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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 Ex Libris 
 ISAAC FOOT
 
 <B>of5cn 'ZvcacMt}) §ctkG 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 
 
 ARRANGED AND EDITED BV 
 
 SIDNEY C O L V I N 
 
 ILontion 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited 
 
 NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1902
 
 
 / Firs' Edition Jvly \Z'&° 
 
 / RcJ'rintcd Si-ptcml'cr \ZZ2, 1S83, 1885, 1889, iSoo, 1894, 1895, 1902
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 When lately it was my privilege to contribute a sketch 
 of Landor's life to Mr. Morley's justly popular series of 
 English Men of Lcttas, I could not but be conscious 
 that hardly by one in ten or twenty among my readers 
 was very much likely to be known of him beyond his 
 name. Warmly as his writings have always been praised 
 by a few, with llie main body of the reading public they 
 have failed hitherto to make their way. There exists, 
 however, a curiosity aliout Landor, and a desire to know 
 him better : even the reception of the sketch in question, 
 following as it dfd"~within a few years^ or^ the second 
 edition of Mr. P"orster's detailed Life, helps, if I may 
 say as much, to prove it. Who, indeed, would not be 
 curious ? Who, that had once had his attention called 
 towards it, could fail to be interested in so original and 
 so imposing a figure ? Hut strong as is the interest which 
 Landor's personality is calculated to excite, the interest 
 excited by his work in literature should be stronger still. 
 The virtues of the writer, indeed, like those of the 
 man, are far from being unobstructed or complete, 
 and with his best work not a iitUe that is unacceptable 
 is mixed up. But what most distinguishes Landor from 
 other English writers is not his incompleteness ; it is 
 not his combination of high excellences with disconcert- 
 ing faults : it is the character of those excellences them- 
 selves that most distinguishes him ; it is the exceptional 
 aim and direction of his art. • '"
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 Landor's position may in general terms be best defined 
 by saying that he was a classic writing in a romantic age. 
 In calling him a classic, I do not of course refer merely 
 to his scholarship, or to the fact that a considerable part 
 of his work deals with subjects of ancient Greece and 
 Rome. It is true that Landor was a scholar, and in 
 Latin especially a scholar of unusual jpower and attain- 
 ments. The acquisitions of his Rugby days^'vivified by 
 imagination and strengthened by after-study, remained 
 with him always ; and he wrote and thought in Latin as 
 naturally and as willingly as iti English. Probably no 
 other writer has illuminated with stronger flaslies of 
 poetical insight a more familiar book-knowledge of Rome. 
 And certainly no other writer so trained on thoughts of 
 Rome, none so steeped in Latinity, has had an equally 
 just appreciation of the genius and the charm of Hellas. 
 Both in style and sentiment Laiidor's writing was vitally 
 influenced by Latin models ; but from the first he real- 
 ised for himself, what the classical scholarship of his 
 age was only then beginning to realise, the essential 
 inferiority of the Roman genius to the Greek."~'Hej)ut 
 Greece in her right place ; and if his Athenian statesmen 
 and orators, if the Pericles and Phocion and Demosthenes 
 of his creation are apt, by a certain self-conscious and 
 set dignity of attitude, to recall Roman rather than 
 Greek originals, yet when it comes to the true enchanted 
 world of Hellas, to scenes or narratives from the beauti- 
 ful undecaying Greek mythology, here Landor is perfectly 
 at home ; with admirable grace, freedom, and fitness he 
 creates figures that move and act, and suffer and are con- 
 soled, in the " gravely-gladsome light " of that imaginary 
 world : ■ ' " 
 
 " And through the ti-umpet of a child of Rome 
 Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece." 
 
 Concerning this part of Landor's work, taken at its 
 best, Mr. Swinburne has in those two felicitous lines 
 said the last word. 
 
 It is not scholarship, however, it is not a predilection
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 for classic subjects, nor even a happy art in handling 
 them, that can make a writer that which we understand 
 by the word classical as distinguished from that which 
 we understand by^the word romantic. The distinction 
 lies deeper, and is a distinctionliiuch less of subject than 
 of treatment, altliough to some subjects the one mode 
 of treatment may be more appropriate, and to some 
 the other. And here let us listen to Landor himself. 
 "The classical, like the heroic age," writes he in his 
 epistle to the author of Festus, 
 
 " Is past ; but poetry may re-assume 
 That glorious name with Tartar and with Turk, 
 With Goth or Arab, Sheik or Paladin, 
 And not with Roman or with Greek alone. 
 The name is graven on the workmanship." 
 
 "The name is graven on the workmanship," and to 
 define for our present purpose the difference between the 
 classical and the romantic modes of workmanship : in 
 classical writing every idea is called up to the mind as 
 nakedly as possible, and at the same time as distinctly ; 
 it is exhibited in white light, and left to produce its 
 effect by its own unaided power. In romantic writ- 
 ing, on the other hand, all objects are exhibited as it 
 were through a coloured and iridescent atmosphere. 
 Round about every central idea the romantic writer sum- 
 mons up a cloud of accessory and subordinate ideas for 
 the sake of enhancing its effect, if at the risk of confus- 
 ing its outlines. The temper, again, of the romantic writer 
 is one of excitement, while the temper of tbe classical 
 writer is one of self-possession. No matter what the power 
 of his subject, the classical writer does not fail to assert his \ 
 mastery over it and over himself, while the romantic writer ? 
 seems as though his subject were ever on the point of 
 dazzling and carrying him away. On the one hand there 
 is calm, on the other hand enthusiasm T~'tTie virtues of 
 the one style are strength of grasp, with clearness and 
 justice of presentment : the virtues of the other style are 
 glow of spirit, with magic and richness of suggestion. Of 
 
 h
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 imaginative literature in England the main effort has fron. 
 the first been romantic The Elizabethans were essentially 
 romantic, some of thein extravagantly so : Shakespeare, 
 who' Could write in all manners, was in a preponderating 
 degree romantic, and never more so than in his treat- 
 ment of Greek and Roman themes. To quote again the 
 same critical epistle of Landoi-'s own, 
 
 " Shakespeare with majesty benign called up 
 The obedient classics from their marble seat, 
 And led thera through dim glen and sheeny glade. 
 And over precipices, over seas 
 Unknown by mariner, to palaces 
 High-arch'd, to festival, to dance, to joust. 
 And gave them golden spur and vizor barred. 
 And steeds that Pheidias had turned pale to see." 
 
 Of the great English poets, Milton was the most classical, 
 beholding the vast images that filled his mind's eye in 
 steady rather than in iridescent light, defining them when 
 they are capable of definition, and maintaining a majestic 
 self-possession in their presence. In Paradise Lost the 
 images indeed are often such as no power could define : 
 the perfection of the classical style In Milton^s work is to 
 be found rather in Samson Agonistes and in some of the 
 sonnets ; while in Paradise Regained the characteristics 
 of the style are pushed to excess. Then followed an 
 age, the age of Anne and the first Georges, of which the 
 literature claimed for itself the title of classical, and was 
 indeed marked by uncommon qualities of clearness, calm- 
 ness, and precision. But then it was not a literature of 
 imagination ; it was only a literature of the understand- 
 ing and fancy. In the regions of the imagination, of 
 poetry in the higher sense, the literature of that age rarely 
 laid hold of the object at all ; it dealt, not in realities, 
 but in literaiy counters and catchwords bearing a merely 
 conventional value to the mind. By the time when 
 Landor began to write, people were getting tired of this 
 conventional literary currency, and learning to crave for 
 something real in poetry. His immediate contemporaries 
 were Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Southey, iLamb; 
 
 J-. ■' ■J^^*^J ^ p^WJ^«f
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 spirits bom to unlock again for the English race the sealed f 
 treasufe-honses of the poetical imagination. i 
 
 Neither in choice of subject nor in treatment was the 
 work of these men, nor that of the yet more fervid spirits 
 who soon followed them, of Byron, Shelley, and Keats, 
 deliberately or consistently romantic in the same sense as 
 that of a certain group of contemporary writers in Ger- 
 many was romantic, and still more that of the brilliant 
 and acutely self-conscious group who assumed the title a 
 generation afterwards in France. In the work of the 
 English writers of this age, the romantic and the classical 
 modes of treatment are mixed. The romantic mode, 
 however, prevails ; as in an age of re-awakening, an age 
 of imaginative conquest and discovery, enthusiasm is the 
 temper to be expected, and the light wherein objects 
 naturally appear is the vibrating or coloured light, the 
 halo, as it is commonly called, of romance. Scott and 
 Coleridge in their early days both copied the rBBTantic 
 models" of Germany. A few years later Scott was 
 to figure in the eyes of all Europe as the great itiaster of 
 the romance of Scottish scenery and of the mediaeval past, 
 and a few later again, Byron as the great master of the 
 romance of travel, and of social and religious revolt. 
 Meanwhile Coleridge had already written, in the Ancient 
 Mariner and Chrislabcl and Kubla Kha7t, examples of a 
 romantic poetry more highly wrought and more magical in 
 suggestion than any work either of Scott or Byron. Lamb, 
 in alliance v«th Coleridge, had made himself the apostle 
 of the romantic spirit as it is exhibited in the old English 
 drama and lyric. Southey, whose natural gifts and in- 
 stincts were for the classical manner of writing, tried hard 
 to write romantically, and did so in a few ballads, but in 
 epics like Thalaba and Kehanta compassed little of the true 
 romantic beyond remoteness of subject and irregularity of 
 form. Wordsworth, the most determined enemy of false 
 classicism, was in much of his writing truly classical. 
 Tlie qualities of Wordsworth's work on which Mr. 
 Matthew Arnold with so much justice insists, when he
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 t 
 
 speaks of his style as being " bald as the bare mountain- 
 tops are bald, with a baldness fullTJfgrand'eur," or again 
 as a style " relying solely on the weight and force of that 
 which with entire fidelity it utters," those are qualities dis- 
 tinctively characteristic of the classical manner in litera- 
 ' ture. It is, of course, true that from many of Wordsworth's 
 utterances the indispensable elements of weight and force 
 » are wanting : there is a large part of his work wherein 
 5 either the themes are too trifling, or the thoughts are 
 I too sterile, to sustain and dignify a classical treatment, 
 I There is also another part of it, and that the part which 
 many of us most value, wherein he writes under the 
 dominion of emotions and ideas having their sources too 
 far withdrawn in the depths of our nature to be perfectly 
 grasped, strongly as Wordsworth by comparison with 
 any other writer has grasped them. It is not indeed to 
 the romantic manner, nevertheless it is to a suggestive 
 and adumbrative manner quite distinct from the classical, 
 that Wordsworth's writing in these latter moods belongs : 
 and they are the moods which yielded him his inspiring 
 revelations of a spiritual power in nature ; his commun- 
 ings with 
 
 " The humaivsoul of Universal Earth 
 Dreaming on things to come ; " 
 his 
 
 " sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused ;' 
 
 his imperfectly recovered pictures of the mind, accom- 
 panied 
 
 "with gleams of half-extinguished thought. 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity." 
 
 To Landor this portion of Wordsworth's work had little 
 meaning : he had little interest in any ideas but' those 
 , which could be perfectly grasped, and exhibited in pre- 
 * cise lineaments like the shapes of antique gods. From 
 the beginning the peculiar aim and direction of his art made 
 themselves apparent. While Wordsworth and Coleridge 
 were meditating among the Qua ntock H ills their vol ume
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 of Lyrical Ballads, to which Wordsworth contributed his 
 Lines on-RevtstHng- Tint'irH Ab'dey^~2inii: XZoltr'idgt his 
 Ancient Maj-iner, Landor was wandering beside the 
 estuaries of Caermarthenshire, alone with Pindar and 
 Milton, and meditating his narrative poem of Gebir. 
 The theme which he had chosen, a confused quasi- 
 oriental theme of primeval warfare and enchantment, 
 was pre-eminently suggestive of a romantic treatment. 
 The treatment Landor attempted to apply to it was 
 classical. The result as a whole is marred by excessive 
 condensation of meaning and abruptness of transition, 
 but has always powerfully impressed poets and students of 
 poetry by the precise and strong presentment of its indi- 
 vidual images. We are in a land of incantation ; but 
 there is nothing undefined or vague about the nature of 
 the perils that environ us. We approach the ruined city 
 of Masar. " Begone," cries the weird woman of the ruins, 
 " Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn 
 
 The cormorant in his solitary haunt 
 
 Of insulated rock or sounding cove 
 
 Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for prey." 
 
 Or we descend into the kingdom of the damned, and 
 hear the sound of the infernal river — 
 
 " A river rolling in its bed, 
 Not rapid— that would rouse the wretched souls, 
 Not calmly— that would lull them to repose. 
 But with dull weary lapses it still heaved 
 Billows of bale, heard low, but heard afar." 
 
 For this accurate and firm definition of things, however 
 visionary and unearthly, the romantic mariner substitutes 
 a thrilling vagueness and confusion, as for instance in 
 the Ancient Marina- — 
 
 " And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
 Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken, 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 " The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 The ice was all around ; 
 It cracked and groaned and roared and howled, 
 Like noises in a swound."
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 Similarly in the description of beauty, the type, the per 
 fection of romantic workmanship is Shakespeare's — 
 
 " Rubies unparagon'd, 
 How dearly they do 't ! 'Tis her breathing that 
 Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper 
 Bows towards her, and would under-peep her hds. 
 To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
 Under those windows, white and azure, laced 
 With blue of heaven's own tinct." 
 
