) of very questionable
morality, she returns a steadfast No ! This accounts for
the altered tone of the next soi net. In the 85th he had
indulged golden, triumpliant visions, and iiad bade his
heart be moderate in the fruition of its bliss. Now he
exclaims :

"Alas ! whence came this change of looks ? If I
Have changed desert, let mine own conscience be
A still-felt plague to self-condemning me ;
Let woe gripe on n)y heart, shame load mine eye !''

(No. 80.)

He has pressed his suit too far, and Stella begins to
draw back from their common danger. Five sonos fol-
low in quick succession, one of which prepares us for the
denouement of the love-drama : .

" In a grove most rich of shade.
Where birds wanton music made,

134

> ' U\

1 V

SIR rillLIP SIDNEY. [chap.

May, then young, liis pied weeds showing,
New-pevfumed with flowers fiesh growing:

" Astropliel witli Stella sweet
Did for mutual comfort meet ;
Both witliiii tliemsolvcs oppressed,
But each in the oilier blessed.

" Him great harms had taught much care,
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare ;
But her sight his coves did Ijiinish,
In his sight her yoke did vanish.

"Wept tiiey had, alas, the while ;
But now tears themselves did smile,
While their eyes, by Love directed.
Interchangeably reflected."

For a time the lovers sat thus in silence, sighing and
gazing, until Love himself broke out into a passionate
apostrophe from the lips of Astrophcl :

" Grant, grant ! but speech, alas,
Fails me, fearing on to pass :
Grant, me ! what am I saying ?
But no fault there is in praying.

" Grant, dear, on knees I pray
(Knees on ground he then did stay)
That not I, but since I love you,
Time and place for rne may move you.

" Never season was more fit ;
Never room more apt for it ;
Smiling air allows my reason ;
These birds sing, ' Now use the season.'

" This small wind, which so sweet is.
See how it the leaves doth kiss ;

..! i,..

[chap.

'«:

VI.] "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA." 186

Each tree in his best attiring,
Sense of love to love inspiring.

"Love makes earth the water drink,
Love to oartii makes water sink ;
And if dumb tilings be so witty,
Sliall a heavenly grace want pity ?"

To this and to yet ipore urgent wooing- Stella replies in
stanzas which are sweetly dignified, breathing the love she
felt, but dutifully repressed.

" Astrophel, said she, my love,
Cease in these effects to prove ;
Now be still, yet still believe me,
Thy grief more than death would grieve me.

;, sighing and
a passionate

" If that any thought in me
Can taste comfort but of thee,
Let me, fed with liellish anguish,
Joyless, hojieless, endless languish.

"If those eyes you praised be
Half so dear as you to me,
Let me home return stark blinded
Of those eyes, and blinder minded ;

"If to secret of my heart
I do a.iy wish impart
Wliere thou art not foremost placed,
Be both wish and I defaced.

1.'

"If more may be said, I say
AH my bliss in thee I lay ;
If thou love, my love, content thee,
For all love, all faith is meant tiiee.

"Trust me, while I thee deny,
In myself the smart 1 try;

.'if )

m|I

13G

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

Tvrant honour doth thus use tlioe,
Slulhi's self iiii''ht not icCuso thee.

[chap.

" Thoiofore, (ieur, t' 3 no more move,
Lei<t, thoiii;li I not leave thy love,
Which too deep in me is friini6d,
I should blush when thou ari nambd.

' HI

"Tlierewithal away she went,
Leaviiij; him to [so?] passion rent
With what she had done and spoken,
That therewith mv song '.s broken."

Tlie next song records Astropliel's lianl necessity of part-
ino; from Stella. But why —

" Wiiy, alas, doth she thus swear
That siie lovcth mo so dearly ?"

The o-roiip of sonnets which those lyrics introduce lead
up to the iiiial rupture, not indeed of heart and will, but
of imposed necessity, which separates the lovers. Stella
throuo'hout plays a part which compels our admiration,
and Astrophel brink's himself at lenoth to obedience. The
situation has become unbearable to her. She loves, and,
what is more, she has confessed her love. But, at any
price, for her own sake, for his sake, for honour, for duty,
for love itself, she must free them both from the enchant-
ment which is closing round them. Thereforo the path
which hitherto has been ascending through fair meadows
to the height of rapture, now descends upon the other side.
It is for Sidney a long road of sighs and tears, rebellions
and heart-aches, a veritable via dolorosa, ending, however,
in conquest over self and tranquillity of conscience, For,
as he sang in happier moments:

1^'

[chap.

;ssity of part-

itrodnce lead
and will, but
)vors. Stella
r adiuiration,
diencc. The
lie loves, and,

But, at any
our, for duty,

the cncliant-
'oro the path
fair meadows
he other side,
ars, rebellions
iing, however,
5cience. For,

n.] "ASTROPIIEL AND STELLA." 187

"For who indeed iiifelt affection bears,

So captives to liia saint both soul and sense,
TIkU, wiiolly lieis, all selfncss he forbears;

Then his desires lie learns, his life's course thence."

(No. 61.)

In the hour of tiieir parting Stella betrays her own emo-
tion :

" Alas, I found that she witii me did smart ;
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear." (No. 87.)

After this follow five pieces written in absence :

" Tush, absence ! while thy mists eclipse that light.
My orphan sense fiics to the inward siglit,
Where memory sets forth the beams of love." (No. 88.)

"Each day seems long, and longs for long-stayed night ;
The night, as tedious, woos tlie approacli of day :
Tired witli the dusty toils of busy day,
Languislied with horrors of the silent niglit,
Suirering tlie evils botii of day and night,

While no night is more darlc than is my day,
Nor no d:iy hath less quiet than my uiglit."

(No. 89.)
•uiiber-coloured hair, nulk-

He gazes on other beauties
white hands, rosy cheeks, lips sweeter and rcddei than the
rose.

" They please, I do confess, they please mine eyes ;
But why? because of you tiiey models be,
Models, such be wood-globes of glistering skies."

A friend speaks to him of Stella:

(No. 91.)

" You say, forsooth, you left her well of lute ; —

God, think you that satisfies my ca *

1 would know whether she did sit or wah'- ;

How clothed, how waited on; sighed she, or smiled;
Whereof, with whom, how often did slie talk ;

With wiiat pastimes Time's journey she beguiled ;
1 K

188

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[CHAP.

ii» :i"

If hor lips deigned to sweeten my poor name.—

Say all ; and all well said, still say the same."

•' (No. 92.)

Interpolated in this <-toiii) is n more than usually Ihicnt
sonnet, in which Sidney disclaims all right to call himself
a poet :

" Stelln, think not that I by verse seek fame,

Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ;

Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history:
If thou praise not, all otlior praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I as to frame

A nest for my younj; praise ialmirel-trce;

In truth I swear I wish not there siiould be
Graved iu my cpitajth a poet's name.
Nor, if I would, could I just title make

That any laud thereof to me should f^row.
Without my ))lumcs from other win^s I take;

For nothing from my wit or will doth How,

Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,

And love doth hold my hand and makes me write."

(Xo. 00.)

The sonnets in absence arc closed by a song, which, as
usual, introduces a new motive. It begins " O dear life,"
and indulges a far too audacious retrospect over the past
happiness of a lover. If, as seems possible from an allu-
sion in No. 84, he was indiscreet enough to communicate
his poems to friends, this lyric may have roused the jeal-
ousy of Stella's husband and exposed her to hard treat-
ment or roi)roaches. At any rate, something he had said
or done caused her pain, and he breaks out into incoherent
sclf-reviiiiigs :

" fate, fault, curse, child of my bliss ! . . .
Tlirou^h me, wretch me, even Stella vexed is . . .
I have (live I, and know this V) harmed thee . . .
I ery thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed," (No. 93.)

[CHAP.

(No. 92.)

iiivlly lliient
.•all himself

ICC ;

:c:

(No. 90.)

ig, wliicli, as
) dear life,"
ver the past
•om an allii-
oinniunicate
seel the jeal-
hard treat-
he had said
incoherent

(No. 93.)

VI.J

"ASTKOrilKL ANP STELLA."

18»

Should any one doubt the sincerity of accent hero, let
liini peruse the ne.xt seven soniiet.s, wliich are written in se-
quence upon the same theme.

"Grief, find tlio word.-* ; for thou hast made my brahi
So dark witli misty vapours wliioli arise
From out thy heavy mould, that iTibcnt eyes
Can scarce discern the sliapc of mine own pain." (Xo. 91.)

" Yet sighs, dear sighs, indeed true friends you arc,
That do not leave your left friend at the worst ;
But, as you with my breast I oft have nursed,
Ho, grateful now, you wait upon my care.

"Nay, Sorrow comes witli sucii main rage that ho
Kills his own children, tears, finding that they
By Love were made apt t<j consort with me:
Only, true sighs, you do not go away." (No. 95.)

The night is heavier, more irksome to him ; and yet he
finds in it the parallel of his own case:

" Poor Night in love with Pha>bus' light.
And endlessly despairing of liis grace." (Xo. 97.)

The bed becomes a place of torment:

" While the black horrors of the silent night
Paint woe's black face so lively to iny siglit,
That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line." (No. 98.)

Only at dawn can he find ease in slumber. The sonnet,
in whicli tliis motive is developed, illustrates Sidney's meth-
od of veiling definite and simple tlioiiglits in abstruse and
yet exact phrases. We feel impelled to say that there is
somethinr; Shakespearean in the style. But we must re-
member thai Shakespeare's sonnets were at this time locked
up within his brain, as the flower is in the bud.

It)
'i

140

SIR I'll I Ml' SIDNKY.

[CUAP.

" Wliiii I'lir-spiiit nifilit |)ei:^.. idt'S fiicli nioitiil eye
To whom iKir ait nor niitiire jjjninU'lh li^lit,
To li»y his thi'u niiuk-wiinthi}; (*hat'trt of »i>;ht
("1():JC(1 with tlieir (|uiv('rs in sloop's armotiry ;
Willi windows oi)e liii'ii most my iniiid dotii lie
Viewiii}^ the wliape of darkness, and <U,'lij,'ht
Takes in that sad line, whieh with the inward ni<;ht
or his mazed powers keeps perfeet harmony:
IJnt when birds eliarm, and tliat sweet air wliieh is

Morn's messenger with rose-enamelled ski*
Calls eaeh wight to salute llii> flower of iiliss ;
. In tomb of lids then l)uried are mine eyes,
Toreed i)y their lord who is ash.imed to find
Sueh light in sense with sneh a darkened mind." (No. 90.)

Two sonnets upon Stella's illness (to wliieli I should be in-
clined to add tlie four upon this topic printed in Constable's
DUuin) may be omitted. But I cannot refrain from ijuot-
ing the last sonij. It is in the form of a dialogue at night
beneath Stella's window. Though apparently together at
the Court, he had received express commands from her to
abstain from her society; tlie reason of which can perhaps
be found in No. 104. This sonnet shows that " envious
wite"were commenting upon their intimacy ; and Sidney
had compromised lier by wearing stars upon his armour.
Anvhow he is now reduced to roaming the streets in dark-
ness, hoping to obtain a glimpse of his beloved.

" ' Who is it that this dark night
Underneatli my window plaineth ?'
It is one who from thy siglit
Heing, ah, exiled disdaineth
Every other vulgar liglit.

" ' Why, alas, and are you he ?

Be not yet those f aneies ehangbd ?'
Dear, when you findehange in ine,

[CUAP.

I." (No. 90.)

loiild be in-

Constablo's

from qnot-

>'uc at niglit

togotlier at

from her to

can porliaps

lat " envious

and Sidney

his arinour.