 Landor can realise the presence and the charm of beauty 
 with a vividness and a delicacy not so far behind those of 
 Shakespeare himself : but it is in another manner : he 
 trusts to the simple facts, and does not suffer himself to 
 go beyond them : he shows us beauty, even under the 
 most enchanting circumstances, not in this tremulous and 
 coruscating light, but in quiet light, thus — 
 " Downcast were her long eye-lashes, and pale 
 
 Her cheek, but never mountain ash displayed 
 
 Berries of colour like her lip so pure, 
 
 Nor were the anemones about her hair 
 
 Soft, smooth, and wavering like her face beneath." 
 
 In the interpretation of scenery, again, compare the 
 
 woodland twilight of Keats— 
 
 " But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways : " 
 
 compare these and the beautiful lines that follow them — 
 " I cannot tell what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs," 
 
 with a twilight of Landor's — 
 
 "Within how few minutes has the night closed in upon us; 
 Nothing is left discernible of the promontories, or the long irregular 
 breakers under them. We have before us only a faint glimmering 
 from the shells in our path, and from the blossoms of the arbutus." 
 
 The presence of the twilight and its spell are in the work 
 of Landor not less keenly felt and realised than in the 
 work of Keats, only they are felt and realised in a widely 
 different manner. Neither is the difference merely that 
 between the poetical and the prose form of expression ; it 
 is that between one mood or temper of imaginative work
 
 PREFACE. Xin 
 
 and another. The romantic manner, the manner of 
 Shakespeare and Coleridge and Keats, with its thrill- 
 ing uncertainties and its rich suggestions, may be more 
 attractive than the classic manner, with its composed and 
 measured preciseness of statement. Nay, we may go 
 further, and say that it is in the romantic manner that the 
 highest pitch of poetry has assuredly been reached : in 
 the perfect and felicitous specimens of that manner 
 English poetry has given us something more poetical even 
 than Greece or Rome ever gave us. But on the other 
 hand the romantic manner lends itself, as the true classi- 
 cal does not, to inferior work. Second-rate conceptions 
 excitedly and approximately put into words derive from 
 it an illusive attraction which may make them for a time, 
 and with all but the coolest judges, pass as first-rate. 
 Whereas about true classical writing there can be no 
 illusion. Tf presents to us conceptions' caltnly realised 
 in words that exactly define them, conceptions depending 
 for their attraction, not on their halo, but on themselves •, 
 it relies for its value "solely on the weight and force of 
 that which with entire fidelity it utters," or if not on 
 these qualities solely, at least on them together with our 
 sense of mastery and of fitness in the utterance. 
 
 To write in this strong and severe manner was con- 
 sciously Landor's aim from the beginning. The question 
 next arises, what is the value of the conceptions which he 
 in this manner seeks to present to us ; what were the 
 powers of mind which he brought to bear on the busi- 
 ness of literature as he conceived it ? To almost every 
 English writer, himself of high power, from the days of the 
 first publication of Gebir to our own, Landor's natural and 
 acquired gifts have seemed to be of the first order. Who 
 indeed that has ever read him can doubt it ? In an age 
 of distinguished spirits, he was for height and range of 
 power unquestionably one of the most distinguished. 
 Neither were his natural gifts more remarkable than the 
 strenuousness with which he cultivated them. From a 
 lower, or at least a far more broken, level of character
 
 xiv PREFACE. 
 
 than Milton, Landor through all his length of days 
 devoted himself to great thoughts and studies with a 
 persistence resembling Milton's own, and with an equally 
 scornful withdrawal of himself from vulgar pleasures and 
 ambitions. It is true that he was not one of those spirits 
 in the age who opened up new intellectual or moral 
 horizons, or revealed new sources of imaginative suste- 
 nance to the mind. Rather he kept his gaze fastened 
 on objects which have an equal value for eveiy age, 
 on the knovra actions and heroic shapes of history, and 
 on the great permanent conditions of human life and 
 experience. On these he mused with not less absorption 
 than independence of spirit, his familiarity with the best 
 literature being turned to account by him in avoiding rather 
 than in repeating the thoughts of others. He had a soul 
 in love with heroism, in love with freedom, in love with 
 beauty, and as ardent in indignation as in compassion. He 
 had a strong and finely-touched imagination, and a mascu- 
 line and confident understanding, in which robust preju- 
 dice and perfect lack of prejudice were strangely blended. 
 The master faculty in his mind was certainly the poetic 
 or imaginative faculty. This in his creative work ranges 
 with equal assurance from the extreme of strength to the 
 extreme of tenderness. In images of terror what other 
 writer has shown greater daring, or a firmer stroke, than 
 Landor in a picture like this of the funera;i pyre con- 
 suming the last survivor among the besieged citizens of 
 Numantia ? 
 
 " He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the gaunt 
 Hnks of his throat, and upon gnarled knees, that smote each other 
 audibly, tottered into the civic fire. It, like some hungry and 
 strangest beast on the innermost wild of Africa, pierced, broken, 
 prostrate, motionless, gazed at by its hunter in the impatience of 
 glory, in the delight of awe, panted once more, and seized him !" 
 
 Beside instances of this kind, where for force of 
 grasp Lander's hand resembles that of his own Count 
 Julian — " the hand," as Julian says to Roderick;- 
 " that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, 
 And held thy steeds erect and motionless 
 As molten statues on some palace gates"—
 
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 beside instances like this, it would be easy to set others 
 in which he is no less admirable for tenderness of touch. 
 In dealing with womanhood ah J infancy, ahd especially 
 when his theme takes him into the house of mourning, 
 Landor can surpass all except the very greatest writers 
 by the depth of his intuition, by the exquisite delicacy 
 of his approach ; his dealings with human weakness and 
 affliction are then like those dealings with the flowers 
 which he tells us of — 
 
 " I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
 And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup 
 Of the pure hly hath between my hands 
 Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold." * 
 
 Even in work that is not creative, nor in its main 
 intention poetical, even in reflective and discursive 
 writing, it is from the poetic faculty that Landor's 
 thoughts derive miiciT of their colour. It h,a.s been said /f / 
 
 of him with great justice by Mr. I-owell, that in the "" ^ f f 
 
 region of discursive thought we cannot so properly call 
 him a greaf thmTver, 'as a ihan who had great thoughts. 
 For a great thinker the operations of his mind were too 
 unsysteinatic. Judgments, indeed, he framed and ex- 
 pressed on many of the great topics of human medita- 
 tion, but isolated judgments standing each by itself, and 
 not connected by any ratiocinative process with one 
 another. Of these judgments some are marked by an 
 original and benignant wisdom, others by headstrong 
 prejudice, others again represent in a weighty and lucid 
 form the average conclusions of mankind. But it is 
 characteristic of Landor's thinking in all moods alike, 
 that for every conclusion of his understanding he has an 
 imaginative similitude always ready, and often a' whole 
 cluster of them. These similitudes of Landor's serve 
 sometimes to disguise mtJi'e or less effectively a fallacy; 
 and sometimes admirably to illuminate and recommend 
 a truth : but few thoughts of his are complete vnthout 
 them ; and in his typical thoughts the judgment and
 
 XVI PREFACF^ 
 
 the similitude are inseparable. When Landor, for in- 
 stance, says, " The noble mansion is most distinguished 
 by the beautiful images iTrelains^of TJemgs passe'd away ; 
 and so is the noble mind," that is one of his typical 
 thoughts concerning life ; and again it is one of his 
 tj'pical thoughts concerning literature when he says, of 
 the mixture of fact and fiction in the early legends of a 
 people — ■"" ' ' " 
 
 "What was vague imaginalion settles at last and is received for 
 history. It is difficult to effect and idle to attempt the separation : 
 it is like breaking off a beautiful crystallisation from the vault of 
 some intricate and twilight cavern, out of mere curiosity to see 
 where the accretion terminates and the rock begins." 
 
 In the illustrations from Landor's writing which have 
 thus far occurred to us, and even in those quoted ex- 
 pressly to illustrate his poetical or imaginative power, 
 examples in prose have found place interchangeably 
 with examples in verse. The reason is, that in his 
 prose Landor could be at least as poetical as in his 
 verse. To say this is of course to imply for his poetry 
 properly so called a certain measure of condemnation. 
 The born poet is not himself except in verse ; he finds 
 in its effects his ideal delight, and in its laws the truest 
 freedom. Landor wrote in verse abundantly and well, 
 but hardly with the full instinct of the born poet. His 
 verse has many fine qualities, now of stateliness and 
 weight, now of grace, clearness, and crispness, and 
 always of sobriety and vigour ; but it lacks the perfection 
 of spontaneous charm, it even lacks something of the 
 born poet's certainty of ear. Landor was a great 
 admirer and student of the harmonies of Milton," but in 
 analysing them he seems not imlrequenny to miss the 
 mark ; and his own verse is Miltonic only by the 
 majesty of single lines and phrases. The variety and 
 continuity of harmony in IVIirron's blank verseplits pro- 
 longed, involved, and sustained movements, what De 
 Quincey calls its "solemn planetary wheelings," it was 
 beyond his means to rival. De Quincey has chosen a
 
 PREFACE. xvn 
 
 fine passage of Landor's blank verse, and has shown 
 with great justice and ingenuity how by a simple 
 change, which did not occur to its author, its move- 
 ment might have been amplified and enriched. The 
 passage is from Landor's tragedy of Count Julian, where 
 Hernando says of Julian — " 
 
 " No airy and light passion stirs abroad 
 To ruffle or to soothe him ; all are quell'd 
 Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind. 
 Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved, 
 Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men ; 
 As oftentimes an eagle, ere the sun 
 Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray, 
 Stands solitary, stands immovable 
 Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, 
 Clear, constant, unobservant, unabnsed. 
 In the cold light, above the dews of mom," 
 
 " One change," says De Quincey in commenting on 
 this passage, "suggests itself to me as possibly for the 
 better, viz. if the magnificent line — - 
 
 'Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men,' 
 were transferred to the secondary object, the eagle, and 
 placed after what is now the last line, it would give a 
 fuller rythmus to the close of the entire passage ; it would 
 be more literally applicable to the majestic and solitary 
 bird than to the majestic and solitary man " — at which 
 point we may break off from De Quincey, whose sug- 
 gestion, so far at least as concerns thfe rhythm of the 
 passage, needs only to be tried in order to be accepted. 
 It is perhaps after all in the lighter vein of blank verse 
 that Landor's happiest effects are attained ; for instance 
 in the blank verse of the Hellenics, — 
 
 " Onward the vessel flew ; the skies again 
 
 Shone bright, and thunder roli'd along, not wroth, 
 But gently murmuring to the white- wing'd sails," — 
 
 or in the blank verse of the meditative and elegiac 
 pieces, — 
 
 " Thou sleepest not forgotten, nor unmourn'd. 
 
 Beneath the chestnut shade of St. Germain. 
 
 Meanwhile I wait the hour of my repose," —
 
 XVIll PREFACE. 
 
 while occasionally, even in his good work, he exhibits 
 
 I instances of metrical poverty like this — 
 " Aeon had grieved, he said, grieved bitterly, 
 But Aeon had complied ; 'twas dutiful." 
 
 k In his odes and irregular lyrics Landor has fine flight; 
 
 ■ alternately with awkward pauses and declensions, not 
 of sound only, but sometimes of sense also. In cast- 
 ing, as he was in the habit of doing, his daily medita- 
 tions into homelier metres, into the couplet or quatrain 
 of eight-syllable lines, he was often extremely happy. 
 He handles these fonns in a manner almost as neat and 
 bright as that of Prior, with a touch from time to time of 
 weightier thought "tflid higher poetry than any of which 
 the age of Prior was capable : and the only thing to be 
 
 (said against his best work in this vein is that it is almost 
 too classically direct and simple ; so devoid is it of trick 
 or mannerism as to be in style almost impersonal. 
 
 On the whole, then, fine as is much of Landor's work 
 in verse, justly as examples of it must claim a place in 
 any collection of his writings, we shall agree with his 
 
 (own estimate when he treats it as the work, compara- 
 tively speaking, of an amateur : comparatively, that is, 
 to his work in prose. " Poetry was always my amuse- 
 ment, prose my study and business." In fact it is in 
 prose that Landor's powers and his cultivation of them 
 make themselves most truly felt. Of the very few 
 English wiiters who have written prose like artists or like 
 masters, Landor, whether he is read by few or many, 
 must always b'e' counted among the first. There are 
 limits, indeed, to the excellence of his prose, in that its 
 structure is too regular and firm for perfect freedom. Its 
 affinities are with the prose of the best Latin rather thfi:i 
 with that of the best Greek writers: with Latin, "the 
 expression of law," as Professor Jebb has admirably put 
 it, rather than with Greek, " the voice of life." But of this 
 severely regulated and measured prose, this prose which 
 is as deliberately removed from the casualness of common 
 speech as the figures of ideal sculpture are removed from
 
 PREFACE. XIX 
 
 the casualness of common life, of this severe and senten- 
 tious prose Landor's writing furnishes in English the best 
 example. That he is never stiff and never declamatory 
 would be too much to say ; but these are the incidental 
 blemishes of a style which in its kind often reaches per- 
 fection. Landor's feeling for the value and weight of words 
 was of that sort'wliTch comes from a habitual conversance 
 with the best writers, and with the best writers only; and 
 his choice of them is as sound and scrupulous as is the 
 stracture of his sentences. He imitates no model, but 
 when he aims at effects of pomp he can be as majestic 
 as any of the great seventeenth - century masters of elo- 
 quence, from Hooker to Milton himself, without their 
 tendency to involution of thought and entanglement of 
 clauses ; and when he aims at effects of simplicity he can 
 be as plain as the great eighteenth-centuiy masters of easy 
 prose, as Addison or Goldsmith, without their tendency 
 to negligence and triviality. There is besides about 
 everything he utters an air of authority and breeding, 
 there is a lofty tone at once peremptoiy and urbane, 
 which^is wholly personal. Especially is Landor dis- 
 tinguished by the beauty of sound in his single sentences. 
 Instances of this beauty we need not give ; the pages 
 that follow are full of them. Such is the haimony of his 
 best prose that strains of it haunt'tlie: ear and memory 
 with an effect almost as pleasurable and stirring as strains 
 of verse. At the same time few writers have been farther 
 removed from the fault of breaking up their prose into the 
 fixed and recurrent rhythms of verse itself. No one, again, 
 is less open to the charge of constnicting harmonies in 
 the air, or cultivating effects of sound apart from sense. 
 Excess rather than poverty of meaning is at all times char- 
 acteristic of Landor's writing ; and in theory he objects to 
 any beauty of style except that which proceeds from the 
 rigidly accurate and just expression of ideas. "Never 
 look abroad for any kind of ornament ; Apollo, either as 
 the god of day, or the slayer of the Python, had nothing 
 about him to obscure his clearness, or impede his
 
 XX PREFACE. 
 
 strength." " Natural sequences and right subordination 
 of thoughts, and that just proportion of lumbers in the 
 sentences which follows a strong conception, are the 
 constituents of true harmony." And again, "Whatever 
 is rightly said, sounds rightly." " I hate false ^rds, 
 and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness, those that 
 fit the thing." It is a new revelation of the beauty and 
 nobility of the English tongue, it is a testimony at the 
 same time to the power and selection of his thoughts, 
 that Landor, writing as he in general does with due 
 observance of his ovra principles, produces strains of a 
 harmony so masculine and full. 
 
 With these high gifts and powers, then ; with his 
 range and energy of imagination and thought, and his love 
 for what all love, for heroism, beauty, and freedom ; with 
 his vigorous and pure, if somewhat unequal and im- 
 personal style in poetry, and with his prose style which 
 is in its kind unrivalled ; how is it that Landor has not 
 taken a more prominent place among the acknowledged 
 great writers of his country ? How is it that even by 
 those who would not dispute his rank he is nevertheless 
 so little read ? The answer to these questions has been 
 partly given already. The classical manner in literature 
 for one thing, in which Landor by instinct and on principle 
 wrote, appeals necessarily to a smaller public than the 
 romantic manner. Necessarily, because classical writing 
 asks more of the reader than romantic, and in a certain 
 sense does less for him. The classical writer assumes 
 that his reader will estimate for himself the ideas which 
 are presented to him : the romantic writer eagerly pro- 
 claims the impressiveness of his own ideas as he presents 
 them. The classical writer handles great thoughts and 
 images, and even great passions, collectedly, like one 
 accustomed, and expecting his reader to be accustomed, 
 to none other. The romantic writer from whatever he 
 handles catches fire, and his fire is contagious ; his ex- 
 citement breeds excitement in the reader ; and a public 
 wh.ich is slow to appreciate the grave reality of power
 
 PREFACE. XXI 
 
 and passion in a poem like Wordsworth's Affliction of 
 Margaret, is eager in its appreciation ~6T the clamorous 
 paraae of power and passion in a poem like Byron's 
 Corsair. The classical writer, in a word, appeals only , 
 to flibse who know for themselves what is good : the 
 romantic writer appeals to everybody, and is often ap. 
 predated above his value. Landor knew this perfectly 
 well, and deliberately narrowed his appeal to the few. 
 But the responSS'ToasTjeen even more limited and longer 
 in coming than he foresaw. There is in every generation 
 a public, although not a large one, which can enjoy the 
 best literature for itself, and for whom the classical 
 manner of writing is, in itself no stumbling-block, but an 
 attraction. Yet even of this public, not many in each 
 generation have thus far been attracted to Landor ; it is 
 only the minority of this minority who have enjoyed himr 
 One reason is that, allied with Landor's scornful and 
 not unworthy disregard of vulgar favour, there was also 
 in him a want of legitimate literary tact. The opera- f 
 tions of his mind were goverriedv not by sympathy with \ 
 the minds of others, but exclusively by private impulse. * 
 Moreover, and this is the worst, those operations were 
 in their nature peculiarly inconsecutive. With all his 
 great and various powers, and With all his serious and 
 strenuous cultivation of them, Landor was deficient in the 
 instincts of sequence and connection. The energies of 
 his mind' were inexhaustible, but its workings, whether > 
 of imagination or of thought, consisted not so much of 
 coherent trains as of independent and imperfectly con- 
 nected acts. Hence an abruptness, a lack of organic con- 
 struction and evolution, whereby the interest of the reader 
 is constantly subject to be baffled and disappointed. 
 Hence also, and from the further failure of instinct to per- 
 ceive where a reader is likely to be ignorant of an allusion, 
 or to be baffled by a suppression, or to miss drawing an 
 inference or catching a clue, arises in Landor's work the 
 occasional fault of actual obscurity. He was determined 
 to say nothing" superfluous, fitid nothing, if it" could be
 
 XXll PREFACE. 
 
 avoided, that another had said before him ;' but to be ob- 
 scure was the very opposite of his desire. It is a failure 
 of his art, as he himself acknowledges, when he is so. 
 
 No estimate of Lander or of his powers can be just in 
 which these shortcomings are not acknowledged. They 
 condemned to comparative futility the efforts of the first 
 twenty-five years of his literary career ; the years during 
 which the vital work of his contemporaries, Wordsworth, 
 Scott, and Coleridge, and even of his juniors, Byron, 
 Shelley, and Keats, was accomplished. During those 
 years, besides a few love-poems and elegies, Landor's chief 
 productions in literature had been Gebir, Count Julian, 
 and the Latin Idyllia Heroica. In spite bfits original and 
 powerfully grasped imagery, Gebi}- as a narrative poem 
 fails by over-condensation and abrupTness. Count Jiilian, 
 in spite of its sublime conception and some "^pregnant 
 passages, fails as a tragedy for want of right construc- 
 tion and evolution. To have written the Idyllia Heroica 
 at all, at least under the impression that TSOMiiterary 
 fame was to be won by exercises of that kind, however 
 masterly, showed a misapprehension of the relations of 
 scholarship to life. It was not until after 1820 that 
 Landor began the I/naginary Conversations, the produc- 
 tion of which, and of the three books that are each a 
 kind of separate and amplified imaginary conversation, 
 the Examination of Shakspeare, Pericles and Aspasia, 
 and T)ie Pentameron, constitutes his most solid title 
 to glory. In no other form of composition could his 
 powers have found larger scope than in this ; in no 
 other could defect of strict evolution, and of tact in tak- 
 ing the reader with him, tell less against him. But 
 even in this free and unexacting form of composition, 
 those defects do nevertheless tell against Landor heavily. 
 Readers, the minority of a minority, who love the great 
 quafiKes of imagination and thought and style too well 
 to let anything deter them from their enjoyment, have 
 felt the defects and overcome them. Less tenacious 
 readers feel them and are deterred.
 
 PREFACE. XXin 
 
 The Imaginary Conversations of Landor divide them- 
 selves rougKTy into two classes : one of short and stirring 
 scenes, scenes of emdtion~'and generally also of action : 
 the other of long and quiet scenes, scenes mainly of dis- 
 cussion and reflection. Over and above the strength 
 and purity of style which are common to all alike, 
 Landor 's more impassioned dialogues derive their value 
 from his fine poetic and historic sense in the choice of 
 characters and situations (though like an artist he makes 
 of history his servant and not his'master), from his chiv- 
 alrous ideals of behaviour and sentiment, and from his 
 admirable strokes of insight into the heart. In types 
 of heroism and tenderness he is often a true dramatic 
 creator, though not in those of meanness or cruelty, 
 which he constructs from the outside, fiercely and satiri- 
 cally. But even in these short scenes, written in a form 
 which does not demand much strictness of evolution, 
 we are often aware of disconcerting gaps and breaks of 
 sequence in the chain of the emotions ; and sometimes, too, 
 of passages where the posture and rhetoric merely of the 
 situation, and not its real emotions, are presented to us. 
 In the longer dialogues Landor made comparatively 
 little attempt at dramatic character or creation. Rather 
 he selected and brought together the variouj personages 
 of history, in order to distribute among them the matter 
 of his own incessant and lofty meditations. Tn his own 
 likeness created he them, sometimes with a paradoxical 
 neglect, but oftener with just sufficient observance, of 
 probabilities. The virtues of this class of convereations 
 are their extraordinary energy, fulness, and ripeness of 
 thought and imagery, and the fine sense of dignity and 
 urbanity, of grace, and sometimes of humour, which is 
 shown in the intercourse of the personages. Their faults 
 are the frequent intrusion of irrelevant apologues and 
 disquisitions, with a want of argumentative sequence, and 
 of sufficient organic connection between one part of the 
 same dialogue and another. They are full of noble things, 
 but they rarely " go," or only for a few pages at a time. 
 
 c
 
 XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 The reader who in the midst of his admiration asks him- 
 self whither he is progressing, and to what end being 
 conducted from wliat beginning, is often obliged to 
 acknowledge that he has not been progressing at all, but 
 only, as Mr. Leslie Stephen in his acute though unsym- 
 pathetic criticism puts it, "marking time." And, un- 
 fortunately, where sequence is \ffahtihg, where the reader 
 does not feel himself led on by some coherent chain 
 either of reasoning or feeling, though admiration may 
 indeed be excited, yet interest can hardly by any 
 possible combination of excellences be detained. 
 
 Landor's indomitable, solitary activity was only brought 
 to an en37'a"§~6vefy one knows, in our own day, long after 
 all his contemporaries had gone to rest. His last twenty- 
 five years were devoted to the production, in prose, of more 
 Imaginary Conversations, with many occasional utterances 
 on the political circumstances of the day ; and in verse, 
 of more dramas and dramatic scenes, with a new class 
 of narrative poems, the Hellenics, shorter, lighter, and 
 brighter than those of his ^outh, and the best of them 
 contributing a real and brilliant addition to the poetical 
 literature of the century ; besides an abundance of occa- 
 sional" verses,' oTten full of a fine meditative grace, and 
 touched as few things in literature are touched with the 
 mellowness and dignity of patriarchal age. 
 
 In the series of seven stout volumes wherein alone 
 these various writings of Landor are now easily acces- 
 sible, while there is much which every one who reads at 
 all might be expected to know and care for, there is much 
 also in which only the professed student of literature can 
 take interest. The object of the present Golden Treasury 
 is not to effect a complete separation of the acceptable from 
 the unacceptable parts of Landor's work : such a separation 
 would be in fact impossible, moreover the bulk of what 
 is good would far exceed the limits of our undertaking : 
 it is to present in a convenient and familiar shape such 
 a selection of his best work as shall fairly represent the 
 range and variety of his powers. Verse, from the nature
 
 PREFACE. XXV 
 
 of the case, finds a place side by side with prose in the 
 selection. Landor himself was much given to mixing 
 them. With him, as I have already indicated, verse 
 and prose do not, as with most writers, represent a higher 
 and a lower form of literature respectively, but merely 
 alternative forms ; and in prose he writes frequently at a 
 higher pitch, as well as on the whole with a more accom- 
 plished art, than in verse. It is not, then, according to 
 their form, but according to their contents, that the selec- 
 tions which follow have primarily been arranged. 
 
 The first section contains examples of Landor's imagi- 
 native and creative work, secondarily divided into those 
 which are dramatic and those which are narrative in form. 
 Here are given in full some of the best of the short prose 
 dialogues of emotion, with one or two in verse, and with 
 a few passages of a similar impassioned kind, extracted 
 from longer conversations ; the personages ranging from 
 heroes and heroines of Greek mythology to those of 
 modem history. Landor, with his disdain for super- 
 fluities, and his love for the naked presentment of ideas, 
 rarely condescends in these scenes to supply a syllable of 
 preface or stage direction : I have prefixed to such as 
 seemed to need it a few words explaining the situation. 
 Then comes the narrative division, beginning with a few 
 extracts from the strong and vivid, but abrupt and 
 sometimes difficult poetry of Landor's youth : these are 
 followed by a selection from the later and admirable, 
 light, bright, and truly Greek Hellenics: and these by 
 some of the separate narrative episodes that lie embedded 
 like jewels in Landor's longer prose works. There is 
 nothing in literature which quite resembles these ; there 
 are very few things in literature_/better. De Quincey, 
 whom the ordinary handbooks and compeiidiums of 
 English literature as unduly, I think, magnify as they 
 neglect Landor, is commonly quoted as the especial 
 modern master in English of impassioned prose. De 
 Quincey is indeed an author well worthy of study. He 
 was^aT^an of eloquence and attainments ; of a strong
 
 XXVI PREFACE. 
 
 though eccentric vein of imagination ; and of soUd, 
 though again in great part eccentric, thought and re- 
 search. He was full of ingenuity and resource, but 
 full also of conceit and affectation ; loving above all 
 thing? to flourish his resources,"' and to make circuits 
 round about his subject, discoursing to us of the fine dis- 
 closures which he is about to make, and in the end as often 
 as not making none ; a remarkable writer, as it seems to 
 me, in the second order, Iju't a bad model, and in hardly 
 anything a really great or straightforward master. In 
 the field of high imaginative prose especially, to insist 
 on De Quincey's Ladies of Sorrow or his Daughter oj 
 Lebanon, when there exist such masterpieces as Lander's 
 Dream of Boccaccio and Dream of Petrarca, is surely to 
 call away attention from the best to the second best. 
 