}cts in dark-

▼l] "ASTROPIIEL and STELLA."

Though from mc you l)c C9tiung5il,
Let my change to ruin be.

" ' Well, in absence tliif. will die ;
Lciivo to see, and leave to wonder.'
Absence sure will bclp, if I
Can learn liow niyriolf to sunder
Fi'oni what in my heart doth lie.

" ' But time will these thoughts n-tnove ;
Time doth work what no man knoweth."
Time dotli as the subject prove ;
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle-dove.

" ' What if ye new beauties see ;
Will not they stir new affection ?'
I will think they pictures be;
Image like of saints' perfection,
Poorly counterfeiting thee.

" ' But your reason's purest light

Bids you leave sueli minds to nourish.'
Dear, do reason no such spite !
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.

" ' But the wrongs Love bears will niak?
Love at length leave undertaking.'
No I the more fools it doth shake,
In a ground of so 'inn making
Deeper still they drive the stake.

'■' ' Peace, I think that some give ear ;
Come no more lest I get auger !'
Bliss, I will uiy bliss forbear.
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger;
But mv soul shall harbour there.

-I

f i i

i » ■-'

)

S >

t 1

\
'

i '■

!■

i^i

i 1

142 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. [chap,

" ' Well, begone ; l(ej^onc, I say ;

Lest tliat Ar^^urt' eyes perceive you !'
unjust Is fortune's sway,
Wliiili eiMi nuvke me tlius to leave you ;
And from lout^ to run away !"

A characteristic but rather enigmatical sonnet follows
this lyric. It is another night scene. Sidney, watching
from his window, just misses the sight of Stella as her car-
riage hurries by :

" Cursed be tlie page from whom the bad torch full ;
Cursed be the night which did your strife resist;
Cursed be tiie coachman that did drive so fast." (Xo. 105.)

Then Astrophel and Stella closes abruptly, with those
disconnected sonnets, in one of which the word " despair "
occurring justifies Nash's definition of " the epilogue, De-
spair":

"But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soul flutters to thee Ids nest,
Most rude Despair, my daily unbi<lden guest,
Clips straight my wings, straiglit wraps me in his night."

(No. 108.)

Stella's prudent withdrawal of herself from Sidney's
company begins to work with salutary effect upon his pas-
sion. As that cools or fades for want of nourishment, so
the impulse to write declines; and the poet's sincerity is
nowhere better shown than in the sudden and ragged end-
ing of his work. I doubt whether the two sonnets on De-
sire and Love, which Di'. Grosart has transferred from the
Miscellaneous Poems and printed here as Nos. 109 and 110,
were really meant to form part of Astrophel and Stella.
They strike me as retrospective, composed in a mood of
stern and somewhat bitter meditation on the past, and prob-

[chap.

V,.]

"ASTUOPHEL AND STELLA."

143

ct follows
, watcliins;
as her cav-

(Xo. 105.)

rt'ith those
" despair "
ilogue, De-

night."
(Xo. 108.)

n Sidney's
on his pas-
ishment, so
sincerity is
agged end-
lets on Dc-
d from tlie
)9and 110,
ind Stella,
a mood of
t, and prob-

ably after some considerable interval; yet the Latin epi-
graph attached to the second has the force of an envoy.
Moreover, they undoubtedly represent the attitude of mind
in which Sidney bade farewell to unhallowed love, and
which enabled him loyally to plight his troth to Frances
Walsingham. Therefore it will not be inappropriate to
close the analysis of his love poetry upon this note. No
one, reading them, will fail to be struck with their resem-
blance to Shakespeare's superb sonnets upon Lust and
Deatii ("The expense of spirit "and "Poor soul, thou cen-
tre"), which are perhaps the two most completely power-
ful sonnets in our literature:

"Thou blind man's niiirli, tiiou fool'.s seir-diosen snare,

Fond fiincy's i-ciini, and dregs of sotittLM'cd tliougi>t;
Band of all evils ; cradle of causeless care;

Tl)on web of will whose end is never wrought!
Desire, desire ! I have too dearly bought

With price of mangled mind thy worthless ware;
Too long, to 'nng, asleep thou hast me brought.

Who she..: ..,t my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ;

In vain lliou mad'st me to vain things aspire;

In vain tiiou kindlest all thy smoky fire:
For virtue hatli this l)etter lesson taught—

Within myself to seek my only hire,

Desiring nauglit but how to kill desire.

"Leave me, Love, which readiest but to dust;

And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ;

W'liatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw ill thv beams, and humble all thv mi"ht

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,

That dotii but shine and give us sight to see.

?l!

.;'

, 1

' 1

'If-

144

Sill nilLIP SIDNEY.

[chap. VI.

talvo fast hold ; let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death;

And think how evil becometh him to slide,

Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.

Tiien farewell, world ! thy uttermost I sec :

Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me !"

"SPf-ENDIDIS LONtiUM VaLKDICO NuGIg."

■1..:t

^yt

i ' "%:

t' '. .

[chap. VI.

leath ;
•eath.

CHAPTER VII.

"the defence of poesy."

Fl'lke Greville, toucliiiio; upon the Arcadia, says that
Sidney "purposed no monuments of books to the world."
" If his purpose had been to leave his memory in books, I
am confident, in the right use of logic, pliilosophy, history,
and poesy, nay even in the most ingenious of mechanical
arts he would have showed such tracts of a searching and
judicious spirit as the professors of every faculty would
have striven no less for him than the seven cities did to
have Homer of their sept. But the truth is: his end was
not writing, even while he wrote ; nor his knowledge mould-
ed for tables or schools; hut both his wit and understand-
ing bent upon his heart, to make himself and others, not
in words or opinion, but in life and action, good and great."
" His end was not writing, even while he wrote." This
is certain ; the whole tenor of Sidney's career proves his
determination to subordinate self-culture of every kind to
the ruling purpose of useful public action. It will also be
vcmembcred that none of liis compositions were printed
during his lifetime or with his sanction. Yet lie had re-
ceived gifts from nature which placed him, as a critic, high
above the average of his contemporaries. He was no mean
poet when he sang as love dictated. He had acquired and
assiniilatcd various stores of knowledge. He possessed an
1*

I* I

146

SIR rillLlP SIDNEY,

[CIIAP,

i!i ,^>

exquisite and original taste, a notable faculty for the mar-
shalling of arguments, and a persuasive eloquence in expo-
sition. These qualities inevitably found their exercise in
writing; and of all Sidney's writings the one with which
we have to deal now is the ripest.

Judging by the style alone, I should be inclined to
place The Defence of Poesy among his later works. But
we have no certain grounds for fixing the year of its compo-
sition. Probably the commonly accepted date of 1581 is
the right one. In the year 1579 Stephen Gosson dedicated
to sfdney, without asking his permission, an invective
against " poets, pipers, players, and their cxcusers," which
he called The School of Abuse. Spenser observes that Gos-
son " was for his labour scorned ; if at least it lie in the
goodness of that nature to scorn. Such folly is it not to
regard aforehand the nature and quality of him to whom
we dedicate our books." It is possible therefore that The
School of Abase and other treatises en^anating from Puri-
tan hostility to culture, suggested this Apology. Sidney
rated poetry highest among the functions of the human
intellect. Ilis name had been used to give authority and
currency to a clever attack upon poets. He felt the weight
of argument to be on liis side, and was conscious of his
ability to conduct the cause. With what serenity of spirit,
sweetness of temper, liumour, and easy strength of style—
at one time soaring to enthusiasm, at another playing with
his subject,— he performed the task, can only be appreci-
ated by p. close perusal of the essay. It is indeed the
model for sucli kinds of composition— a work which com-
bines the quaintness and the blitheness of Elizabethan lit-
erature with the urbanity and reserve of a later period.

Sidney begins by numbering liimself among "the paper-
blurrers," " who, I know not by what mischance, in these

[chap.

or the mar-

icc in cxpo-

cxercise in

with which

inclined to
,'orlvs. But
f its compo-

of 1581 is
)n dedicated
n invective
>crs," which
es that Gos-
t lie in the

is it not to
m to whom
ire that The
• from Puri-
fy. Sidney

the liuman
ithority and
,t the weight
cious of his
lity of spirit,
h of style —
playing with
' be apprcci-

indeed the

•

which com-
zabcthan lit-
V period.
; "the papcr-
nce, in these

VI..]

"THE DEFENCE OF POESY."

147

my not old years and idlest times, having slipped into the
title of a poet, am provoked to say something unto you in
the defence of that my unelccted vocation." Hence it is
liis duty " to make a pitiful defence of poor poetry, which
from almost the highest estin'ation of learning, is fallen to
be the laughing-stock of children." Underlying Sidney's
main argument we find the proposition that to attack poo-
try is the same as attacking culture in general ; therefore,
at the outset, ho appeals to all professors of learning: will
they inveigh against the mother of arts and sciences, the
"first nurse, whose milk by little and little enabled them
to feed afterwards of tougher knowledge?" Mus.ous, Ho-
sier, and Ilesiod lead the solemn pomp of the Greek writ-
ers. Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio in Italy, Gowcr and
Chancer in England came before prose -authors. The
earliest philosophers, Empedoclcs and Parmenides, Solon
and Tyrtscus, committed their metaphysical speculations,
their gnomic wisdom, their martial exhortation, to verse.
And even Plato, if rightly considered, was a poet : " in the
body of his work, though the inside and strength were
philosophy, the skin as it were, and beauty, depended most
of poetry." Herodotus called his books by the names of
the Muses : " both he and all the vest that followed him,
either stole or usurped of poetry their passionate describ-
ing of passions, the many particularities of battles which
no man could affirm." They also put imaginary speeches
into the mouths of kings and captains. The very names
which the Greeks and Romans, " the authors of most of
our sciences," gave to poets, show the estimation in which
they held them. The Romans called the poet vates, or
prophet ; the Greeks non]Tt)c, or maker, a word, by tin way,
which coincides with English custom. What can be high-
er in the scale of human understanding than this faculty of

'i\

f m

'! I-

Wi !

.i H ' .

i; '

«|!'"

148

SIR rHILlP SIDNEY.

[chap.

making? Sidney enlarges upon its significance, following
a line of thought which Tasso suninied up in one memora-
ble sentence : " Thdl'e is no Creator but God and the Poet."
lie now advances a definition, which is substantially the
same as Aristotle's: " Poesy is an art of imitation ; that is
to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth : to
speak mctaphoricallv, a speaking picture; with this end to
teach and delight." Of poets there have been three gen-
eral kinds : first, " thev that did imitate the inconceivable
excellences of God ;" Secondly, " they that deal with matter
philosophical, cither moral or natural or astronomical or
historical;" thirdly, "right poets . . . which most proper-
ly do imitate, to teach and delight; and to imitate, borrow
nothing of what is, hath been, or shall be ; but range only,
reined'with learned discretion, into the divine consideration
of what may be and should be." The preference given to
the third kind of poets may be thus explained : The first
group are limited to setting forth fixed theological con-
ceptions; the second have their material supplied them by
the sciences; but the third are the makers and creators of
ideals for warning and example.

Poets may also be classified according to the several

species of verse. ]>ut this implies a formal and misleading

limitation. Sidney, like Milton and like Shelley, will not

have poetry confined to metre : " apparelled verse being

but an ornament, and no cause to poetry ; since there have

been many most excellent poets that have never versified,

and now swarm many versifiers that need never answer to

the name of poets." Xenophon's " Cyropaedia," the

"Theagenes and Chariclea" of Heliodorus, are cited as true

pocmsl "and yet both these wrote in prose." '|K is not

rhyming and versing that maketh a poet; but it is thai

feigning notable images of virtues, vices, or what else, with

'\ ..

[chap.

i, following
10 meinoru-
, the Poet."
mtiallv the
ion ; that is
g forth: to
tins end to
I tlii'ce gen-
conceivable
with matter
)noniical or
lost propcr-
tatc, bori'ow
range only,
onsideration
nee given to
d : Tlic first
)logical cori-
ied them by
I creators of

the several
id misleading
lley, will not

verse being
;e there have
!ver versified,
,'er answer to
paidia," the
Q cited as true
' " It is not
»nt it is thai
hat else, with

VII.]

"TIIK DEFENCE OF POESY."

149

that delightful teaching, which must be the right describ-
ing note to know a poet by." Truly *' the senate of poets
have chosen verso as their fittest raiment;" but this they
did, because they meant, "as in matter they passed all in
all, so in manner to go beyond them." " Speech, next lo
reason, is the greatest gift bestowed upon mortality ;" and
verse " which most dotli polish that blessing of speech," is,
therefore, the highest investiture of poetic thought.

Having thus defined his conception of poetry, Sidney
inquires into the purpose of all learning. "This purify-
ing of wit, this enriching of memory, enabling of judg-
ment, and enlarging of conceit, which commonly we call
learning, under what name soever it come forth, or to
what immediate end soever it be directed; the final end
is to lead and draw us to as high a perfection as our de
generate souls, made worse by their clay lodgings, can be
capable of." All the branches of learning subserve the
royal or architectonic science, " which stands, as T think,
in the knowledge of a man's self m the ethic and politic
consideration, with the end of well-doing, and not of well-
knowing only." If then virtuous action be the ultimate
object of all our intellectual endeavours, can it be shown
that the poet contributes above all others to this exalted
aii»i ? Sidney thinks it can.

Omitting divines and jurists, for obvious reasons, he
finds that the poet's only competitors are philoso^jhers and
historians. It therefore now behoves him to prove that
poetry contributes more to the formation of character for
virtuous action that either philosophy or history. The
argument is skilfully conducted, and developed with nice
art; but it amounts in short to this, that while philosophy
is too abstract and history is too concrete, poetry takes
the just [)atli between these extremes, and combines their

i\ i:

1 ( (1 '

,i|

:,,

'f)

150

SIR nilLir SIDNEY.

[chap.

methods in a liannony of more persuasive force than either.
" Now doth tlie peerless poet perform botli ; for wliatso-
ever tlic philosopher saith should be done, lie giveth a per-
fect picture of it, by some one whom lie presupposeth it
was done, so as lie conpleth the general notion with the
particular example." " Anger, the Stoics said, was a short
madness; but let Sophocles bring you Ajax on a stage,
killing or wliipping sheep and oxen, thinking them the
army" of 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 his genius
and difference?" Even Christ used parables and fables for
the firmer inculcation of his divine precepts. If philoso-
phy is too much occupied with the universal, history is
too much bound to tlie particular. It dares not go be-
yond wliat was, may not travel into what miglit or should
be. Moreover, " history being captivcd to the truth of a
foolish world, is many times a terror from well-doing, and
an encouragment to unbridled wickedness." It cannot
avoid revealing virtue overwhelmed with calamity and vice
in prosperous condition. Poetry labours not under the
same restrictions. Her ideals, delightfully presented, en-
tering the soul with the enchanting strains of music, "set
the mind forward to that which deserves to be called and
accounted good." In fine: "as virtue is the most excel-
lent resting-place for all worldly learning to make his end
of, so poetry, being the most familiar to teach it, and most
princely to move towards it, in the mosc excellent work is
the most excellent workman."

Sidney next passes the various species of poems in re-
view : the pastoral ; " the lamenting elegiac ;" " the bitter
but wholesome iambic ;" the satiric ; the comic, " whom
naughty play-makers and stage-keepers have justly made

[chap.

VII.]

"THE DEFENCE OF POESY."

161

Kin cither.
:)r wliatso-
,'cth a pev-
pposeth it
, with the
,as a short
n a stage,

them the
innon and
•e familiar

his genius
I fables for
If pliiU:)so-

hibtory is
not go be-
, or should
truth of a
doing, and

It cannot
ty and vice

under the
isented, en-
music, " set

called and
most excel-
\ke his end
t, and most
cnt work is

oems in re-
"the bitter
(lie, " 'A'hoin
justly made

odious ;" " the liigh and excellent tragedy, that opcneth
tlie greatest wounds, and showetli forth tlie ulcers that arc
covered vvitli tissue — that maketh kings fear to be tyrants,
and tyrants to manifest their tyrannical humours — that
with stirring the effects of admiration and commiseration,
teachcth the uncertainty of this world, and upon how
weak foundations gilded roofs are builded ;" the lyric,
" who with his tuned lyre and well-accorded voice giveth
praise, the reward of virtue, to virtuous acts — who giveth
moral precepts and natural problems — who sometimes
raiscth up his voice to the height of the heavens, in sing-
ing the lauds of the immortal God ;" the epic or heroic,
** whose very name, I think, should daunt all backbiters . . .
which is not only a kind, but the best and most accom-
plished kind of poetry." lie calls upon the detractors of
poesy to bring their complaints against these several sorts,
and to indicate in each of them its errors. What they
may allege in disparagement, he meets with chosen argu-
ments, among which we can select his apology for the
lyric. " Certainly, I must confess my own barbarousncss :
I never heard the old song of ' Percy and Douglas ' that I
found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet;
and yet it is sung but by some blind crowder, with no
rougher voice than rude style; which being so cvil-appar-
elled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what
would it work, trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of
Pindar ?"

Having reached this point, partly on the way of argu-
ment, partly on the path of appeal and persuasion, Sidney
halts to sum his whole position up in one condensed para-
graph :

" Since, then, poetry is of all human learnings the most ancient
and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence other learninss have

( !

i ■<

V If

■■MW

162

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

taken their beginnings ; since it is so universal tliat no learned na-
tion doth despise it, nor barbarous nation is without it; since both
Konum and Greek gave sueli divine names unto it, tlie one of prophe-
sying, thi! other of making, and that indeed tliat name of making is tit
for him, considering, tliat wlicrc all other arts retain themselves with-
in their subject, and receive, as it were, tlieir being from it, the poet
only, only hringeth his own stuff, and doth not learn a conceit out of
a matter, but niaketh matter for a conceit ; since neither his descrip-
tion nor end containetli any evil, the tiung described cannot he evil ;
since hia effects be so good as to teach goodness, and ddiglit tiie
learnei-s of it; since therein (namely in moral doctrine, the chief of
all knowledges) he doth not only far pass tlio historian, but, for in-
structing, is well nigh comparable to the piiilosophcr ; for moving,
Icavetii him beliind liim ; since the Holy Scripture (wherein tliere is
no undeanness) hath wliole parts in it poetical, and that even our
Saviour Clirist vouchsafed to use the flowers of it; since all his kinds
arc not only in their united forms, but in their severed dissections
fully commendable; I think, and think I tiiink riglitly, tlje laurel
crown appointed for triumphant captains, dotii worthily, of ail other
learnings, honour the poet's triumph."

Objections remain to bo combated in detail. Sidney
chooses one first, which offers no great difficulty. The
detractors of poetry gird at "rhyming and versing," He
has ah-eady laid it down that "one may be a poet without
versing, and a versifier without poetry." But he has also
shown why metrical language should be regarded as the
choicest and most polished mode of speech. Verse, too,
fits itself to music more properly than prose, and far exceeds
it " in the knitting up of the memory." Nor is rhyme to
be neglected, especially in modern metres ; seeing that it
strikes a muaic to the ear. But the enemy advances heav-
ier battalions. Against poetry he alleges (1) tliat there
are studies upon which a man may spend his time more
profitably ; (2) that it is the mother of lies; (3) that it is
the nurse of abuse, corrupting the fancy, enfeebling manli-

[chap,

) learned na-
t; since botli
ne of i)r()|ilie-
nuikiii<^ is tic
inselvcs with-
71 it, the poet
.■onccit out of
V liis (li'sciip-
nnot be evil;
a (li'light the
, the chief of
II, but, for in-
; for moving,
oreiu there is
tluit even our
J all his kinds
jd dissections
;ly, tlie laurel
y, of all other

il. Sidney
culty. The
'slng," IJe
loct without
lie has also
vdecl as the
Verse, too,
I far exceeds
is rhyme to
>eing that it
vances heav-
) that there
s time more
(3) that it is
iblinGC manli-

VII.]

'TUF DEFENCE OF POESY."

163

iicss, and instilling pestilent desires into the soul ; (4) that
Plato banished poets from his commonwealth.

These four points are taken seriatim, and severally an-
swered. The first is set aside, as involving a begging of
the question at issue. To the second Sidney replies " par-
adoxically, but truly I think truly, that of all writers under
the sun the poet is the least liar; and though he would, as
a poet, can scarcely be a liar." It is possible to err, and
to affirm falsehood, in all the other departments of knowl-
edge ; but " for the poet, ho nothing affirmeth, and there-
fore nothing lieth." His sphere is not the region of
ascertained fact, or of logical propositions, but of imag-
ination and invention. He labours not *' to tell you what
is, or is not, but what should, or should not be." None is
so foolish as to mistake the poet's world for literal fact.
" What child is there, that comctli to a play, and seeing
Thebes written in great letters upon an old door, doth be-
lieve that it is Thebes ?" The third p oint is more weighty.
Arc poets blamable, in that they " abuse men's wit, train-
ing it to a wanton sinfulness and lustful love?" Folk say
'* the comedies rather toach than reprehend amorous con-
ceits; they say the lyric is larded with passionate sonnets;
the elegiac weeps the want of his mistress; and that even
to the heroical Cupid hath ambitiously climbed." Here
Sidney turns to Love, and, as though himself acknowledg-
ing that deity, invokes him to defend his own cause. Yet
let us "grant love of beauty to be a beastly fault," let us
"o-nvnt that lovely name of love to deserve all hateful re-
proaches," what have the adversaries gained ? Surely they
have not proved " that poetry abuseth man's wit, but that
man's wit abuseth poetry." " But what ! shall the abuse
of a thing make the right odious ?" Does not law, does
not physic, injure man every day by the abuse of ignorant

h I •

I '

'f !l

I •

154

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

practiscrs? " Doth not God's Word abused breed heresy,
and His name abused become blasphemy?" Yet these
people contend that before poetry came to infect the Eng-
lish, "mir nation had set their heart's dcliglit upon action
ind not imagination, rather doing tilings wortliy to be
written than writing things fit to be done." But wlien
was there that time ^vhen tlio Albion nation was without
^, '^try ? Of a trntli, this argument is levelled against all
learning ancf all culture. It is an attack, worthy of Goths
or Vandals, yx[, n the stronghold of the intellect. As such,
wo mijrht dismiss it. Let us, however, remember that
"poetry is the companion of camps: I dare undertake, Or-
lando Furioso or honest King Arthur will never displease
a soldier; but the quiddity of ens and jmina materia will
hardly agree with a corselet." Alexander on his Indian
campaigns left the living Aristotle behind him, but slept
with the dead Homer in his tent; condemned Callisthenes
to death, but yearned for a poet to commemorate his deeds.
-NLastly, they advance Plato's verdict against poets. Plato,
says Sidney, " I have ever esteemed most worthy of rever-
ence ; and with good reason, since of a;l philosophers he
is the most poetical." Having delivered this sly thrust, he
proceeds : " first, truly, a man might maliciously object that
Plato, being a philosopher, was a natural enemy of poets."
Next let us look into his writings. Has any poet author-
ised filthiness more abominable than one can find in the
" Phaedrus " and the " Symposium 1" " Again, a man
mip'ht ask out of what commonwealth Plato doth banish
them." It is in sooth one where the community of wom-
en is permitted ; and " little should poetical sonnets be hurt-
ful, when a man might have what woman he listed." Af-
ter thus trifling with the subject, Sidney points out that
Plato was not offended with poetry, but with the abuse of

[CIIAP.

jd heresy,
fot these

the Eng-
lon action
liy to bo
[jut wlien
s without
igainst all

of Goths

As such,
liber that
rtakc, Or-

displcasc
jteria will
lis Indian

but slept
lUisthcnes
his deeds.
s. Plato,
r of rever-
ophcrs he

thrust, he
)bjoct that
of poets."
let auth Gr-
ind in the
in, a man
)th banish
y of wom-
tsbe hurt-
;ed." Af-
3 out that
e abuse of

VII.]