 The second section of our Golden Treasury contains 
 examples of Landor's reflective and discursive manner, 
 chiefly from the longer conversations and other prose 
 writings. And here it has been necessary to proceed by 
 the method of short extracts almost entirely. If any of 
 the long conversations had been given in full, it would 
 have been necessary for proportion's sake to give those of 
 Epicurus with Leontion and Ternissa, and of Plato v/ith 
 Diogehes, from among the Greek ; those of the two 
 Ciceros, and of Lucullus and Caesar, from among the 
 RoiTian-t and from among the English, that of Marvel 
 and Milton, with that of Barrow and Newton or of 
 PeniTaTf^ Peterborough at least. ' This within our limits 
 was out of the question. Moreover I think a fuller 
 representation of Landor's mind was to be obtained by 
 the method I have followed, of grouping according to 
 their subject-matter thoughts taken not from a few only 
 but from a wide range of his discursive writings. The 
 thoughts of Landor suffer less than that of almost any 
 other man in being thus detached from their context. 
 Many of them, indeed, we know to have been origin- 
 ally framed independently, and thrust into their context 
 afterwards. As thus extracted and grouped, they in
 
 PREFACE. XXVU 
 
 deed are partly shorn of the charm which conies from 
 those attractive qualities of intercourse and bearing with 
 which Landor endows his speakers. But they will 
 Bcrve to show of what substance his mind was made. 
 " We should hesitate to name any writings which would 
 afford so large and so various a selection of detached 
 passages complete in themselves," so wrote Mr. Lowell 
 of Landor while he was'sltill alive ; and again, " We 
 should be at a loss to name the writer of English prose 
 who is his superior, or, setting Shakespeare aside, the 
 writer of English who has furnished us with so many 
 delicate aphorisms of human nature." It is especially 
 of Landor as an aphoristic writer that this section will 
 enable the reader to judge. 
 
 A moral or intellectual teacher of the great revealing, 
 initiating order Landor is not : but he is one whose 
 utterances dwell in our thoughts and make them richer. 
 In the sphere of life and conduct he unites great force 
 and originality of observation with a noble benignity of 
 temper ; and there are few generous virtues and few lofty 
 pleasures but come recommended from his mind to ours 
 in a new light of imaginative beauty, and with a new 
 and memorable charm of presentment. In the sphere of 
 politics and government, it must be allowed that he 
 neveT'gorTiiuch^beyond the elementaiy principles of 
 love of freedom and hatred of tyranny. These prin- 
 ciples, we must however remember, he in the Europe 
 of his time saw continually in danger of extinction. On 
 their behalf he felt and wrote as passionately throughout 
 ♦he greater part of a century as during their brief life-days 
 did either Byron or Shelley. But of the complexity of 
 political organisms and political prol)lems Landor had 
 no conception, and practical as he believed and intended 
 much of his writing on politics to be, it is usually so much 
 high-minded declamation and no more. From these 
 trumpet-calls against kings and oppressors, our selection 
 passes on to Landor's utterances concerning his own art 
 of letters. No one had a larger or closer knowledge
 
 iCXVllI PREFACE. 
 
 of the best literature of all ages. No one, moreover, 
 felt more kindly to his contemporaries, or took a 
 manlier pleasure in praising them, or was less capable 
 of spoiling praise by partiality. Landor's sayings con- 
 cerning the duty and temper of the critic might furnish 
 a code for th'e" guidance of every one undertaking 
 that office. Of his own vmting a considerable part is 
 critical, and his criticism is often detailed and analytic ; 
 but most commonly in the technical and verbal sense ; 
 in the spiritual or psychological sense more rarely. For 
 this latter kind of analysis Landor was not so well 
 endowed as some of his contemporaries. De Quincey, 
 for ever questing in a circuit, when from timeT^W time 
 he gets really on the scent ; Coleridge, when from his 
 speculative labyrinths he emerges ^IffW straight paths and 
 daylight ; are both of them subtler critics than Landor. 
 If Landor is ever subtle, it is in the analysis not of the 
 mind, but of the heart ; witness his famous commentary 
 on the Paolo and Francesca of Dante. It is for range 
 and largeness of critical survey, and for weight and 
 felicity in the expression of broad synthetic judgments 
 on literature and the workers in literature, that Landor 
 is really incomparable. '* With a vigorous and easy 
 motion," to use a phrase of his own, " such as the poets 
 attribute to the herald of the gods," he ranges from 
 Homer to Virgil, and from Pindar to Catullus, and from 
 the ancients down to his own contemporaries, dealing out 
 his ripe, authoritative judgments right and left. Of his 
 treatment of the technicalities of English spelling and 
 English style I have given only one or two brief 
 examples, interesting and masterly as these, too, often 
 are. Neither have I thought it desirable to spell his 
 work in these selections as he liked it spelt, but in the 
 usual way. "Talkt," *' quencht," and the other pecu- 
 liar usages which Landor so stoutly advocated, may have 
 much to recommend them, but neither his advocacy nor 
 that of others has made them prevail, and in a book 
 intended to be read they seemed better abandoned.
 
 PREFACE. XXIX 
 
 Finally, I have put into a separate section examples 
 of Landor's writing about persons and about himself. 
 These are chiefly in verse. Landor had two personali- 
 ties, an inner one, so to speak, disguised by an outer ; 
 the inner being that of a stately and benign philosopher, 
 the outer that of a passionate and rebellious school- 
 boy. Of the external and superficial Landor, the man of 
 headlong impulses and disastrous misapprehensions and 
 quarrels, enough and to spare has been said and repeated. 
 But together vnth this indignant, legendary Landor, we 
 must not forget that there existed the other Landor, the 
 noble and gentle heart, the rich and bountiful nature, the 
 royally courteous temper, which won and held the loving 
 admiration of spirits like Southey and the Hares, like 
 Leigh Hunt and Forster and Dickens, like Robert and 
 Elizabeth Browning, and even of one so grudging of 
 admiration as Carlyle. That Landor's inner and nobler 
 self had little hold on or government over his other self 
 must be admitted. From his nature's central citadel, to 
 use a mediaeval figure, of Pride, High Contemplation, and 
 Honourable Purpose, he failed to keep ward over its 
 outlying arsenals of Wrath, which Plaste and Misjudg- 
 ment were for ever wantonly igniting, to the ruin of his 
 own fortunes, and the dismay of his neighbours and 
 well-wishers. 
 
 Landor in truth never fairly faced or contended against 
 these turbulent and explosive elements in his own char- 
 acter, but after every new experience of their consequences 
 forgot or laughed them off. Neither does his literary self- 
 consciousness extend to them, or it extends to them but 
 faintly. It is the philosophic and benignant Landor, 
 walking in spirit "with Epicurus on the right hand, and 
 Epictetus on the left," that speaks to us in his personal 
 writings almost alone. First in this section I have tried 
 to group the verses of all dates relating to his early love 
 and life-long friend, " lanthe." Next comes a selection 
 of poems embodying a^ few' of his other most cherished 
 reminiscences and affections, and especially his idealising
 
 XXX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 n 
 
 affection for Southey. Next, some of his judgments on 
 himself and on others, delivered with his high air of 
 authority now in prose and now in verse ; and lastly the 
 expressions of that dignified and serene mood in which 
 in his old age he was accustomed to contemplate the 
 approach of death. 
 
 This, then, is what I have tried to do for Landor : to 
 bring together in a familiar shape a sufficient body, first 
 of his creative and impassioned writing, next of his reflec- 
 tive and discursive writing, and lastly of his personal 
 and occasional writing, to represent for readers in gen- 
 eral the range and character of his so incomplete yet 
 so extraordinary powei-s. If I have performed my task 
 at all rightly, the result ought to many readers to be 
 welcome. Even the student already well acquainted 
 with Landor may be glad to possess in such a shape 
 a selection of his most characteristic things. Not, I 
 am well aware, that any true student will ever in"^is 
 heart quite approve another's selection from an author 
 he loves, or fail to feel convinced that he could have 
 made a better one himself: but even to the student I 
 may at least remark that in the notes at the end of the 
 volume he will find matter which i?!Sy interest him, and 
 which is not readily to be found elsewhere. Primarily, 
 however, it is not for him that the volume is intended, 
 but for that large class of readers who have an appetite 
 for the best literature, but not the leisure, or not the 
 tenacity, to overcome difficulties in its approach. Lan- 
 dor in his contempt for popularity intentionally put some 
 difficulties in the way of those seeking to approach him, 
 and more unintentionally, by his deficiency in tact and in 
 consecutiveness of mind. These deficiencies, as it seems 
 to me, prevent him from being one of the greatest, but 
 they do not prevent him from being one of the great, 
 English writers, and in proportion as it helps to make 
 this great writer no longer by name only, but really knov/n, 
 will the purpose of my work have been accomplished^, 
 
 \
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface 
 
 PAGE 
 
 V 
 
 DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE. 
 
 1. 
 
 ii. 
 
 iii. 
 iv. 
 
 V. 
 
 vi. 
 
 vii. 
 
 viii. 
 
 ix. 
 
 X. 
 
 xi. 
 xii. 
 
 xiii. 
 xiv. 
 
 XV. 
 
 xvi. 
 
 xvii. 
 
 xviii. 
 
 xix. 
 
 XX. 
 
 xxi. 
 
 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Peleus and Thetis . 
 
 Achilles and Helena 
 
 Menelaus and Helen at Troy 
 
 The Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigeneia 
 
 vEsop and Rhodope 
 
 Marcellus and Hannibal 
 
 Scipio, Polybius, and Panaetius 
 
 The same 
 
 Metellus and Marius 
 
 Tiberii:s and Vipsania 
 
 Leofric and Godiva 
 
 Tancredi and Constantia 
 
 Mahomet and Sergius . 
 
 Filippo Lippi and Pope Eugenius IV. . 
 
 Leonora di Este and Father Panigarola 
 
 The Maid of Orleans and Agnes Sorel 
 
 Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn 
 
 Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey 
 
 Essex and Spenser 
 
 Lady Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt . 
 
 Peter the Great and Alexis . 
 
 3 
 7 
 
 '3 
 17 
 
 22 
 
 33 
 38 
 45 
 47 
 52 
 56 
 63 
 67 
 71 
 78 
 81 
 90 
 96 
 100 
 106 
 no
 
 XXXll 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 NARRATIVE. 
 
 xxii. The Loves of Gebir and of Tamar. From " Gebir" 
 
 xxiii. The Meeting of the Weird Sisters. From the same 
 
 xxiv. I'he Marriage Morning. From the same 
 
 XXV. The Death of Chrysaor . 
 
 xxvi. Thrasymedes and Eunoe 
 
 XAvii. Enallos and Cymodameia 
 
 xxviii. The Hamadryad . 
 
 xxix. Aeon and Rhodope 
 
 XXX. The Death of Artemidora 
 
 xxxi. The CrovvTiing of Thelymnia 
 
 xxxii. The Dream of Euthymedes 
 
 xxxiii. A Tuscan Sabbath 
 
 xxxiv. The Death of Acciaioli . 
 
 XXXV. The Dream of Boccaccio 
 
 xxxvi. The Dream of Petrarca 
 
 xxxvii. The Fate of a young Poet 
 
 PAGE 
 
 119 
 124 
 128 
 130 
 132 
 13s 
 140 
 149 
 153 
 154 
 156 
 158 
 i6s 
 167 
 172 
 176 
 
 II. 
 
 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 xxxviii. The Origin of Idolatry 181 
 
 xxxix. ........... 182 
 
 xl. Differences of Opinion in ReHgion ..... 183 
 
 xli. — xlli 186 
 
 xUii. — xliv. — xlv. ......... 187 
 
 xlvi. — xlvii. .......... 188 
 
 xlviii. The Efficacy of Prayer ...... i8g 
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 
 
 xlix. — I. — li .......... 191 
 
 Hi. — liii. ........... 193 
 
 Hv.— Iv. ........... 194 
 
 Ivi. — Ivii. — Iviii. — lix. ........ 195 
 
 I.v. — Ixi. — l.\ii. The Fame of Milton ..... 196 
 
 Ixiii. The same . ......... 197 
 
 Ixiv. — Ixv. ........... 198
 
 CONTENTS. xxxm 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ixvi. — Ixvii. — Ixviii . 199 
 
 Ixix. — Ixx. — Ixxi. — Ixxii. — Ixxiii. ...... 200 
 
 DEATH AND MORTALITY. 
 