"THE DEFENCE OF POESY."

166

it. He objected to the crude theology and the monstrous
ethics of the myth-niakors. " So as Plato, banishing the
abuse not the thing, not banishing it, br. gtv'ng due hon-
our to it, shall be oui patron and not ou: ..iversary."
< >nco again he pauses, to recapitulate :

"Since the excel Iciifiea of poesy may be so easily and so justlv
confirmed, and the low 1 1 i-f'ping objfi tlons so soon trodden down ; it
not luMiij; an i»rt of lie"", but of true doctrine; not of effeininatenops,
but of notiibk' istirrinj? of counif^i , not of abus^ing man s wit, but of
strenfjtheninK man's wit; not banished, but honoured by Plato; lot
us rather plant more laurels for to ingarlaud the poets' heads (which
honour of boinR laureate, as besides them only triumphant eai>tains
were, is a sulhcient authority to show the price they ought to be
held in) than suffer the ill-favoured breath of such wrong speakers
once to blow upon the clear springs of poesy."

Then he turns to England. Why is it that England, " the
mother of excellent minds, should be grown so hard a
stepmother to poets ?"

" Sweet poesy, that hath anciently had kings, emperors, >enators,
great captains, such as, besides a thousand others, David. Adrian,
Sophocles, Germanicus, not only to favour poets, but to bi jxiets :
and of our nearer times, can present for her patrons, a Robe ', King
of Sicily; the great King Francis of France; King James i f Scot-
land ; such cardinals as Bembus and Bibiena ; such famous p oach-
crs and teachers as Beza and Melancthon ; so learned philoso,>hcrs
as Fracastorius and Scaliger; so groat orators as Pontanu? and
Muretus ; so piercing wits as George Buchanan; so grave counsellors
as, besides many, but before all, that Hospital of France ; than whom.,
I think, that realm never brought forth a more accomplished ji: Ig-
ment more firmly builded upon virtue ; I say, these, with numbers of
others, not only to read others' poesies, but to poetise for others'
reading: that poesy, thus embraced in all other places, should oniy
find, in our time, a hard welcome in England, I think the very ear h
laments it, and therefore decks our soil with fewer laurels ihan
was accustomed."'

ill

i'i ■

•'!

156

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

The true cause is that in England so many incapable folk
write verses. With the exception of the Mirror of Magis-
trates, Lord Surrey's Lyrics, and The Shepherd's Kalendar,
" I do not remember to have seen but few (to speak bold-
ly) printed, that have poetical sinews in them." At this
point ho introduces a lengthy digression upon the stage,
which, were we writing a history of the English drama,
ought to be quoted in full. It is interesting because it
proves how the theatre occupied Sidney's thoughts; and
yet he had not perceived that from the humble plays
of the people an unrivalled flower of modern art was about
to emero"e. The Defence of Poesy was written before
Marlowe created the romantic drama; before Shakespeare
arrived in London. It was written in all probability be-
fore its author could have attended the representation of
Greene's and Peele's best plays. Gorhoduc, which he
praises moderately and censures with discrimination, seem-
ed to him the finest product of dramatic art in England,
because it approached the model of Seneca and the Italian
tragedians. For the popular stage, with its chaos of tragic
and comic elements, its undigested farrago of romantic in-
cidents and involved plots, he entertained the scorn of a
highly-educated scholar and a refined gentleman. Yet no
one, let us be sure, would have welcomed Othello and The
Merchant of Venice, Volpone and A Woman Killed with
Kindness, more enthusiastically than Sidney, had his life
been protracted through the natural span of mortality.

Having uttered his opinion frankly on the drama, he at-
tacks the " courtesan-like painted affectation " of the Eng-
lish at his time. Far-fetched words, alliteration, euphuistic
similes from stones and beasts and plants, fall under his hon-
est censure. He mentions no man. But he is clearly aim-
ing at the school of Lyly and the pedants ; for ho pertinent-

i'^f*'*

[chap.

apable folk
r of Magis-

Kalendar,
speak bold-
" At this

the stage,
ish drama,

because it
lights ; and
ii)ble plays
b was about
iten before
>hakespeare
bability be-
icntation of
, which he
ation, scern-
.n England,

the Italian
OS of tragic
omantic in-

scorn of a
in. Yet no
llo and The
Killed with
iiad his life
jrtality.
rama, ho at-
of the Eng-
1, euphuistic
iderhis hon-

clearly aim-
ac pertinent-

VII.]

"THE DEFENCE OF POESY."

167

Iv observes : *' I have found in divers small-learned courtiers
a more sound style than in some professors of learning."
Language should be used, not to trick out thoughts with
irrelevant ornaments or to smother them in conceits, but to
make them as clear and natural as words can do. It is a
sin against our mother speech to employ these meretricious
arts; for whoso will look dispassionately into the matter,
shall convince himself that English, both in its freedom
from inflections and its flexibility of accent, is aptest of all
modern tongues to be the vehicle of simple and of beauti-
ful utterance.

The peroration to The Defence of Poesy is an argument
addressed to the personal ambition of the reader. It some-
what falls below the best parts of the essay in style, and
makes no special claim on our attention. From the forego-
ing analysis it will be seen that Sidney attempted to cover
a wide field, combining a philosophy of art with a practical
review of English literature. Much as the Italians had re-
cently written upon the theory of poetry, I do not remem-
ber any treatise which can be said to have supplied the
material or suggested the method of this apolog}'. England,
of course, at that time was destitute of all but the most
meagre textbooks on the subject. Great interest therefore
attaches to Sidney's discourse as the original outcome of
his studies, meditations, literary experience, and converse
with men of parts. Though we may not bo prepared to
accept each of his propositions, though some will demur to
his conception of the artist's moral aim, and others to his
inclusion of prose fiction in the definition of poetry, while
all will agree in condemning his mistaken dramatic theory,
none can dispute the ripeness, mellowness, harmony, and
felicity of mental gifts displayed in work at once so concise
and so compendious. It is indeed a pity that English lit-

!(f

i.Tt

':'i

! V

! i

ii':

Ill

158

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

erature then furnished but slender material for criticism.
When we remember that, among the poems of the English
Renaissance, only Surrey's Lyrics, GorboduCy the Mirror
of Marjistmtes, and The ShephercVs Kalendar could be
praised with candour (and I think Sidney was right in this
judgment), we shall be better able to estimate his own high
position, and our mental senses will be dazzled by the achieve-
ments of the last three centuries. Exactly three centuries
have elapsed since Sidney fell at Zutphen ; and who shall
count the poets of our race, stars differing indeed in glory,
but stars that stream across the heavens of song from hira
to us in one continuous galaxy?

Sir Philip Sidney was not only eminent as pleader, crit-
ic, and poet, lie also ranked as the patron and protector
of men of letters. " lie was of a very munificent spirit,"
says Aubrey, " and liberal to all lovers of learning, and to
those that pretended to any acquaintance with Parnassus;
insomuch that he was cloyed and surfeited with the poet-
asters of those days." This sentence is confirmed by the
memorial verses written on his death, and by the many
books which were inscribed with his name. A list of these
may be read in Dr. Zouch's Life. It is enough for onr
purpose to enumerate the more distinguished. To Sidney,
Spenser dedicated the first fruits of his genius, and Hak-
luyt the first collection of his epoch-making Voyages.
Henri Etienne, who was proud to call himself the friend of
Sidney, placed his 1576 edition of the Greek Testament
and his 1581 edition of llerodian under the protection of
his name. Lord Brooke, long after his friend's death, ded-
icated his collected works to Sidney's memory.

Of all these tributes to his love of learning the most in-
teresting in my opinion is that of Giordano Bruno. This
Titan of impassioned speculation passed two years in Lon-

-!i

[chap.

r criticism,
he English
he Mirror
' could be
Ight in this
s own high
he achieve-
e centuries
I who shall
id in glor}',
T from hira

leader, crit-
d protector
ent spirit,"
ling, and to
Parnassus ;
h the poet-
med bv the
' the many
list of these
igh for our
'To Sidney,
s, and Hak-
g Voyages,
he friend of
: Testament
rotoction of
i death, ded-

VII.]

"THE DEFENCE OF POESY."

169

don between 1583 and 1585. Here he composed, and
here he printed, his most important works in the Italian
tongue. Two of these he presented, with pompous com-
mendatory epistles, to Sir Philip Sidney. They were his
treatise upon Ethics, styled Lo Spaccio della Bestia Trion-
fante, and his discourse upon the philosophic enthusiasm,
entitled Gil Eroici Furori. That Bruno belonged to Sid-
ney's circle, is evident from the graphic account he gives
of a supper at Fulke Greville's house, in the dialogue called
La Cena delle Ceneri His appreciation of " the most il-
lustrious and excellent knight's " character transpires in the
following phrase from one of his dedications : " the natural
bias of your spirit, which is truly heroical." Those who
know what the word eroica implied for Bruno, not only of
personal courage, but of sustained and burning spiritual pas-
sion, will appreciate this eulogy by one of the most penetrat-
ing and candid, as he was the most unfortunate of truth's
martyrs. Had the proportions of my work justified such
a dio-rcssion, I would earjerlv have collected from Bruno's
Italian discourses those paragraphs which cast a vivid light
upon literary and social life in England. But these belong
rather to Bruno's than to Sidney's biography.

the most in-
runo. This
ears in Lon-

r'\n

"^f fl,

» '■'11

'11

1,::::'

* !

'I-M-'
H'^.

i !

f-i

CHAPTER VIII.

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

After Sidney's marriage there remained but little more
than three years of life to him. The story of this period
may be briefly told. Two matters of grave import occupied
his mind. These were: first, the menacing attitude of
Spain and the advance of the Counter-Reformation ; sec-
ondly, a project of American Colonisation. The suspicious
death of the Duke of Anjou, followed by the murder of
the Prince of Orange in 1584, rendered Elizabeth's interfer-
ence in the Low Countries almost imperative. Philip II.,
assisted by the powers of Catholicism, and served in secret
by the formidable Company of Jesus, threatened Europe with
the extinction of religious and political liberties. It was
known that, sooner or later, he must strike a deadly blow
at England. The Armada loomed already in the distance.
But how was he to be attacked? Sidney thought that
Elizabeth would do well to put herself at the head of a
Protestant alliance against what Fulke Greville aptly styled
the " masked triplicity between Spain, Rome, and the Jes-
uitical faction of France." He also strongly recommended
an increase of the British navy and a policy of protecting
the Huguenots in their French seaports. But he judged
the Netherlands an ill-chosen field fo; fighting the main
duel out with Spain. There, Philip was firmly seated in

v'l

little more
this period
rt occupied
ittitude of
ation ; sec-
I suspicious
murder of
I's interfcr-

riiiiip II.,

id in secret
iluropewith
3s. It was
eadly blow
le distance,
ought that
I head of a
iptly styled
nd the Jes-
jommended
• protecting
he judged
g the main
,y seated in

CHAP. VIII.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

161

well-furnished cities, where he could mass troops and muni-
tions of war at pleasure. To maintain an opposition on
the side of Holland was of course necessary. But the re-
ally vulnerable point in the huge Spanish empire seemed
to him to be its ill-defended territory in the West Indies.
Let then the Protestant League, if possible, be placed upon
a firmer basis. Let war in the Low Countries be prosecut-
ed without remission. Bu*, at the same time, let the Eng-
lish use their strongest weapon, attack by sea. Descents
might be made from time to time upon the Spanish ports,
as Drake had already harried Vera CVuz, and was afterwards
to fall on Cadiz. Buccaneering and filibustering expedi-
tions against the Spanish fleets which brought back treas-
ure across the Indian main, Avere not to be contemned.
But he believed that the most efficient course would be to
plant a colony upon the American continent, which should
at the same time be a source of strength to England and a
hostile outpost for incursions into the Spanish settlements.
Fulke Greville has devoted a large portion of his Life to the
analysis of Sidney's opinions on these subjects, lie sums
them up as follows : " Upon these and the like assumptions
he resolved there were but two ways left to frustrate this
ambitious monarch's designs. The one, that which divert-
ed Hannibal, and by setting fire on his own house made
him draw in his spirits to comfort his heart; the other,
that of Jason, by fetching away his golden fleece and not
suffering any one man quietly to enjoy that which every
man so much affected."

In the autumn of 1584 Sidney sat again in the House of
Commons, where he helped to forward the bill for Raleigh's
expedition to Virginia. This in fact was an important step
in the direction of his favourite scheme ; for his view of the
American colony was that it should be a real " plantation,
8

Is. i-

162

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

not like an asylum fi)i- fugitives, a helium 2)i)'aticum for
banditti, or any such base ramus of people ; but as an em-
porium for the confluence of all nations that love or profess
any kind of virtue or commerce." Parliament next year
had to take strong measures against the Jesuits, who were
already fomenting secret conspiracies to dethrone or assas-
sinate the queen. The session ended in March, and in April
Raleigh started for the New World. Three months later
Sidnev received a commission to share the Mastership of
the Ordnance with his uncle Warwick. He found that de-
partment of the public service in a lamentable plight, owing
to Elizabeth's parsimony ; and soon after his appointment,
he risked her displeasure by firmly pressing for a thorough
replenishment of the stores upon which England's efficiency
as a belligerent would depend.

It was probably in this year that Sidney took up his
pen to defend his uncle Leicester against the poisonous
libel, popularly known as Leicester's Commonwealth, and
generally ascribed to the Jesuit Parsons. We possess the
rough draft of his discourse, which proves convincingly
that he at least was persuaded of the earl's innocence. He
does not even deign to answer the charges of " dissimulation,
hypocrisy, adultery, falsehood, treachery, poison, rebellion,
treason, cowardice, atheism, and what not," except by a flat
denial, and a contemptuous interrogation : *' what is it else
but such a bundle of railings, as if it came from the mouth
of some half drunk scold in a tavern ?" By far the larger
portion of the defence is occupied with an elaborate exhibi-
tion of the pedigree and honours of the House of Dudley,
in reply to the hint that Edmund, Leicester's grandfather,
was basely born. Sidney, as we have seen, set great store
on his own descent from the Dudleys, which he rated high-
er than his paternal ancestry ; and this aspersion on their

[chap.

iticum for

as an em-

or profess

next year

who were

G or assas-

1(1 in April

)nths later

itersbip of

id that de-

glit, owing

^ointment,

I thorough

3 efficiency

ok up his
poisonous
vealth, and
possess the
nvincingly
:;ence. lie
simulation,
, rebellion,
pt by a flat
at is it else
the mouth
' the larger
■ate exhibi-
of Dudley,
randfathcr,
great store
rated high-
3n on their

VIII.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

1G3

origin inspired him with unmeasured anger. At the close
of the pamphlet he throws down the glove to his anony-
mous antagonist, and defies him to single combat. "And,
from the date of this writing, imprinted and published, I
will three months expect thine answer." Horace Walpole
was certainly not justified in calling thi i spirited, but ill-
balanced composition, " by far the best specimen of his
abilities."

June 1585 marked an era in the foreign policy of Eliza-
beth. She received a deputation from the Netherlands,
who offered her the sovereignty of the United Provinces if
she would undertake their cause. This offer she refused.
But the recent adhesion of the French Crown to what was
called the Holy League, rendered it necessary that she
should do something. Accordingly, she agreed to send 6000
men to the Low Countries, holding Flushing and Brill with
the Castle of Rammekins in pledge for the repayment of
the costs of this expedition. Sidney began now to be
spoken of as the most likely governor of Flushing, But
at this moment his thoughts were directed rather to the
New World than to action in Flanders. We have already
seen why he believed it best to attack Spain there. A let-
ter written to him by Ralph Lane from Virginia echoes
his own views upon this topic. The governor of the new
plantation strongly urged him to head a force against what
Greville called " that rich and desert West Indian mine."
Passing by the islands of St. John and Hispaniola, Lane
had observed their weakness. "How greatly a small force
would garboil him here, when two of his most richest and
strongest islands took such alarms of us, not only landing,
but dwelling upon them, with only a hundred and twenty
men, I refer it to your judgment." Sidney, moreover, bad
grown to distrust Burleigh's government of England.

^ i!

! 1

I H

164

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[ciur.

n^^

,, I.:. I

I v,

" Nature," says Grevillc, " guiding his eyes first to his na-
tive country, he found greatness of worth and place coun-
terpoised there by the arts of power and favour. The
stirring spirits sent abroad as fuel, to keep the tlanie far
off; and the effeminate made judges of dangers which they
fear, and honour which they understand not." He saw
" how the idle-censuring faction at home had won ground
of the active adventurers abroad ;" he perceived the queen's
" oovernors to sit at home in their soft chairs, Dlaying fast
and loose with them that ventured their lives abroad."
All these considerations put together made him more than
lukewarm about the Ncthti'lands campaign, and less than
eager to take office under so egotistical an administration.
It was his cherished scheu.e to join in some private en-
terprise, the object of which should be the enfeeblement
of Spain and the strengthening of England beyond the
Atlantic.

The thoughts which occupied his mind took definite
shape in the summer of 1585. "The .ext step which he
intended into the world was an expedition of his own pro-
jecting ; wherein he fashioned the whole body, with pur-
pose to become head of it himself. I mean the last
employment but one of Sir Francis Drake to the West
Indies." With these words Grevillc introduces a minute
account of Sidney's part in that famous adventure. He
worked hard at the project, stirring up the several passions
which might induce men of various sympathies to furnish
assistance by money or by personal participation.

"To martial men lie opened wide the door of sea and land for
fame and conciuest. To the nobly ambitious, the far stage of Ameri-
ca to win honour in. To the religious divines, besides a new apostol-
ical calling of the lost heathen to the Christian faitli, a large field of
reducing poor Christians misled by the idolatry of Rome to their

'\<1

[chap.

to his na-
lace coun-
onr. Tlic
flame far
vhich they
lie saw
on ground
he queen's
aying fast
J abroad."
more than
. less than
nistration.
private en-
■ceblenient
eyond the

>k definite
) which he
s own pro-
, with pur-
n the last

the West
s a minute
iture. He
■al passions

to furnish

iiid land for
ge of Araeri-
iiew apostol-
large field of
ome to their

VIII.]

LxVST YEARS AND DEATH.

166

mother primitive church. To the ingeniously industrious, variety of
natural riclies for new mysteries and manufactures to worit upon.
To the merchant, witii a simple people a fertile and unexhausted
earth. To the fortune -bound, liberty. To the curious, a fruitful
work of innovation. Generally, tlie word gold was an attractive ada-
mant to make men venture that which they have in hope to grow rich
by tiiat which they have not."

Moreover ho " won thirty gentlemen of great blood and
state here in England, every man to sell one hundred
pounds land" for fitting out a fleet. While firmly resolved
to join the first detachment which should sail from Plym-
outh, he had to keep his plans dark ; for the queen woi.ld
not hear of his engaging in such ventures. It was accord-
ingly agreed between him and Sir Francis that the latter
should go alone to Plymouth, and that Sir Philip should
meet him there upon some plausible excuse. When they
had weighed anchor, Sidney was to share the chief com-
mand with Drake. Sir Francis in due course of time set
off; and early in September he sent a message praying ur-
gently for his associate's presence. It so liappened that
just at this time Don Antonio of Portugal was expected at
Plymouth, and Philip obtained leave to receive him there.
From this point I ohall let Fulke Greville tell the story in
his own old-fashioned language : —

" Yet I that had the honour, as of being bred with him from his
youth, so now by his own choice of all England to be his loving and
beloved Achates iu this journey, observing the countenance of this
gallant mariner more exactly than Sir Thilip's leisure served him to
do, after we were laid in bed acquainted him with my observation of
the discountenance and depression which appeared in Sir Francis, as
if our coming were both beyond his expectatior ~- d desire. Never-
theless that ingenuous spirit of Sir Philip's, tho jgh apt to give me
credit, yet not apt to discredit others, made him suspend his own and
labour to change or qualify by judgment ; till within some few days

ii«

'' li|V -i'j

W^ivf

166

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

after, finding the ships neither ready according to promise, nor pos-
sibly to be made ready in many days, and withal observing some
sparks of falne (ire breaking out from his yoke-follow daily, it pleased
him in the freedom of our friendship to return mo my own stock
with interest.

" All this while Don Antonio landed not ; the fleet seemed to us,
like the weary passengers' inn, still to go farther from our desires;
letters came f"om the Court to hasten it away ; but it may be the
leaden feet and nimble thoughts of Sir Francis wrought in the day,
and unwrought by night, while he watched an opportunity to discov-
er us without being discovered.

" For within a few days after, a post steals up to the Court, upon
whose arrival an alarm is presently taken : messengers sent away to
stay us, or if we refused, lo stay the whole fleet. Notwithstanding
this first Mercury, his errand being partly advertised to Sir Pliilip be-
forehand, was intercepted upon tlie way ; his letters taken from him
by two resolute soldiers in mariners' api)arel, brought instantly to
Sir Philip, opened and road. The ne.\t was a more imperial mandate,
carefully conveyed and delivered to himself by a peer of this realm;
carrying with it in the one hand grace, the other thu. I'cr. Tlie grace
was an offer of an instant employment under his n-r-le, then going
general into the Low Countries ; against which as tliough he would
gladly have demurred, yet the confluence of reason, trp.nscendency of
power, fear of staying the whole fleet, mo ie him instantly sacrifice
all these self-places to the duty of obedience."

In plain words, then, Sir Francis Drake, disliking the
prospect of an equal in comma.id, played Sir Philip Sidney
false by sending private intelligence to Court. The queen
expressed licr will so positively that Sidney had to yield.
At the same time it was settled that he should go into the
Netherlands, under his uncle Leicester, holding her Majes-
ty's commission as Governor of Flushing and Rammekins.
By this rapid change of events his destiny was fixed.
Drake set sail on the 14th of September. Two months
later, on the 16th of November, Sidney left England for
his post in the Low Countries. I ought here to add that

[chap.

nise, nor poa-
scrviiif^ some
lily, it pleased
ny own atock

seemed to us,
1 our desires;
it niiiy be the
lit in the day,
lity to discov-

Court, upon

1 sent away to
)t\vithstauding
Sir Piiilip bc-
kcn from him
t instantly to
crial mandate,
of this realm ;
!r. Tlie grace
:le, then going
ugh he would
nscendency of
antly sacrifice

isliking the
'hilip Sidney
The queen
lad to yield.
[ go into the
y lier Majes-
Ranimekins,
f was fixed.
Two months
EnjxLand for
; to add that

nn.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

167

at some time diirinijf tliis busy summer his daugiiter K i-
beth, afterwards Countess of Uuthind, was born.