 Ixxiv. — Ixxv. .......... 201 
 
 Ixxvi 203 
 
 Ixxvii. — Ixxviii. — Ixxix 205 
 
 lx.x.\. ............ 206 
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Ixxxi. — Lxxxii. — Ixxxiii. — Ixxxiv. — Ixxxv. ..... 207 
 
 Ixxxvi. — Ixxxvii. Love of Power. — Ixxxviii. The same . . 208 
 
 Ixxxix. The same. — xc. The same. — .\ci. — xcii. — xciii. . . 209 
 
 xciv. — xcv. — xcvi. — xcvii. — xcviii. Vanity in Women. — xcix. . 210 
 
 c. — ci. — cii. — ciii. 211 
 
 civ. — cv. — cvi. — cvii.— cviii. ....... 212 
 
 cix. — ex. Friendship. — cxi. The same. — cxii. The same . . 213 
 
 cxiii. Town and Country. — cxiv. The same .... 214 
 
 c.xv. The same .......... 215 
 
 cxvi. The same 216 
 
 cxvii. Love of Truth 217 
 
 cxviii. The same.— cxix. The same. — cxx. — cxxi. . . . 218 
 
 cxxii. — cxxiii. Quickness. — cxxiv. — cxxv. — cxxvi. . . . 219 
 
 cxxvii. — cxxviii. — cxxix. Idleness 220 
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, AND FAMILY AFFECTION. 
 
 cxxx.^cxxxi. — cxxxii. — cxxxiii 222 
 
 cxxxiv. — cxxxv. Love's Timidity. — cxxxvi. The same — cxxxvii. 223 
 
 cxxxviii. Love and Genius. — cxxxix. Marriage . . . 224 
 
 cxl. The same. — cxli. The same 225 
 
 cxlii. Love of Children. — cxliii. The same .... 228 
 
 cxliv. The same .......... 229 
 
 cxIv. The same. — cxlvi. The same. — cxlvii 230 
 
 cxlviii. 232 
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, AND NATIONAL 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 cxlix. Women's Dress 233 
 
 cl. Scents and their Associations 234
 
 XXXIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 cli. Society and Solitude 
 
 clii. — cliii. — c>iv. — civ. ..... 
 
 clvi.— clvii. — clvili. — clix. ..... 
 
 cl.x. — clxi. Men and Dogs ..... 
 
 clxii. The same. — clxiii. English Hospitality . 
 
 clxiv. The same . . , . 
 
 cl.w. — clxvi. ....... 
 
 clxvii. — clxviii. Italian Taste and the Love of Trees 
 cl.xi.x. Aspect of Towns in France and Italy 
 cl.x.x. Respect for the Dead in Italy . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 236 
 237 
 238 
 
 239 
 241 
 
 243 
 244 
 
 245 
 247 
 248 
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 
 
 cl.xxi. . 
 
 clxxii. . 
 
 clx,xiii.- 
 
 clxxvi. 
 
 clx.xvii. 
 
 cl.xxviii. 
 
 clxxix. 
 
 clxxxi. 
 
 clx.xxii. 
 
 clx.xxlii 
 
 clx.xxiv, 
 
 -clxxiv. The Fate of Despotisms. 
 Napoleon and Pericles . 
 The Death of Hofer 
 
 The Trotibles of Ireland 
 The same. — clxxx. The same 
 The Greek War of Liberation 
 
 The same .... 
 
 On the Accession of a Liberal Pope 
 
 -clxxv. Democracy 
 
 250 
 251 
 252 
 253 
 254 
 
 2J7 
 
 258 
 
 259 
 261 
 262 
 263 
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 
 
 clxxxv.— clxxxvi. — clxxxvii. 
 
 clxxxviii 
 
 clxxxix. — cxc. 
 
 cxci. — c.\cii. — c.xciii. . 
 
 cxciv. — cxcv. — cxcvi. . 
 
 c.xcvii. — cxcviii. Sedateness in Poetry.— cxcix-. The 
 
 CO. Pindar. — cci. Latin Styles 
 
 ccii. Virgil's Dido. — cciii. . 
 
 cciv. — ccv 
 
 ccvi. — ccvii. — ccviii. — ccix. The 
 ccx. Poetry and History . 
 ccxi. The Province of History 
 
 ccxiii. — ccxiv. 
 ccxv. — ccxvi. 
 
 Origins of Poetry 
 
 265 
 266 
 267 
 268 
 269 
 270 
 271 
 272 
 
 273 
 274 
 
 275 
 276 
 277 
 279 
 280
 
 CONTENTS. XXXV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ccxvii.— ccxviii. — ccxix. Milton 281 
 
 ccxx. — ccxxi. Milton and Johnson 282 
 
 ccxxii. French Prose. — ccxxiii. Addison 283 
 
 ccxxiv. Gibbon. — ccxxv. Wordsworth. — ccxxvi. Praise and 
 
 Censure .......... 284 
 
 ccxxvii. The same. — ccxxviii. The same. — ccxxix. The same 
 
 — ccxxx. The same. — ccxxxi. The same. — ccxxxii. The 
 
 same ........... 285 
 
 ccxxxiii. The same. — ccxxxiv. The same. — ccxx.xv. The same. 
 
 — ccx.xxvi. The same ........ 286 
 
 ccxxxvii. The same. — ccxxxviii. The same. — ccxxxix. The 
 
 same ........... 287 
 
 ccxl. The same 288 
 
 cccxli. Dante's Paolo and Francesca 289 
 
 ccxlii. Verbal Criticism, with an Example .... 292 
 
 ccxliii. Of Idiom. — ccxliv. Of Quotation 293 
 
 ccxiv. Vulgarisms. — ccxlvi. Gallicisms and Latinisms. — ccxlvii. 
 
 English Orthography and Diction 294 
 
 ccxlviii. The same ......... 298 
 
 ccxlix. The same . .... . . 299 
 
 ccl. — ccli 300 
 
 III. 
 
 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 cclii. Homage ......... 303 
 
 ccliii. " On the smooth brow and clustering hair " . 303 
 
 ccliv. "There is a flower I wish to wear "... 303 
 
 cclv. " It often comes into my head " . . . . 303 
 
 cclvi. " All tender thoughts that e'er possess'd " . . 304 
 
 cclvii. " Pleasure ! why thus desert the heart ? " . . 304 
 
 cclviii. Renunciation ........ 304 
 
 cclix. " You smiled, you spoke, and I believed " . . 305 
 
 cclx. " So late removed from him she swore " . . . 305 
 
 cclxi. " I held her hand, the pledge of bliss " . . . 305 
 
 cclxii. Absence ......... 305 
 
 cclxiii. " Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know " 306 
 
 cclxiv. " Mild is the parting year, and sweet " . . . 306 
 
 cclxv. Years after 307
 
 XXXVl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 cclxvi. "No, my own love of other years ! " 
 
 cclxvii. " I wondernot that youth remains " 
 
 cclxviii. " Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass' 
 
 cclxix. " Years, many parti-colour'd years " 
 
 cclxx. " Well I remember how you smiled " 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ■ 307 
 
 • 3°7 
 . 308 
 
 • 308 
 . 308 
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cclxxi. On Swift joining Avon near Rugby 
 
 cclxxii. Abertawy . 
 
 cclxxiii. Rose Aylmer . 
 
 cclxxiv. To J. S. . 
 cclxxv. A Fiesolan Idyl 
 
 cclxxvi. Fiesolan Musings 
 
 cclxxvii. To Joseph Ablett 
 cclxxviii. To Wordsworth 
 
 cclxxix. To Southey 
 
 cclxxx. To the Sister of Elia 
 
 cclxxxi. Farewell to Italy 
 cclxxxii. Landor in England to his Youngest Son in Italy 
 cclxxxiii. Thoughts of Fiesole, from Torquay 
 cclxxxiv. On the Death of Southey 
 
 cclxxxv. On the same 
 
 ccbcxxvi. To the Rev. Cuthbert Southey 
 cclxxxvii. To the Memory of Julius Hare 
 cclxxxviii. To the Memory of Lady Blessington 
 
 309 
 3" 
 312 
 312 
 312 
 
 314 
 316 
 320 
 322 
 324 
 324 
 325 
 327 
 328 
 329 
 330 
 332 
 332 
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 
 
 cclxxxix. An Apologue on Byron, 1822 
 ccxc. Note to the above, 1824 
 
 ccxci 
 
 ccxcii. 
 ccxciii. 
 ccxciv. 
 ccxcv. 
 ccxcvi. 
 ccxcvii. 
 ccxcviii. 
 
 Shelley . 
 
 Southey . 
 
 A Confession of Jealousy 
 
 Robert Browning 
 
 Macaulay 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
 Literary Enmities . 
 
 ccxcix. 
 
 ccc. " I know not whether I am proud " 
 
 ccci. " The chrysolites and rub 
 
 les Bacchus brings 
 
 334 
 335 
 337 
 338 
 338 
 339 
 339 
 339 
 340 
 
 340 
 341 
 342 
 
 343
 
 CONTENTS. XXXVli 
 
 PAGE 
 
 cccii. The Genius of Greece 343 
 
 ccciii. On his own Againei>inon and Iphigeneia . . 344 
 
 ccciv. The Author of D>y St/cA's to his Readers . . 344 
 
 cccv. 344 
 
 cccvi. — cccvii. — cccviii . 345 
 
 ON' THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 cccix. 
 
 cccx. 
 
 cccxi. 
 
 cccxii. 
 
 cccxiii. 
 
 cccxiv. 
 
 cccxv. 
 
 cccxvi. 
 
 cccxvii. 
 
 cccxviii. 
 
 cccxix. 
 
 cccxx. 
 
 To Age 
 
 " Is it not better at an early hour " 
 
 To a Painter 
 
 " Give me the eyes that look on mine '' 
 " To his young Rose an old man said ' 
 The Three Roses .... 
 
 " Various the roads of life ; in one " 
 " The day returns, my natal day " . 
 On his Seventy-fifth Birthday 
 On his Eightieth Birthday 
 Memory ...... 
 
 " Death stands above me, whispering low 
 
 Notes 
 
 346 
 347 
 347 
 347 
 348 
 348 
 349 
 349 
 349 
 349 
 350 
 350
 
 I. 
 
 DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE.
 
 DRAMATIC. 
 
 PELEUS AND THETIS. 
 
 The sea-goddess Thetis, wedded by the decree of the gods to 
 Peleus, and afterguards by the same decree separated 
 from him, appears again before him at the hour when 
 their son Achilles, having been discovered in his retreat 
 on Scyros, has departed with the Grecian armament to 
 Troy. 
 
 Thetis. O Peleus ! O thou whom the gods conferred 
 upon me for all my portion of happiness — and it was 
 (I thought) too great 
 
 Peleus. Goddess ! to me, to thy Peleus, O how far 
 more than goddess ! why then this sudden silence ? why 
 these tears ? The last we shed were when the Fates 
 divided us, saying the Earth was not thine, and the 
 brother of Zeus, he the ruler of the waters, had called 
 thee. Those that fall between the beloved at parting 
 are bitter, and ought to be : woe to him who wishes 
 they were not ! but those that flow again at the returning 
 light of the blessed feet, should be refreshing and divine 
 as morn. 
 
 Thetis. Support me, support me in thy arms once 
 more, once only. Lower not thy shoulder from my 
 cheek, to gaze at those features that (in times past) so 
 pleased thee. The sky is serene ; the heavens frown not 
 on us : do they then prepare for us fresh sorrow ? Pre- 
 pare for us ! ah me ! the word of Zeus is spoken : our
 
 4 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Achilles is discovered : he is borne away in the black 
 hollow ships of Aulis, and would have flown faster than 
 they sail, to Troy. 
 
 Surely there are those among the gods, or among the 
 goddesses, who might have forewarned me ; and they 
 did not ! Were there no omens, no auguries, no dreams, 
 to shake thee from thy security ? no priest to prophesy ? 
 And what pastures are more beautiful than Larissa's ? 
 what victims more stately? Could the soothsayers turn 
 aside their eyes from these ? 
 
 Peleus. Approach with me and touch the altar, O 
 my beloved ! Doth not thy finger now impress the soft 
 embers of incense? how often hath it burned, for him, 
 for thee ! And the lowings of the herds are audible for 
 their leaders, from the sources of Apidanus and Enipeus 
 to the sea-beach. They may yet prevail. 
 
 Thetis. Alas ! alas ! priests can foretell but nol 
 avert the future ; and all they can give us are vain pro- 
 mises and abiding fears. 
 
 Peleus. Despond not, my long -lost Thetis ! Hath 
 not a god led thee back to me? Why not hope then 
 he will restore our son ? Which of them all hath such a 
 boy offended ? 
 
 Thetis. Uncertainties — worse than uncertainties — 
 overthrow and overwhelm me. 
 
 Peleus. There is a comfort in the midst of every un- 
 certainty, saving those which perplex the gods and con- 
 found the godlike, Love's. Be comforted ! not by my 
 kisses, but by my words. Achilles may live till our old 
 age. Ours ! Had I forgotten thy divinity ? forgotten it 
 in thy beauty ? Other mortals think their beloved par- 
 take of it then mostly when they are gazing on their 
 charms ; but thy tenderness is more than godlike ; and 
 never have I known, never have I wished to know, 
 whether ought in our inferior nature may resemble it.
 
 PELEUS AND THETIS. 5 
 
 Thetis. A mortal so immutable ! the Towers above are 
 less. 
 
 Peleus. Time without grief would not have greatly 
 changed me. 
 
 Thetis. There is a loveliness which youth may be with- 
 out, and which the gods want. To the voice of compas- 
 sion not a shell in all the ocean is attuned ; and no tear 
 ever dropped upon Olympus. Thou lookest as fondly as 
 ever, and more pensively. Have time and grief done 
 this? and they alone? my Peleus ! Tell me again, have 
 no freshly fond anxieties ? 
 
 Peleus. Smile thus ! O smile anew and forget thy 
 sorrows. Ages shall fly over my tomb, while Lhou art 
 flourishing in imperishable youth, the desire of gods, the 
 light of the depths of Ocean, the inspirer and sustainer 
 of ever-flowing song. 
 
 Thetis. I receive thy words, and bless them. Gods 
 may desire me : I have loved Peleus. Our union had 
 many obstacles ; the envy of mortals, the jealousy of im- 
 mortals, hostility and persecution from around, from 
 below, and from above. When we were happy they 
 parted us : and again they unite us in eternal grief. 
 
 Peleus. The wish of a divinity is powerfuller than the 
 elements, and swifter than the hght. Plence thou (what 
 to me is impossible) mayest see the sweet Achilles every 
 day, every hour. 
 