Sidney's achievements in the Nctlierlands, except aa
forming part of his sliort life, claim no particular atten-
tion, lie was welcomed by Count Maurice of Nassau, the
eldest son of William, Prince of Orange; and gleanings
from letters of the time show that folk expected much
from his activity and probity. But he enjoyed narrow
scope for the employment of his abilities. Rammekins, the
fortress which commanded Flushing, was inadequately fur-
nished and badly garrisoned. The troops were insufficient,
and so ill-paid that mutinies were always imminent. In
one of his despatches, urgently demanding fresh su[)[)lies,
he says: "I am in a garrison as much able to command
F'lusliing as the Tower is to answer for London." The
Dutch government did not please him : he found " the peo-
ple far more careful than the government in all things
touching the public welfare." With the plain speech that
was habitual to him, he demanded more expenditure of
English money. This irritated the queen, and gave his
enemies at Court occasion to condemn him in his absence
as ambitious and proud. He began to show signs of im-
patience with Elizabeth. "If her Majesty were the fount-
ain, I would fear, considering what I daily find, that we
should wax dry." This bitter taunt he vented in a letter
to Sir Francis Walsingham. Meanwhile the Earl of Leices-
ter arrived upon the 10th of December, and made mat-
ters worse. He laid himself out for honours of all sorts,
accepting the title of Governor-General over the United
Provinces, and coquetting with some vague scheme of being
chosen for their sovereign. Imposing but impotent, Leicester
had no genius for military affairs. The winter of 1585-86

dragged through, with nothing memorable to relate.
S8

168

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

'■•}:

The followit)},' season, liowevcr, was marked by several
important incidents in I'liilip Sidney's private life. First,
Lady Sidney joined lier husband at Flushing. Then on
the 5th of May Sir Henry Sidney died in the bishop's
palace at Worcester. His body was enibalnied and sent
to I'enslnirst. His heart was buried at Ludlow • his en-
trails in the precincts of Worcester Cathedral. So passed
from life Elizabeth's sturdy servant in Ireland and Wales ;
a man, as 1 conceive him, of somewhat limited capacity
and stubborn temper, but true as steel, and honest in the
dischar<,'e of very tryini,' duties. Later in the same year,
upon the 0th of August, Lady Mary Sidney yielded up her
gentle spirit. Of her there is nothing to be written but
the purest panegyric. Born of the noblest blood, surviv-
ing ambitious relatives who reached at royalty and perished,
losing health and beauty in the service of an exacting
queen, suffering poverty at Court, supporting husband and
children through all trials with wise counsel and sweet
hopeful temper, she emerges with pale lustre from all the
actors of that time to represent the perfect wife and moth-
er in a lady of unpretending, but heroic, dignity. Sidney
would have been the poorer for the loss of these parents,
if his own life had been spared. As it was, he survived
his mother b 'vo months.

In July he distinguished himself by the surprise and
ofipture of the little town of Axel. Leicester rewarded
him for this service with the commission of colonel. Eliza-
beth resented his promotion. She wished the colonelcy for
Count Ilohenlohe, or Ilollock, a brave but drunken soldier.
Walsingham wrote upon the occasion : " She layeth the
blame upon Sir Philip, as a thing by him ambitiously
sought. I see her Majesty very apt upon every light oc-
casion to find fault with him." Ambition, not of the

-p.

[riiAP.

by several
ifc. First,
Tlieii on
ic bishop'H
J and sent
i\v • his en-

So passed
ind Wales ;
;d capacity
nest in tlio
same year,
ided \ip her
written but
ood, snvviv-
id perished,
in exacting
nsband and

and sweet
rom all the
3 and moth-
;y. Sidney
ese parents,
he survived

urprisc and
2Y rewarded
Dnel. Eliza-
;olonelcy for
iken soldier.
) layeth the

ambitiously
n'y light oc-

not of the

TUl.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

169

vaulting kind, which " overleaps itself," but of a steady,
persistent, intcllc.-tual stamp, was, indeed, I think, the lead-
in^r quality in Sidney's nature. From the courtiers of the
period, the Leicesters, O.. ;as, Ornu)nds, Hattor.s, and so
forth, this mark of character honourably distinguished him.
And, if ho had but lived, i)Iizabetli, who judged her serv-
ants with some accuracy, might by judicious curbing and
parsimonious encouragement have tempered the fine steel
of his frailty into a blade of trenchant edge. There was
nothing ignoble, nothing frivolous in his ambition. It was
rather of such mettle as made the heroes of the common-
weallh: pure and un- self -seeking, but somewhat acrid.
And now ho fretted himself too much l>ecause of evil-
doers; impatiently demanded men and munitions from Kng-
hnd; vented his bile in private letters against Leicester.
Sidney was justified by events. The canipaign dragged
negligently on ; and the Commander of the Forces paid
more attention to banquets and diplomatic intrigues than
to the rough work of war. But the tone adopted by him
in his irritation was hardly prudent for so young and so
comparatively needy a gentleman.

Whatever he found to blame in Leicester's conduct of
affairs, Sidney did not keep aloof; but used every effort
to inspire his uncle with some of his own spirit. At the
end of August they were both engaged in reducing the lit-
tle fort of Doesburg on the Yssel, which had importance
as the key to Zutphen. It fell upon the 2d of September ;
and on the 13th Zutphen was invested— Lewis William of
Nassau, Sir John Norris, and Sir Philip Sidney command-
ing the land-forces, and Leicester blockading the approach
by water. The Duke of Parma, acting for Spain, did all
he could to reinforce the garrison with men and provisions.
News came upon the 21st to Leicester that a considerable
8* M

'« /

170

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

i ' 1

^: ■'

I'i

convoy was at Deventcr waiting an opportunity to enter
the town. He resolved to cut oS these supplies, and fixed
an early hour of the 22d, which was a Thursday, for this
operation. We have a letter, the last which Sidney penned
before his fatal wound, dated from the camp at Zutphcn
upon the morninjr of the engagement. It recommends
Richard Smyth, » iier Majesty's old servant," to Sir Francis
Walsinoham, and is one among several writings of the kind
which show how mindful Sidney was of humble friends
and people in distress. The 22d of September opened
gloomily. So thick a mist covered the Flemish lowlands
that a man could not see farther than ten paces. Sidney,
loading a troop of two hundred horsemen, pushed his way
up to The walls of Zutphen. Chivalrous punctilio caused him
to be ill-defended, for meeting Sir William Pelham in light
armour, he threw off his cuisses, and thus exposed himself
to unnecessary danger. The autumn fog, which covered
every object, suddenly dispersed; and the English now
found themselves confronted by a thousand horsemen of
the enemy, and exposed to the guns of the town. They
charged, and Sidney's horse was killed under him. He
mounted another, and joined in the second charge. Rein-
forcements came up, and a third charge was made, during
which he received a wound in the left leg. The bullet,
which some supposed to have been poisoned, entered above
the knee, broke the bone, and lodged itself high up in the
thigh. His horse took fright, and carried him at a gallop
from the field. He kept his seat, however ; and when the
animal was brought to order, had himself carried to Leices-
ter's station. On the way occurred the incident so well-
known to every one who is acquainted with his name.
- Beino- thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink,
which °was presently brought him; but as he was putting

[chap.

to enter
nd fixed

for this
' penned
Zntplicn
imnicnds
[• Francis
the kind
3 friends
• openeil
lowlands
Sidney,
I his way
.used him
n in light
d himself
1 covered
;lish now
rsemen of
n. They
him. He
re. Rein-
de, during
'he bullet,
ered above

up in the
it a gallop
. when the
L to Leices-
at so well-

his name.
I for drink,
,'as putting

vm.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH,

171

the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along,
who had eaten his last at the same feast, ghastly casting
up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir Philip perceiving, took
it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the
poor man, with these words, Thi/ necessity is yet greater
than mine. And when he had pledged this poor soldier,
he was presently carried to Arnheim."

At Arnheim he lay twenty -five days in the house of a
lady named Gruitthueisens. At first the surgeons who at-
tended him had good hopes of his recovery. Ten days
after the event Leicester wrote to Walsingham : " All the
worst days be passed, and he amends as well as possible in
this time," Friends were around him — his wife, his broth-
ers Robert and Thomas, aad the excellent minister, George
Gifford, whom he sent for on the 30th. The treatment of
the wound exposed him to long and painful operations,
which he bore with a sweet fortitude that moved the sur-
geons to admiration. With Gilford and other godly men
he held discourses upon religion and the future of the soul.
He told Gifford that " he had walked in a vague coiWsc ;
and these words he spake with great vehemence both of
speech and gesture, and doubled it to the intent that it
might be manifest how unfeignedly he meant to turn more
thoughts unto God than ever." It is said that he amused
some hours of tedious leisure by composing a poem on La
Cuisse Rornpue, which was afterwards sung to soothe him.
He also contrived to write " a large epistle in very pure
and eloquent Latin" to his friend Belarius the divine.
Both of these are lost.

As time wore on it appeared that the cure was not ad-
vancing. After the sixteenth day, says Greville, " the very
shoulder-bones of this delicate patient were worn through
his skin." He suflEered from sharp pangs which, " stang

172

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

if t

him by fits," and felt internally tliat his case was desperate.
" One morning lifting up the clothes for change and ease
oi his body, he smelt some extraordi.iary noisome savour
about him, differing from oils and salves, as he conceived."
This he judged, and judged rightly, to be the sign of " in-
ward mortification, and a welcome messenger of death."
Thereupon he called the ministers into his presence, " and
before them made such a confession of Christian faith as
no book but the heart can truly and feelingly deliver."
Death had its terrors for his soul ; but he withstood them
manfully, seeking peace and courage in the sacrifice of all
earthly affections. " There came to my mind," he said to
Gifford, "a vanity in which I delighted, whereof I had not
rid myself. I rid myself of it, 'and presently my joy and
comfort returned." Soon he was able to declare : " I would
not change my joy for tha empire of the world." Yet, up
to the very last, he did not entirely despair of life. This
is proved by the very touching letter he wrote to John
Wifi', a famous physician, and a friend of his. It runs
thus in Latin : "Mi Wicre, veni, veni. De vita periclitor
et te cupio. Nee vivus, nee mortuus, ero ingratus. Plura
non possum, sed obnixe oro ut festines. Vale. Tuus Ph.
Sidney." " My dear friend Wier, come, come. I am in
peril of my life, and long for you. Neither living nor dead
shall I be ungrateful. I cannot write more, but beg you
urgently to hurry. Farewell. Your Ph. Sidney." In this
way several days passed slowly on. He had made his will
upon the 30th of September. This he now revised, adding
a codicil in which he remembered many friends and serv-
ants. The document may be read in Collins' Sidney Pa-
pers. Much of it is occupied with provisions for the child,
with which his wife was pregnant" at this time, and of
which she was afterwards delivered still - born. But the

[chap,

esperatc.
and ease
e savour
iceived."
I of " in-
' death."
ce, " and
faith as
deliver."
)od them
ice of all
le said to
[ had not
' joy and
" I would

Yet, up
fe. This
! to John

It runs
periclitor
s. Plura
Tuns Ph.

I am in
J nor dead
t beg you
' In this
ie his will
ed, adding
and serv-
'idney Pa-
• the child,
le, and of

But the

VUI.j

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

lis

thoughtful tenor of tho whole justifies Greville in saying
that it " will ever rem;i a for a witness to the world that
those sweet and large affections in him could no more be
contracted with the narrowness of pain, grief, or sickness,
than any sparkle of our immortality can be privately buried
in the shadow of death."

Reflecting upon the past he exclaimed: "All things in
my former life have been vain, vain, vain." In this mood
he bade one of his friends burn the Arcadia ; but we know
not whether he expressed the same wish about Astrophel
and Stella. On the morning of the l7th of October it
was clear that he had but a few hours to live. His brother
Robert gave way to passionate grief in his presence, which
Philip gently stayed, taking farewell of him in these mem-
orable words: "Love my memory, cherish my friends;
their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But
above all, govern your will and affections by the will and
word of your Creator; in me beholding the end of this
world with all her vanities." Shortly afterwards he sank
into speechlessness, and the bystanders thought that what
he had greatly dreaded — namely, death without conscious-
ness, would befall him. Yet when they prayed him for
some sign of his "inward joy and consolation in God," he
lield his hand up and stretched it forward for a little while.
About two o'clock in the afternoon he again responded to
a similar appeal by setting his hands together in the atti-
tude of prayer upon his breast, and thus he expired.

Sidney's death sent a thrill through Europe. Leicester,
who truly loved him, wrote upon the 25th, in words of
passionate grief, to Walsingham. Elizabeth declared that
she had lost her mainstay in the struggle with Spain.
Duplessis Mornay bewailed his loss " not for England only,
but for all Christendom." Mendoza, the Spanish secre-

'h, 1

\'-'.

114:

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[CIIAP.

tary, said that though he could not but rejoice at the loss
to his master of such a foe, he yet lamented to see Chris-
tendom deprived of so great a light, and bewailed poor
widowed P^ngland. The Netherlanders begged to be al-
lowed to keep his body, and promised to erect a royal
niomuneut to his memory, "yea, though the same should
cost half-a-ton of gold in the building." But this petition
was rejected; and the corpse, after embalmment, was re-
moved to Flushing. There it lay eight days; and on the
1st of November the English troops accompanied it with
military honours to the Black Prince, a vessel which had
belonged to Sidney. On the 5th it reached Tower Hill,
and on the 16th of February it was buried with pomp in
St. Paul's. This long delay between the landing in Lon-
don and the interment arose from certain legal complica-
tions, which rendered the discharge of Sidney's debts dif-
ficult. Walsingham told Leicester that he would have to
" pay for him about six thousand pounds, which I do assure
your Lordship hath brought me into a most desperate and
hard state, which I weigh nothing in respect of the loss of
the gentleman who was my chief worldly comfort." Lest
this should seem to reflect ill upon Sidney's character, it
must be added that he had furnished Walsingham with a
power of attorney to sell land, and had expressly consid-
ered all his creditors in his will. But his own death hap-
pened so close upon his father's, and the will was so im-
perfect touching the sale of land, that his wishes could not
be carried into effect. This, added Walsingham, " doth
greatly afflict mo, that a gentleman that hath lived so un-
spotted in reputation, and had so great care to see all men
satisfied, should be so exposed to the outcry of his credit-
ors." When the obstacles had been surmounted the fu-
neral was splendid and public. And the whole nation went

I riij i iii-i i nl MwiBWi

[CIIAP.

t the loss
see Chris-
iled poor
to be al-
t ii royal
ne should
s petition
t, was re-
nd on the
ed it with
vhich had
)wor Hill,
I pomp in
icv in Lon-
complica-
debts dif-
Id have to
[ do assure
penite and
the loss of
a-t." Lest
iiaracter, it
am with a
sly consid-
death hap-
vas so im-
5 could not
lam, " doth
ved so un-
see all men
his credit-
ted the fu-
lation went

vni.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

176

into mourning. " It was accounted a sin," says the author
of The Life and Death of Sir Philip Sidimj, " for any
gentleman of quality, for many months after, to appear at
Court or City in any light or gaudy apparel."

I have told the story of Sidney's last days briefly, using
the testimony of those who knew him best, or who were
present at his death-bed. Comment would be superfluous.
There is a singular beauty in the uncomplaining, thought-
ful, manly sweetness of the young hero cut off in his prime.
Numberless minute touches, of necessity omitted here,
confirm the opinion that Sidney possessed unique charm
and exercised a spell over those who came in contact with
him. All the letters and reports which deal with that long
agony breathe a heartfelt tenderness, which proves how
amiable and hov.- admirable he was. The character must
have been well-nigh perfect which inspired persons so dif-
ferent as the Earl of Leicester, George Gifford, and Fulkc
Greville with the same devoted love. We have not to deal
merely with the record of an edifying end, but with the
longin"" retrospect of men whose b'jst qualities had been
drawn forth by sympathy with his incomparable good-

ness.

The limits of this book make it impossible to give an
adequate account of tlie multitudinous literary tributes to
Sidney's memory, which appeared soon after his decease.
Oxford contributed Exequiae and Peplus ; Cambridge shed
Lacrymae ; great wits and little, to the number it is said
of some two hundred, expressed their grief with more or
less felicity of phrase. For us the value of these elegiac
verses is not great. But it is of some importance to know
what men of weight and judgment said of him. His dear-
est and best friend has been so often quoted in these pages
that wo are now familiar with Greville's life-long adora-

I 1

m.,

ir 'if

t» t

■• n':.

k:l::'-^

11&

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[criAP.

tion. Yet T cannot omit the general cliaracter he gives of

Sidney :

" Indeed lie was a true model of worth ; a man fit for conquest,
plantation, reformation, or what action soever is greatest, and hardest
among men : withal, such a lover of mankind and goodness, that
whoever had any real parts in him, found comfort, participation, and
protection to the uttermost of his power : like Zephyrus, he giving
life where he blew. The universities abroad and at home accounted
him a general Mecaenas of learning ; dedicated their books to him ;
and communicated every invention or improvement of knowledge
with him. Soldiers honoured him, and were so honoured by him as
no man thought he marched under the true banner of Mars that had
not obtained Sir Philip Sidney's approbation. Men of affairs in most
parts of Christendom entertained correspondency with him. But
what speak I of these, with whom his own ways and ends did con-
cur ? Since, to descend, his heart and capacity were so large that
there was not a cunning painter, a skilful engineer, an excellent mu-
sician, or any other artificer of extraordinary fame, that made not
himself known to this famous spirit, and found him his true friend
without hire, and the common rendezvous of worth in his time."

Thomas Nash may be selected as the representative of
literary men who honoured Sidney.

" Gentle Sir Philip Sidney !" he exclaims ; " thou knewest what be-
longed to a scholar; thou knewest what pains, what toil, what travail,
conduct to perfection ; well couldst thou give every virtue his encour-
agement, every art his due, every writer his desert, cause none more
virtuous, witty, or learned than thyself. But thou art dead in thy
grave, and hast left too few successors of thy glory, too few to cher-
ish the sons of the Muses, or water those budding hopes with their
plenty, which thy bounty erst planted."

Lastly, we will lay the ponderous lanrel-wreath, woven by
grave Camden, on his tomb :

"This is that Sidney, who, as Providence seems to have sent him
into the world to give the present age a specimen of the ancients, so
did it on a sudden recall him, and snatch him from us, as more wor-

[chap.
gives of

conquest,
d hardest
ncss, that
ation, and
he giving
accounted
3 to him ;
cnowledgc
by him as
3 that had
rs in most
him. But
s did con-
hirge that
client mu-
made not
true friend
mo."

itativc of

3t whiit be-
hat travail,
his cncour-
none more
lead in thy
ew to cher-
with their

woven by

■e sent him
ancients, so
1 more wor-

vni.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

Ill

l|i

thy of heaven than earth ; thus where virtue comes to perfection, it
is gone in a trice, and the best things are never lasting. Rest then
in peace, Sidney, if I may be allowed tliis address ! We will not
celebrate your memory with tears but admiration ; whatever we loved
in you, as the best of authors speaks of that best governor of Britain,
whatever we admired in you, still continues, and will continue in the
memories of men, the revolutions of ages, and the annals of time.
Many, as inglorious and ignoble, are buried in oblivion ; but Sidney
shall live to all posterity. For, as the Grecian poet has it, virtue's
beyond the reach of fate."

The note of tenderness, on which I have already dwelt,
sounds equa^'y in these sentences of the needy man of
letters and the learned antiquarian.

It would be agreeable, if space permitted, to turn the
pages of famous poets who immortalised our hero; to
glean high thoughts from Constable's sonnets to Sir Philip
Sidney's soul; to dwell on Raleigb's well-weighed qua-
trains ; to gather pastoral honey from Spenser's Astrophel,
or graver meditations from his Ruins of Time. But these
are in the hands of every one; and now, at the close of
his biography, I will rather let the voice of unpretending
affection be heard. Few but students, I suppose, are fa-
miliar with the name of Matthew Roydon, or know that
he was a writer of some distinction. Perhaps it was love
for Sidney which inspired him with the musical but un-
equal poem from which I select three stanzas :

" Within these woods of Arcady

He chief delight and pleasure took ;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day,
That taught him sing, to write and say.

" When he descended down the mount,
His personage seemed most divine ;

178

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. [chap,

A thousand graces one might count

Upon hi3 lovely cheerful eyne.
To hear him speak, and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.

" A sweet attractive kind of grace ;

A full assurance given by looks ;
Continual comfort in a face ;

The lineaments of Gospel books :
I trow that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye."

Among Spenser's works, incorporated in his Astrophel,
occurs an elegy of languid but attractive sweetness, which
the great poet ascribes to the Countess of rembroke, sister
by blood to Sidney, and sister of liis soul. Internal evi-
dence might lead to the opinion that tliis " doleful lay of
Clorinda," as it is usually called, was not written by Lady
Pembroke, but was composed for her by the author of the
Faenj Queen. Yet the style is certainly inferior to that
of Spenser at its brst, and <:'ritics of mark incline to accept
it literally as her production. This shall serve me as an
excuse for borrowing some of its verses :

" What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown

Hath cropped the stalk which bore so fair a flower ?

Untimely cropped, before it well were grown,
And clean defaced in untimely hour !

Great loss to all that ever him did see,

Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me J

" Break now your garlands, oh, ye shepherds' lasses.
Since the fair flower which them adorned is gone;

The flower which them adorned is gone to ashes ;
Never again let lass put garland on ;

Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now.

And bitter elder broken from the bough."

[chap.

VIH.]

LAST YEARS AND DEATH.

179

The reiteration of phrases in these softly-faliing stanzas
recalls the plaining of thrush or blackbird in the dewy si-
lence of May evenings. But at the close of her long des-
car .. Urania changes to thoughts of the heaven whose
li^'ht has been increased by the "fair and glittering rays"
of Astrophel. Then her inspiration takes a loftier flight,
lileditations are suggestcu which prelude to Lycidas and
Jlonais. A parallel, indeed, both of diction and idea be-
tween this wilding flower of song and the magnificent
double-rose of Shelley's threnody on Keats can be traced
in the following four stanzas : —

"But that immortal spirit, wliicii was decked
With all the dowries of celestial graco,
By iovereign clioicc from the heavenly choirs select,

And lineally derived from angel's race.
Oh, what is now of it become, aread !
Ah me, can so divine a thing be dead ?

" Ah no ! it is not dead, nor can it die.