 Thetis. How few ! alas how few ! I see him in the 
 dust, in agony, in death : I see his blood on the flints, his 
 yellow hair flapping in its current, his hand unable to 
 remove it from his eyes. I hear his voice ; and it calls 
 not upon me ! Mothers are soon forgotten ! It is weak- 
 ness to love the weak ! I could not save him ! He 
 would have left the caverns of Ocean, and the groves and 
 meadows of Elysium, though resounding with the songs 
 of love and heroism, for a field of battle.
 
 6 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Peleus. He may yet live many years. Troy hath been 
 taken once already. 
 
 Thetis. He must perish ; and at Troy ; and now. 
 
 Peleus. The now of the gods is more than life's duration ; 
 other gods and other worlds are formed within it. If 
 indeed he must perish at Troy, his ashes will lie softly on 
 hers. Thus fall our beauteous son ! thus rest Achilles ! 
 
 Thetis. Twice nine years have scarcely yet passed over 
 his head ; twice nine have not yet rolled away since 
 "O the youth of ^mathia ! O the swift, the golden- 
 haired Peleus !" were the only words sounded in the halls 
 of Tethys. How many shells were broken for their 
 hoarseness ! how many reproofs were heard by the Tritons 
 for interrupting the slumbers — of those who never slept ! 
 But they feigned sound sleep : and joy and kindness left 
 the hearts of sisters. We loved too well for others to 
 love us. 
 
 Why do I remember the day? Why do I remind 
 thee of it ? — my Achilles dies ! it was the day that gave 
 me my Achilles ! Dearer he was to me than the light of 
 heaven, before he ever saw it : and how much dearer 
 now, when, bursting forth on earth like its first day- 
 spring, all the loveliness of Nature stands back, and 
 grows pale and faint before his. 
 
 Peleus. O thou art fallen ! thou art fallen through my 
 embrace, when I thought on him more than on thee. 
 Look up again ; look, and forgive me. No : thy forgive- 
 ness I deserve not — but did I deserve thy love? Thy 
 solitude, thy abasement, thy parental tears, and thy fall 
 to the earth, are from me ! WTiy doth aught of youth 
 linger with me ? Why not come age and death ? The 
 monster of Calydon made (as thou knowest) his first and 
 most violent rush against this arm ; no longer fit for war, 
 no longer a defence to the people. And is the day too 
 come when it no longer can sustain my Thetis?
 
 ACHILLES AND HELENA. 7 
 
 Thetis. Protend it not to the skies ! invoke not, name 
 not, any Deity ! I fear them all. Nay, lift me not thus 
 above thy head, O Peleus ! reproaching the gods with 
 such an awful look ; with a look of beauty which they 
 will not pity, with a look of defiance which they may not 
 brook. 
 
 Peleus. Doth not my hand enclasp that slender foot, 
 at which the waves of Ocean cease to be tumultuous, and 
 the children of vEolus to disturb their peace ? O, if in 
 the celestial coolness of thy cheek, now resting on my 
 head, there be not the breath and gift of immortality ; O 
 if Zeus hath any thunderbolt in reserve for me ; let this, 
 my beloved Thetis, be the hour ! 
 
 II. 
 
 ACHILLES AND HELENA. 
 
 Achilles, during the siege of Troy, having /<rayed to his 
 motlier Tlietis and to Aplirodite that he niiglit see 
 Helen face to face, is transported by those goddesses to a 
 place of meeting with her on Mount Ida. 
 
 Helena. Where am I ? Desert me not, O ye blessed 
 from above ! ye twain who brought me hither ! 
 
 Was it a dream ? 
 
 Stranger ! thou seemest thoughtful ; couldst thou 
 answer me ? Why so silent ? I beseech and implore 
 thee, speak. 
 
 Achilles. Neither thy feet nor the feet of mules have 
 borne thee where thou standest. Whether in the hour 
 of departing sleep, or at what hour of the morning, I 
 know not, O Helena, but Aphrodite and Thetis, inclining 
 to my prayer, have, as thou art conscious, led thee into 
 these solitudes. To me also have they shown the way ;
 
 ^ DRAMATIC. 
 
 that 1 might behold the pride of Sparta, the marvel oi 
 the Earth, and-how my heart swells and agonises at the 
 tftought !— the cause of innumerable woes to Hellas 
 
 Helena. Stranger ! thou art indeed one whom the 
 goddesses or gods might lead, and glory in ; such is thy 
 stature, thy voice, and thy demeanour; but who, if 
 earthly, art thou ? . , n 
 
 Achilles. Before thee, O Helena, stands Achilles, son 
 ot 1 eleus. Tremble not, turn not pale, bend not thy 
 knees, O Helena. ^ 
 
 Helena. Spare me, thou goddess-born ! thou cherished 
 and only son of silver - footed Thetis! Chryseis and 
 Bnseis ought to soften and content thy heart. Lead not 
 me also mto captivity. Woes too surely have I brought 
 down on Hellas; but woes have been mine alike, and 
 will for ever be. 
 
 ^r/n7/... Daughter of Zeus! what word hast thou 
 spoken ! Chryseis, child of the aged priest who per- 
 forms m this land due sacrifices to Apollo, fell to the lot 
 of another; an insolent and unworthy man, who hath 
 already brought more sorrows upon our people than thou 
 ftast; so that dogs and vultures prey on the brave who 
 sank without a wound. Briseis is indeed mine; the 
 lovely and dutiful Briseis. He, unjust and contumelious, 
 proud at once and base, would tear her from me. But 
 gods above ! in what region has the wolf with impunit^ 
 dared to seize upon the kid which the lion hath taken ? 
 
 1 alk not of being led into servitude. Could mortal be 
 ginlty of such impiety? Hath it never thundered on 
 these mountain heads ? Doth Zeus, the wide-seeing, see 
 all the Earth but Ida? doth he watch over all but his 
 own ? Capaneus and Typhoeus less offended him, than 
 would the wretch whose grasp should violate the golden 
 hair of Helena. And dost thou still tremble ? irresolute 
 and distrustful !
 
 ACHILLES AND HELENA. 9 
 
 Helena, I must tremble ; and more and more. 
 
 Achilles. Take my hand : be confident : be comforted. 
 
 Helena. May I take it? may I hold it? I am com- 
 forted. 
 
 Achilles. The scene around us, calm and silent as the 
 sky itself, tranquillises thee ; and so it ought. Turnest 
 thou to survey it ? perhaps it is unknown to thee. 
 
 Helena. Truly ; for since my arrival I have never gone 
 beyond the walls of the city. 
 
 Achilles. Look then around thee freely, perplexed no 
 longer. Pleasant is this level eminence, surrounded by 
 broom and myrtle, and crisp -leaved beech and broad 
 dark pine above. Pleasant the short slender grass, bent 
 by insects as they alight on it or climb along it, and 
 shining up into our eyes, interrupted by tall sisterhoods 
 of gray lavender, and by dark-eyed cistus, and by light- 
 some citisus, and by little troops of serpolet running in 
 disorder here and there. 
 
 Helena. Wonderful ! how didst thou ever learn to name 
 so many plants ? 
 
 Achilles. Chiron taught me them, when I walked al 
 his side while he was culling herbs for the benefit of his 
 brethren. All these he taught me, and at least twenty 
 more ; for wondrous was his wisdom, boundless his know- 
 ledge, and I was proud to learn. 
 
 Ah look again ! look at those little yellow poppies ; 
 they appear to be just come out to catch all that the sun 
 will throw into their cups : they appear in their joyance 
 and incipient dance to call upon the 'lyre to sing among 
 them. 
 
 Flelena. Childish ! for one with such a spear against 
 his shoulder ; terrific even its shadow ; it seems to make 
 a chasm across the plain. 
 
 Achilles. To talk or to think like a child is not always 
 a proof of folly : it may sometimes push aside heavy griefi
 
 lO DRAMATIC. 
 
 where the strength of wisdom fails. What art thou 
 pondeling, Helena? 
 
 Helena. Recollecting the names of the plants. Several 
 of them I do believe I had heard before, but had quite 
 forgotten ; my memory will be better now. 
 
 Achilles. Better now ? in the midst of war and tumult ? 
 
 Helena. I am sure it will be, for didst thou not say 
 that Chiron taught them ? 
 
 Achilles. He sang to me over the lyre the lives of 
 Narcissus and Hyacinthus, brought back by the beautiful 
 Hours, of silent unwearied feet, regular as the stars in 
 their courses. Many of the trees and bright-eyed flowers 
 once lived and moved, and spoke as we are speaking. 
 They may yet have memories, although they have cares 
 no longer. 
 
 Helena. Ah ! then they have no memories ; and they 
 see their own beauty only. 
 
 Achilles. Helena ! thou turnest pale, and droopest. 
 
 Helena. The odour of the blossoms, or of the gums, 
 or the highth of the place, or something else, makes me 
 dizzy. Can it be the wind in my ears ? 
 
 Achilles. There is none. 
 
 Helena. I could wish there were a little. 
 
 Achilles. Be seated, O Helena ! 
 
 Helena. The feeble are obedient : the weary may rest 
 even in the presence of the powerful. 
 
 Achilles. On this very ground where we are now re- 
 posing, they who conducted us hither told me, the fatal 
 prize of beauty was awarded. One of them smiled ; the 
 other, whom in duty I love the most, looked anxious, and 
 let fall some tears. 
 
 Helena. Yet she was not one of the vanquished. 
 
 Achilles. Goddesses contended for it ; Helena was afar. 
 
 Helena. Fatal was the decision of the arbiter ! 
 
 But could not the venerable Peleus, nor Pyrrhus the
 
 ACHILLES AND HELENA. 1 1 
 
 infant so beautiful and so helpless, detain thee, O Achilles, 
 from this sad, sad war? 
 
 Achilles. No reverence or kindness for the race oi 
 Atreus brought me against Troy ; I detest and abhor 
 both brothers : but another man is more hateful to me 
 still. Forbear we to name him. The vahant, holding 
 the hearth as sacred as the temple, is never a violator of 
 hospitality. He carries not away the gold he finds in the 
 house ; he folds not up the purple linen worked for solem- 
 nities, about to convey it from the cedar chest to the dark 
 ship, together with the wife confided to his protection in 
 her husband's absence, and sitting close and expectant 
 by the altar of the gods. 
 
 It was no merit in Menelaus to love thee ; it was a 
 crime in another — I will not say to love, for even Priam 
 or Nestor might love thee — but to avow it, and act on the 
 avowal. 
 
 Helena. Menelaus, it is true, was fond of me, when 
 Paris was sent by Aphrodite to our house. It would 
 have been very wrong to break my vow to Menelaus, but 
 Aphrodite urged me by day and by night, telling me that 
 to make her break hers to Paris would be quite inexpiable. 
 She told Paris the same thing at the same hour ; and as 
 often. He repeated it to me every morning : his dreams 
 tallied with mine exactly. At last 
 
 Achilles. The last is not yet come. Helena ! by the 
 Immortals ! if ever I meet him in battle I transfix him 
 with this spear. 
 
 Helena. Pray do not. Aphrodite would be angry and 
 never forgive thee. 
 
 Achilles. I am not sure of that ; she soon pardons. 
 Variable as Iris, one day she favours and the next day 
 she forsakes. 
 
 Helena. She may then forsake me. 
 
 Achilles. Other deities, O Helena, watch over and
 
 12 DRAMATIC. 
 
 protect thee. Thy two brave brothers are with those 
 deities now, and never are absent from their higher 
 festivals. 
 
 Helena. They could protect me were they living, and 
 they would. O that thou couldst but have seen them ! 
 
 Achilles. Companions of my father on the borders of 
 the Phasis, they became his guests before they went all 
 three to hunt the boar in the brakes of Calydon. Thence 
 too the beauty of a woman brought many sorrows into 
 brave men's breasts, and caused many tears to hang long 
 and heavily on the eyelashes of matrons. 
 
 Helena. Didst thou indeed see my brothers at that 
 season ? Yes, certainly. 
 
 Achilles. I saw them not, desirous though I always was 
 of seeing them, that I might have learnt from them, and 
 might have practised with them, whatever is laudable and 
 manly. But my father, fearing my impetuosity, as he 
 said, and my inexperience, sent me away. Soothsayers 
 had foretold some mischief to me from an arrow : and 
 among the brakes many arrows might fly vvdde, glancing 
 from trees. 
 
 Helena. I wish thou hadst seen them, were it only once. 
 Three such youths together the blessed sun will never 
 shine upon again. 
 
 O my sweet brothers ! how they tended me ! how they 
 loved me ! how often they wished me to mount their 
 horses and to hurl their javelins. They could only teach 
 me to swim with them ; and when I had well learnt it I 
 was more afraid than at first. It gratified me to be 
 praised for anything but swimming. 
 
 Happy, happy hours ! soon over ! Does happiness always 
 go away before beauty? It must go then : surely it might 
 stay that little while. Alas ! dear Castor ! and dearer Poly- 
 deuces ! often shall I think of you as ye were (and oh ! as 
 I was) on the banks of the Eurotas. Brave noble crea-
 
 MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY. 1 3 
 
 tures ! they were as tall, as terrible, and almost as beauti- 
 ful, as thou art. Be not wroth ! Blush no more for me. 
 
 Achilles. Helena ! Helena ! wife of Menelaus ! my 
 mother is reported to have left about me only one place 
 vulnerable : I have at last found where it is. Farewell. 
 