But lives for aye in blissful paradise.
Where, like a new-born babe it soft doth lie,

In beds of lilies wrapped in tender wise.
And compassed all about with roses sweet
And dainty violets from head to feet.

"There lieth he in everlasting bliss.

Sweet spirit, never fearing in 'o die;
Nor dreading harm from any foes of his.

Nor fearing savage beasts' more cruelty :
Whilst we here, wretches, wail his private lack,
And with vain vows do often call him back.

!!!

" But live thou there still, happy, happy spirit,
And give us leave thee here thus to lament,
Not thee that dost thy heaven's joy inherit.
But our own selves that here in dole are drent.

180 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

Thus do wc weep and wail and wear our eyes,
Mourning in otiiers our own miseries."

[chap.

One couplet by a nuineless playwright upon the death of
Sidney's aunt by marriage, the Lady Jane Grey, shall servo
to end this chapter :

" An innocent to die, what is it less
But to add angels to heaven's happiness !"

Epilooue.

When wc review the life of Sir Philip Sidney, it is certain
that one thought will survive all other thoughts about him
in our mind. This man, we shall say, was born to show
the world what goes to the making of an English gentle-
man. But he belonged to his age; and the age of Eliza-
beth differed in many essential qualities from the age of
Anne and from the age of Victoria. Sidney was the typi-
cal English gentleman of the modern era at the moment of
transition from the media3val period. He was the hero of
our Renaissance. His nature combined chivalry and piety,
courtly breeding and humane culture, statesmanship and
loyalty, in what Wotton so well called " the very essence
of congrnity." Each of those elements may be found
singly and more strikingly developed in other characters of
his epoch. In him they were harmoniously mixed and
fused as by some spiritual chemistry. In him they shone
with a lustre peculiar to the " spacious times of great
Elizabeth," with a grace and purity distinctive of his unique
personality. To make this image charming — this image,
not of king or prince or mighty noble, but of a perfect
gentleman — the favour of illustrious lineage and the grave

[chap.

Tin.]

EPILOGUE.

181

beauty of his presence contril)utcd in no small measure.
There was something Phocbean in his youthful dignity:

*' When he descended down the mount,
Ilia personage seemed most divine."

Men of weight and learning were reminded by him of
the golden antique past: "Providence seems to hav sent
him into the world to give the present ago a specimen of
the ancients." What the Athenians called KaXomyaBia,
that blending of physical and m -al beauty and goodness
in one pervasive virtue, distinguished him from the crowd
of his countrymen, with whom goodness too often assumed
an outer form of harshness and beauty leaned to effemi-
nacy or insolence. lie gave the present age a specimen of
the ancients by the plasticity of his whole nature, the ex-
act correspondence of spiritual and corporeal excellences,
which among Greeks would have marked him out for
sculpturesque idealisation.

It was to his advantage that he held no office of impor-
tance, commanded no great hereditary wealth, had dono no
deeds that brought him envy, had reached no station which
comnittcd him to rough collision with the world's brazen
interests. Death, and the noble manner of his death, set
seal to the charter of immortality which the expectation of
contemporaries had already drafted. lie was withdrawn
from the contention of our earth, before time and opportu-
nity proved or compromised his high position. Glorious-
ly, he passed into the sphere of idealities ; and as an ideal,
he is for ever living and for ever admirable. Herein too
there was something Greek in his good fortune; something
which assimilates him to the eternal youthfniness of Hel-
las, and to the adolescent heroes of mythology.

This should not divert our thoughts from the fact that

182

SIK PHILIP SIDNEY.

[CUAP.

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Sidney was essentially an Elizabethan gentleman. His
chivalry belonged to a period when knightly exercises were
still in vogue, when bravery attired itself in pomp, when the
Mort d'Anhur retained its fascination for youths of noble
nurture. Those legends needed then no adaptations from
a Laureate's golden quill to make them popular. Yet they
were remote enough to touch the soul with poetry, of
which the earlier and cruder associations had by time been
mellowed. Knight-errantry expressed itself in careers like
that of Stukeley, in expeditions like those of Drake and
Raleigh. Lancelot's and Tristram's love had passed through
the crucible of the Italian poets.

Sidney's piety was that of the Reformation, now at
length Accomplished and accepted in England after a se-
vere struggle. Unsapped by criticism, undimmed by cen-
turies of^'case and toleration, the Anglican faith acquired
reality and earnestness from the gravity of the European
situation. Spain threatened to enslave the world. The
Catholic reaction was rolling spiritual darkness, like a cloud,
northward, over nations wavering as yet between the old
and the new creed. Four years before his birth Loyola
founded the Company of Jesus. During his lifetime this
Order invaded province after province, spreading like leav-
en through populations on the verge of revolt against
Rome. The Council of Trent began its sessions while he
was in his cradle. Its work was finished, the final rupture
of the Latin Church with Protestantism was accomplished,
twenty-three years before his death at Zutphen. lie grew
to bovhood during .Mary's reactionary r 'ign. It is well to
bear these dates in mind; they prove how exactly Sidney's
life corresponded with the first stage of renascent and bel-
ligerent Catholicism. The perils of the time, brought fear-
fully home to himself by his sojourn in Paris on the night

[ciui*.

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vni.]

EPILOGUE.

183

of St. Bartholomew, deepened religious convictions which
might otherwise have been but lightly licld by him. Yet
he was no Puritan, rrotcstaiitisni in England had as yet
hardly entered upon that phase of its development. It
was still possible to be sincerely godly (as thu liavl of Es-
sex called him), without sacrilicing the grace of life or the
urbanities of culture.

His education was in a true sense liberal. The new
leariiino- of the Italian Ilenaissance had recently taken root
in England, and tlie methods of the humanists were being
applied with enthusiasm in our public schools. Ancient
literature, including the philosophers and historians of Ath-
ens, formed the staple of a young man's intellectual train-
ing. Yet no class at once so frivolous and pedantic, so
servile and so vicious, as the Italian humanists, monopolised
the art of teaching. Roger Ascham, the tutor of princes;
Sir John Chekc, at Cambridge; Camden, at Westminster;
Thomas Ashton, at Shrewsbury, were men from whom
nothing but sound learning and good morals could be im-
bibed. England enjoyed the rare advantage of receiving
both Renaissance and Reformation at the same epoch.
The new learning came to our shores under the garb of
Erasmus rather than Filelfo. It was penetr-^ed with sober
piety and enlightened philosophy instead idle scepti-
cism and academical rhetoric. Thus the i'oundations of
Sidney's culture were broadly laid ; and he wap enabled to
build a substanti -uperslructure on them. No better
companion of liis oa.ly manhood could have been found
than Languet, who combined the refinements of souLhern
with tlio robust vigour of northern s liolarship. The acqui-
sition of French, Italian, Dutch, and Spanish led him to
compare modern authors with the classics; while his trav-
els through Europe brought him acquainted with various
39

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184

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap.

manners and with the leading men of several parties. An
education so complete and many-sided polished Sidney's
excellent natural parts, until he shone the mirror of accom-
plished gentlehood. He never forgot that, in his case,
studies had to be pursued, not as an end in themselves, but
as the means of fitting hiui for a public career. Diligent
as he was in the pursuit of knowledge, he did not suffer
himself to become a bookworm. Athletic exercises re-
ceived as much of his attention as poetry or logic. Con-
verse with men seemed to him more important than com-
munion with authors in their printed works. In a word, he
realised the ideal of Castiglione's courtier, and personified
Plato's Euphues, in whom music was tu balance gymnastic.
His breeding was that of a Court which had assumed
the polish of Italy and France, and with that polish some
of their vices and affectations. Yet the Court of Elizabeth
was, in the main, free from such corruption as disgraced
that of the Valois, and from such crimes as shed t sinister
light upon the society of Florence or Ferrara. It was purer
and more manly than the Court of James I., and even that
remained superior to the immoralities and effeminacies of
southern capitals. The queen, with all her faults, main-
tained a high standard among her servants. They repre-
sented the aristocracy of a whole and puissant nation,
united by common patriotism and inspired by enthusiasm
for their sovereign. Conflicting religious sympathies and
discordant political theories might divide them ; but in the
hour of danger, they served their country alike, as was
shown on the great day of the Spanish Armada.

Loyalty, at that epoch, still retained the sense of person-
al duty. The mediaival conviction that national well-being
depended on maintaining a hierarchy of classes, bound to-
gether by reciprocal obligations and ascending privileges,

' 1. 1,

j]i,\s

[chap.

VIII. J

EPILOGUE.

185

and presided over by a monarch who chiimed the allegiance
of all, had not broken down in England. This loyalty,
like Protestant piety, was braced by the peculiar dangers
of the State, and by the special perils to which the life of
a virgin queen was now exposed. It had little in common
with decrepit affection for a dynasty, or with such homage
as nobles paid their prince in the Italian despotisms. It
was fed by the belief that the commonwealth demanded
monarchy for its support. The Stuarts had not yet
brought the name of loyalty into contempt; and at the
same time this virtue, losing its feudal rigidity, assumed
something of romantic grace and poetic sentiment. Eng-
land was personified by the lady on the throne.

In his statesmanship, Sidney displayed the independent
spirit of a well-born Englishman, controlled by loyalty as
we have just described it. He was equally removed from
servility to his sovereign, and from the underhand subtle-
ties of a would-be Machiavelli. In serving the queen he
sought to serve the State. Ilis Epistle on the French
Match, and his Defence of Sir Henry Sidney's Irisli Ad-
ministration, revealed a candour rare amono; Elizabeth's
courtiers. With regard to England's policy in Europe, ho
declared for a bold, and possibly a too Quixotic interfer-
ence in foreign affairs. Surveying the struggle between
Catholicism and Protestantism, Spanish tyranny and na-
tional liberties, he apprehended the situation as one of ex-
treme gravity, and was by no means willing to ten)porise
or trifle with it. In his young-eyed enthusiasm, so differ-
ent from Burleigh's world-worn prudence, he desired that
Elizabeth should place herself at the head of an alliance of
the Reformed Powers. Mature experience of the home gov-
ernment, however, reduced these expectations; and Sidney

threw himself upon a romantic but well-weighed scheme
n

186

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[chap. Till.

':i'

of colonisation. In each case he recommended a great
policy, defined in its object, and worthy of a powerful
race, to the only people whom he thought capable of car-
rying it out effectively.

This kindly blending of many qualities, all of them Eng-
lish, all of them characteristic of Elizabethan England,
made Sir Piiilip Sidney the ideal of his generation, and for
us the sweetest interpreter of its best aspirations. The
essence of congruity, determining his private and his public
conduct, in so many branches of active life, caused a loving
nation to hail him as their Euphues. That he was not de-
void of faults, faults of temper in his dealings with friends
and servants, graver faults perhaps in his love for Stella,
adds to the reality of his character. Shelley was hardly
justified in calling him "Sublimely mild, a spirit without
spot." During those last hours upon his death-bed at Arn-
heim, he felt that much in his past life had been but vani-
ty, that some things in it called for repentance. But the evil
inseparable from humanity was conquered long before the
end. Few spirits so blameless, few so thoroughly prepared
to enter upon new spheres of activity and discipline, have
left this earth. The multitudes who knew him personally,
those who might have been jealous of him, and those who
owed him gratitude, swelled one chorus in praise of his nat-
ural goodness, his intellectual strength and moral beauty.
We who study his biography, and dwell upon their testi-
mony to his charm, derive from Sidney the noblest lesson
bequeathed by Elizabethan to Victorian England. It is a
lesson which can never lose its value for Greater Britain
also, and for that confederated empire which shall, if fate
defeat not the high aspirations of the Anglo-Saxon race,
arise to be the grandest birth of future time.

THE END.