 Helena. O leave me not ! Earnestly I entreat and 
 implore thee, leave me not alone. These solitudes are 
 terrible : there must be wild beasts among them ; there 
 certainly are Fauns and Satyrs. And there is Cybel^ 
 who carries towers and temples on her head ; who hates 
 and abhors Aphrodite, who persecutes those she favours, 
 and whose priests are so cruel as to be cruel even to 
 themselves. 
 
 Achilles. According to their promise, the goddesses 
 who brought thee hither in a cloud will in a cloud recon- 
 duct thee, safely and unseen, into the city. 
 
 Again, O daughter of Leda and of Zeus, farewell ! 
 
 III. 
 
 MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY. 
 
 After tlie fall of Troy, Helen is pursued by Menelaus up thi 
 steps of the palace ; an old attendant deprecates and in- 
 terce/'ts his vengeance. 
 
 Menelaus. Out of my way ! Off ! or my sword may 
 smite thee, 
 Heedless of venerable age. And thou. 
 Fugitive ! stop. Stand, traitress, on that stair — 
 Thou mountest not another, by the gods ! 
 Now take the death thou meritest, the death 
 Zeus who presides o'er hospitality. 
 And every other god whom thou hast left, 
 And ever}' other who abandons thee
 
 1 4 DRAMATIC. 
 
 In this accursed city, sends at last. 
 
 Turn, vilest of vile slaves ! turn, paramour 
 
 Of what all other women hate, of cowards. 
 
 Turn, lest this hand wrench back thy head, and toss 
 
 It and its odours to the dust and flames. 
 
 Helen. Welcome the death thou promisest ! Not feai 
 But shame, obedience, duty, make me turn. 
 
 Alenelaus. Duty ! false harlot ! 
 
 Helen. Name too true ! severe 
 
 Precursor to the blow that is to fall ! 
 It should alone suffice for killing me. 
 
 Menelatis. Ay, weep : be not the only one in Troy 
 Who wails not on this day — its last — the day 
 Thou and thy crimes darken with dead on dead. 
 
 Helen. Spare ! spare ! O let the last that falls be me 
 There are but young and old. 
 
 Menelaus. There are but guilty 
 
 Where thou art, and the sword strikes none amiss. 
 Hearest thou not the creeping blood buzz near 
 Like flies ? or wouldst thou rather hear it hiss 
 Louder, against the flaming roofs thrown down 
 Wherewith the streets are pathless ? Ay, but vengeance 
 Springs over all ; and Nemesis and Ate 
 Drove back the flying ashes with both hands. 
 I never saw thee weep till now : and now 
 There is no pity in thy tears. The tiger 
 Leaves not her young athirst for the first milk, 
 As thou didst. Thine could scarce have claspt thy 
 
 knee 
 If she had felt thee leave her. 
 
 Helen. O my child ! 
 
 My only one ! thou livest : 'tis enough ; 
 Hate me, abhor me, curse me — these are duties — 
 Call me but Mother in the shades of death ! 
 She now is twelve years old, when the bud swells
 
 MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY. I 5 
 
 And the first colours of uncertain life 
 Begin to tinge it. 
 
 Morelaus {aside). Can she think of home ? 
 Hers once, mine yet, and sweet Hermione's ! 
 Is there one spark that cheer'd my hearth, one left, 
 For thee, my last of love ! 
 
 Scorn, righteous scorn 
 Blows it from me— but thou mayst — never, never— 
 Thou shalt not see her even there. The slave 
 On earth shall scorn thee, and the damn'd below. 
 
 Helen. Delay not either fate. If death is mercy, 
 •Send me among the captives ; so that Zeus 
 May see his offspring led in chains away, 
 And thy hard brother, pointing with his sword 
 At the last wretch that crouches on the shore. 
 Cry, " She alone shall never sail for Greece !" 
 Menelaus. Hast thou more words ? 
 
 Her voice is musical 
 As the young maids who sing to Artemis : 
 How glossy is that yellow braid my grasp 
 Seiz'd and let loose ! Ah ! can then years have past 
 Since— but the children of the gods, like them, 
 Suffer not age. 
 
 Helen ! speak honestly. 
 And thus escape my vengeance — was it force 
 That bore thee off? 
 
 Helen. It was some evil god. 
 
 Menelaus. Helping that hated man ? 
 Helen. How justly hated ! 
 
 Menelaus. By thee too ? 
 
 Helen. Hath he not made thee unhappy ? 
 
 O do not strike. 
 
 Menelaus. Wretch ! 
 
 Helen. Strike, but do not speak. 
 
 Menelaus. Lest thou remember me against thy will
 
 1 6 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Helen. Lest I look up and see you wroth and sad, 
 Against my will ; O ! how against my will 
 They know above, they who perhaps can pity. 
 
 Menelaus. They shall not save thee. 
 
 Helen. Then indeed they pity 
 
 Menelaus. Prepare for death. 
 
 Helen. Not from that hand : 'twould pain you 
 
 Menelaus. Touch not my hand. ^Easily dost thou drop it ! 
 
 Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou command. 
 
 Menelaus. Look up then. 
 
 Helen. To the hardest proof of all 
 
 I am now bidden : bid me not look up. 
 
 Menelaus. She looks as when I led her on behind 
 The torch and fife, and when the blush o'erspread 
 Her girlish face at tripping in the myrtle 
 On the first step before the wreathed gate. 
 Approach me. Fall not on thy knees. 
 
 Helen. The hand 
 
 That is to slay me, best may slay me thus. 
 I dare no longer see the light of heaven. 
 Nor thine — alas ! the light of heaven to me. 
 
 Menelaus. Follow me. 
 
 She holds out both arms — and now 
 Drops them again. — She comes. — Why stoppest thou? 
 
 Heleti. O Menelaus ! could thy heart know mine, 
 As once it did — for then did they converse, 
 Generous the one, the other not unworthy — 
 Thou wouldst find sorrow deeper even than guilt. 
 
 Alenelaus. And I must lead her by the hand again ? 
 Nought shall persuade me. Never. She draws back — 
 The true alone and loving sob like her. 
 Come, Helen ! \_He takes her hand, 
 
 Helen. Oh ! let never Greek see this ! 
 
 Hide me fiom Argos, from Amyclai hide me, 
 Hide me from all.
 
 AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 1 7 
 
 Metielaits. Thy anguish is too strong 
 
 For me to strive with. 
 Helen. Leave it all to me. 
 
 Menelaus. Peace ! peace ! The wind, I hope, is fair 
 for Sparta. 
 
 IV, 
 
 THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 
 
 Againetnnon, }nn7-dercd by his wife Clyteinncstra on his 
 return from t/ie Trojan war, is met at his entrance 
 among the shades by his daughter Ifhigcneia, sacri- 
 ficed by him to propitiate the gods on the outward 
 journey. 
 
 Iphigetieia. Father ! I now may lean upon your breast. 
 And you with unreverted eyes will grasp 
 Iphigeneia's hand. 
 
 We are not shades 
 Surely ! for yours throbs yet. 
 
 And did my blood 
 Win Troy for Greece ? 
 
 Ah ! 'twas ill done to shrink, 
 But the sword gleam'd so sharp, and the good priest 
 Trembled, and Pallas frown'd above, severe. 
 
 Agametnnon. Daughter ! 
 
 Iphigeneia. Beloved father ! is the blade 
 
 Again to pierce my bosom ? 'tis unfit 
 For sacrifice ; no blood is in its veins ; 
 No god requires it here ; here are no wrongs 
 To vindicate, no realms to overthrow. 
 You are standing as at Aulis in the fane, 
 With face averted, holding (as before) 
 My hand : but yours burns not, as then it burn'd ; 
 This alone shows that we are with the blest, 
 
 c
 
 1 8 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Nor subject to the sufferings we have borne. 
 I will win back past kindness. 
 
 Tell me then, 
 Tell how my mother fares who loved me so, 
 And griev'd, as 'twere for you, to see me part. 
 Frown not, but pardon me for tarrying 
 Amid too idle words, nor asking how 
 She prais'd us both (which most ?) for what we did. 
 
 Aganujnnou. Ye gods who govern here! do human pangs 
 Reach the pure soul thus far below ? do tears 
 Spring in these meadows ? 
 
 Iphigeneia. No, sweet father, no— 
 
 I could have answered that ; why ask the gods ? 
 
 Agamemnon. Iphigeneia ! O my child ! the Earth 
 Has gendered crimes unheard-of heretofore, 
 And Nature may have changed in her last depths. 
 Together with the gods and all their laws. 
 
 Iphigeneia. Father ! we must not let you here condemn ; 
 Not, were the day less joyful : recollect 
 We have no wicked here ; no king to judge. 
 Poseidon, we have heard, with bitter rage 
 Lashes his foaming steeds against the skies, 
 And, laughing with loud yell at winged fire 
 Innoxious to his fields and palaces, 
 Affrights the eagle from the sceptred hand ; 
 While Pluto, gentlest brother of the three 
 And happiest in obedience, views sedate 
 His tranquil realm, nor envies theirs above. 
 No change have we, not even day for night, 
 Nor spring for summer. All things are serene, 
 Serene too be your spirit ! 
 
 None on earth 
 Ever was half so kindly in his house. 
 And so compliant, even to a child. 
 Never was snatch'd your robe away from me,
 
 AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 1 9 
 
 Though going to the council. The blind man 
 Knew his good king was leading him indoors 
 Before he heard the voice that marshall'd Greece. 
 Therefore all prais'd you. 
 
 Proudest men themselves 
 In others praise humility, and most 
 Admire it in the sceptre and the sword. 
 What then can make you speak thus rapidly 
 And briefly ? in your step thus hesitate ? 
 Are you afraid to meet among the good 
 Incestuous Helen here ? 
 
 Agameiimo7i. O ! gods of hell ! 
 
 Iphigeneia. She hath not past the river. 
 
 We may walk 
 With our hands link'd nor feel our house's shame. 
 
 Agamemnon. Never mayst thou, Iphigeneia, feel it ! 
 Aulis had no sharp sword, thou wouldst exclaim, 
 Greece no avenger — I, her chief so late, 
 Through Erebos, through Elysium, writhe beneath it. 
 
 Iphigeneia. Come, I have better diadems than those 
 Of Argos and Mycenai : come away. 
 And I will weave them for you on the bank. 
 You will not look so pale when you have walk'd 
 A Httle in the grove, and have told all 
 Those sweet fond words the widow sent her child. 
 
 Agamemnon. O Earth ! I suffered less upon thy shores ! 
 {Aside.) The bath that bubbled with my blood, the blows 
 That spilt it (O worse torture !) must she know ? 
 Ah ! the first woman coming from Mycenai 
 Will pine to pour this poison in her ear, 
 Taunting sad Charon for his slow advance. 
 Iphigeneia ! 
 
 Iphigeneia. Why thus turn away ? 
 Calling me with such fondness ! I am here, 
 Father ! and where you are, will ever be.
 
 20 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Agamemnon. Thou art my child ; yes, yes, thou arl 
 my child. 
 All was not once what all now is ! Come on, 
 Idol of love and truth ! my child ! my child ! 
 
 {Alone.) Fell woman ! ever false ! false was thy last 
 Denunciation, as thy bridal vow ; 
 And yet even that found faith with me ! The dirk 
 Which sever'd flesh from flesh, where this hand rests, 
 Severs not, as thou boastedst in thy scoffs, 
 Iphigeneia's love from Agamemnon : 
 The wife's a spark may light, a straw consume. 
 The daughter's not her heart's whole fount hath 
 
 quench'd, 
 'Tis worthy of the gods, and lives for ever. 
 
 Iphigeneia. What spake my father to the gods above? 
 Unworthy am I then to join in prayer ? 
 If on the last, or any day before, 
 Of my brief course on earth, I did amiss. 
 Say it at once, and let me be unblest ; 
 But, O my faultless father ! why should you ? 
 And shun so my embraces ! 
 
 Am I wild 
 And wandering in my fondness ! 
 
 We are shades ! 
 Groan not thus deeply ; blight not thus the season 
 Of full-orb'd gladness ! Shades we are indeed, 
 But mingled, let us feel it, with the blest. 
 I knew it, but forgot it suddenly, 
 Altho' I felt it all at your approach. 
 Look on me ; smile with me at my illusion — 
 You are so like what you have ever been 
 (Except in sorrow) I might well forget 
 I could not win you as I used to do. 
 It was the first embrace since my descent 
 I ever aim'd at : those who love me live,
 
 AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 21 
 
 Save one, who loves me most, and now would chide me. 
 
 Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphigeneia, we 
 Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools the heart 
 With purity, nor words that more and more 
 Teach what we know from those we know, and sink 
 Often most deeply where they fall most light. 
 Time was when for the faintest breath of thine 
 Kingdom and life were little. 
 
 Iphigeneia. Value them 
 
 As little now. 
 
 Agamemnon. Were life and kingdom all ! 
 
 Iphigeneia. Ah ! by our death many are sad who loved us. 
 The little fond Electra, and Orestes 
 So childish and so bold ! O that mad boy ! 
 They will be happy too. 
 
 Cheer ! king of men ! 
 Cheer ! there are voices, songs — Cheer ! arms advance. 
 
 Agamemnon. Come to me, soul of peace ! These, 
 these alone. 
 These are not false embraces. 
 
 Iphigeneia. Both are happy ! 
 
 Agamemnon. Freshness breathes round me from some 
 breeze above. 
 What are ye, winged ones ! with golden urns ? 
 
 The Hours. 
 [Descending. ) To each an urn we bring : 
 Earth's purest gold 
 Alone can hold 
 The lymph of the Lethean spring. 
 We, son of Atreus ! we divide 
 The dulcet from the bitter tide 
 
 That runs athwart the paths of men. 
 No more our pinions shalt thou see. 
 Take comfort ! We have done with thee. 
 And must away to earth again.
 
 2 2 DRAMATIC. 
 
 {Ascending. ) Where thou art, thou 
 Of braided brow, 
 Thou cull'd too soon from Argive bowers, 
 Where thy sweet voice is heard among 
 The shades that thrill with choral song, 
 None can regret the parted Hours. 
 
 (As the Hours depart, the shades of the Argive warrion 
 ■who liad fought at Troy approach and chant in chorus the 
 praises of Agamemnon and his daughter.) 
 
 V. 
 
 /ESOP AND RHODOPfe. 
 
 .i^sop, being a slave in the fwuse of Xanthjcs, a Samian, has 
 for a fellow-slave the young girl Rkcdope, or Rhoddpis, 
 destined afterwards to attain great wealth and renown 
 in Egypt. Rhodopi attaches herself to yEsop in spite 
 of his deformity, and in this Second Conversation 
 tells hive how it came to pass that she was sold into 
 slavery. 
 
 j^sop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given to conten- 
 tion on the score of dignity ? 
 
 Rhodopi. I do not believe they are much addicted to con- 
 tention : for, whenever the good Xanthus hears a signal of 
 such misbehaviour, he either brings a scourge into the midst 
 of them, or sends our lady to scold them smartly for it. 
 
 ^sop. Admirable evidence against their propensity ! 
 
 Rhodopi. I will not have you find them out so, nor 
 laugh at them. 
 
 ^sop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and our lady are 
 equally fond of thee, and always visit thee both together, 
 the girls, however envious, cannot well or safely be arro- 
 gant, but must of necessity yield the first place to thee. 
 
 Rhodopi. They indeed are observant of the kindness
 
 JESOP AND RHODOPfe. 23 
 
 thus bestowed upon me : yet they afflict me by taunting 
 me continually with what I am unable to deny. 
 
 ^sop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble thee ; if 
 untrue, less. I know, for I have looked into nothing else 
 of late, no evil can thy heart have admitted : a sigh of 
 thine before the gods would remove the heaviest that 
 could fall on it. Pray tell me what it may be. Come, 
 be courageous ; be cheerful. I can easily pardon a smile 
 if thou empleadest me of curiosity. 
 
 Rhodopi. They remark to me that enemies or robbers 
 took them forcibly from their parents — and that — and 
 that 
 
 ^sop. Likely enough : what then ? Why desist from 
 speaking ? Why cover thy face with thy hair and hands ? 
 Rhodop6 ! Rhodope ! dost thou weep moreover ? 
 
 Rhodopi. It is so sure ! 
 
 ^sop. Was the fault thine ? 
 
 Rhodopi. O that it were ! — if there was any. 
 
 ^sop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep thy silence ; 
 but when utterance is a solace, then impart it. 
 
 Rhodopi. They remind me (oh ! who could have had 
 the cruelty to relate it ?) that my father, my own dear 
 father 
 
 ALsop. Say not the rest : I know it : his day was come. 
 
 Rhodope. — Sold me, sold me. You start : you did not 
 at the lightning last night, nor at the rolling sounds above. 
 And do you, generous ^sop ! do you also call a misfor- 
 tune a disgrace ? 
 
 yEsop. It it is, I am among the most disgraceful of men. 
 Didst thou dearly love thy father ? 
 
 Rhodopi. All loved him. He was very fond of me. 
 
 ^sop. And yet sold thee ! sold thee to a stranger ! 
 
 Rhodopi. He was the kindest of all kind fathers, never- 
 theless. Nine summers ago, you may have heard perhaps, 
 there was a grievous famine in our land of Thrace.
 
 24 DRAMATIC. 
 
 ALsop. I remember it perfectly, 
 
 Rhodofi. O poor ^sop ! and were you too famishing 
 in your native Phrygia ? 
 
 y^sop. The calamity extended beyond the narrow sea 
 that separates our countries. My appetite was sharpened ; 
 but the appetite and the wits are equally set on the same 
 grindstone. 
 
 Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old : my mother 
 died the year before : my father sighed at every funereal, 
 but he sighed more deeply at every bridal, song. He 
 loved me because he loved her who bore me : and yet I 
 made him sorrowful whether I cried or smiled. If ever 
 I vexed him, it was because I would not play when he 
 told me, but made him, by my weeping, weep again. 
 
 ^sop. And yet he could endure to lose thee ! he, thy 
 father ! Could any other ? could any who lives on the 
 fruits of the Earth, endure it ? O age, that art incum- 
 bent over me ! blessed be thou ; thrice blessed ! Not 
 that thou stillest the tumults of the heart and promisest 
 eternal calm ; but that, prevented by thy beneficence, 
 I never shall experience this only intolerable wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 Rhodopi. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 y^sop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst not utter 
 that useless exclamation. 
 
 Rhodope. You said something angrily and vehemently 
 when you stepped aside. Is it not enough that the hand- 
 maidens doubt the kindness of my father? Must so 
 virtuous and so wise a man as ^sop blame him also ? 
 
 ALsop. Perhaps he is little to be blamed ; certainly he 
 is much to be pitied. 
 
 RhodopL Kind heart ! on which mine must never rest. 
 
 ALsop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel when 
 they fail thee : rest on it, as the Deities on the breast of 
 mortals, to console and purify it
 
 /ESOP AND RHODOPfe. 25 
 
 Rhodopi. Could I remove any sorrow from it, I should 
 be contented. 
 
 Aisop. Then be so ; and proceed in thy narrative. 
 
 Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My thoughts 
 have overpowered my words, and now themselves are 
 overpowered and scattered. Forty-seven days ago (this 
 is only the forty-eighth since I beheld you first) I was a 
 child ; I was ignorant, I was careless. 
 
 yEsop. If these qualities are signs of childhood, the 
 universe is a nursery. 
 
 Rhodopi. AfBiction, which makes many wiser, had no 
 such effect on me. But reverence and love (why should 
 I hesitate at the one avowal more than at the other ?) 
 came over me, to ripen my understanding. 
 
 ^sop. O Rhodope ! we must loiter no longer upon 
 this discourse ? 
 
 Rhodopi. Why not ? 
 
 ^sop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen over the high 
 papyrus when it waves and bends : deep laden with the 
 sweet heaviness of its odour is the listless air that palpi- 
 tates dizzily above it : but Death is lurking for the 
 slumberer beneath its blossoms. 
 
 Rhodopi. You must not love then ! — but may not I ? 
 
 Msop. We will — but 
 
 RhodopL We! O sound that is to vibrate on my 
 breast for ever ! O hour ! happier than all other hours 
 since time began ! O gracious gods ! who brought me 
 into bondage ! 
 
 ALsop. Be calm, be composed, be circumspect. We 
 nmst hide our treasure that we may not lose it. 
 
 Rhodoph I do not think that you can love me ; and I 
 fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, yes ; you have said 
 you did. But again you only look at me, and sigh as if 
 you repented. 
 
 ALsop. Unworthy as 1 may be of thy fond regard, 1
 
 26 DRAMATIC. 
 
 am not unworthy of thy fullest confidence ; why dis- 
 trust me ? 
 
 RhodopL Never will I — never, never. To know that 
 I possess your love, surpasses all other knowledge, dear 
 as is all that I receive from you. I should be tired of 
 my own voice if I heard it on aught beside : and, even 
 yours is less melodious in any other sound than Rhodope. 
 
 ALsop. Do sufch little girls learn to flatter ? 
 
 Rhodopi. Teach me how to speak, since you could not 
 teach me how to be silent. 
 
 yEsop. Speak no longer of me, but of thyself; and 
 only of things that never pain thee. 
 
 RhodopL Nothing can pain me now. 
 
 ^sop. Relate thy story then, from infancy. 
 
 Rhodope. I must hold your hand : I am afraid of losing 
 you again. 
 
 ALsop. Now begin. Why silent so long ? 
 
 Rhodopi. I have dropped all memory of what is told 
 by me and what is untold. 
 
 Aisop. Recollect a little. I can be patient with this 
 hand in mine. 
 
 RhodopL I am not certain that yours is any help to 
 recollection. 
 
 ALsop. Shall I remove it ? 
 
 RhodopL O ! now I think I can recall the whole story. 
 What did you say ? did you ask any question ? 
 
 ALsop. None, excepting what thou hast answered. 
 
 RhodopL Never shall I forget the morning when my 
 father, sitting in the coolest part of the house, exchanged 
 his last measure of grain for a chlamys of scarlet cloth 
 fringed with silver. He watched the merchant out of the 
 door, and then looked wistfully into the corn-chest. I, 
 who thought there was something worth seeing, looked 
 in also, and, finding it empty, expressed my disappoint- 
 ment, not thinking however about the corn. A faint and
 
 ^SOP AND RHODOPfe. 7.^ 
 
 transient smile came over his countenance at the sight of 
 mine. He unfolded the chlamys, stretched it out with 
 both hands before me, and then cast it over my shoulders. 
 I looked down on the glittering fringe and screamed with 
 joy. He then went out ; and I know not what flowers 
 he gathered, but he gathered many ; and some he placed 
 in my bosom, and some in my hair. But I told him with 
 captious pride, first that I could arrange them better, and 
 again that I would have only the white. However, 
 when he had selected all the white, and I had placed a 
 few of them according to my fancy, I told him (rising in 
 my slipper) he might crown me with the remainder. The 
 splendour of my apparel gave me a sensation of authority. 
 Soon as the flowers had taken their station on my head, 
 I expressed a dignified satisfaction at the taste displayed 
 by my father, just as if I could have seen how they 
 appeared ! But he knew that there was at least as much 
 pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided the latter 
 (alas ! not both) pretty equally. He now took me into 
 the market-place, where a concourse of people was wait- 
 ing for the purchase of slaves. Merchants came and 
 looked at me ; some commending, others disparaging ; 
 but all agreeing that I was slender and delicate, that I 
 could not live long, and that I should give much trouble. 
 Many would have bought the chlamys, but there was 
 something less saleable in the child and flowers. 
 
 ySsop. Had thy features been coarse and thy voice 
 rustic, they would all have patted thy cheeks and found 
 no fault in thee. 
 
 RhodopL As it was, every one had bought exactly such 
 another in time past, and been a loser by it. At these 
 speeches I perceived the flowers tremble slightly on my 
 bosom, from my father's agitation. Although he scoffed 
 at them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled inter- 
 nally, and said many short prayers, not very unlike
 
 28 DRAMATIC. 
 
 imprecations, turning his head aside. Proud was I, 
 prouder than ever, when at last several talents were 
 offered for me, and by the very man who in the beginning 
 had undervalued me most, and prophesied the worst of 
 me. My father scowled at him and refused the money. 
 I thought he was playing a game, and began to wonder 
 what it could be, since I never had seen it played before. 
 Then I fancied it might be some celebration because 
 plenty had returned to the city, insomuch that my father 
 had bartered the last of the corn he hoarded. I grew 
 more and more delighted at the sport. But soon there 
 advanced an elderly man, who said gravely, "Thou hast 
 stolen this child : her vesture alone is worth a hundred 
 drachmas. Carry her home again to her parents, and do 
 it directly, or Nemesis and the Eumenides will overtake 
 thee. " Knowing the estimation in which my father had 
 always been holden by his fellow-citizens, I laughed again, 
 and pinched his ear. He, although naturally choleric, 
 burst forth into no resentment at these reproaches, but 
 said calmly, " I think I know thee by name, O guest ! 
 Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian. Deliver this child 
 from famine. " Again I laughed aloud and heartily, and 
 thinking it was now my part of the game, I held out both 
 my arms and protruded my whole body toward the 
 stranger. He would not receive me from my father's 
 neck, but he asked me with benignity and solicitude if I 
 was hungry : at which I laughed again, and more than 
 ever : for it was early in the morning, soon after the first 
 meal, and my father had nourished me most carefully and 
 plentifully in all the days of the famine. But Xanthus, 
 waiting for no answer, took out of a sack, which one of 
 his slaves carried at his side, a cake of wheaten bread and 
 a piece of honeycomb, and gave them to me. I held the 
 honeycomb to my father's mouth, thinking it the most of 
 a dainty. He dashed it to the ground ; but seizing the
 
 iESOP AND RHODOPfe. 2g 
 
 bread, he began to devour it ferociously. This also I 
 thought was in play ; and I clapped my hands at his 
 distortions. But Xanthus looked at him like one afraid, 
 and smote the cake from him, crying aloud, " Name the 
 price." My father now placed me in his arms, naming a 
 price much below what the other had offered, saying, 
 "The gods are ever with thee, O Xanthus ! therefore to 
 thee do I consign my child." But while Xanthus was 
 counting out the silver, my father seized the cake again, 
 which the slave had taken up and was about to replace 
 in the wallet. His hunger was exasperated by the taste 
 and the delay. Suddenly there arose much tumult. 
 Turning round in the old woman's bosom who had 
 received me from Xanthus, I saw my beloved father 
 struggling on the ground, livid and speechless. The 
 more violent my cries, the more rapidly they hurried me 
 away ; and many were soon between us. Little was 1 
 suspicious that he had suffered the pangs of famine long 
 before : alas ! and he had suffered them for me. Do I 
 weep while I am telling you they ended ? I could not 
 have closed his eyes ; I was too young : but I might have 
 received his last breath ; the only comfort of an orphan's 
 bosom. Do you now think him blameahle, O Msop ? 
 
 Ai,sop. It was sublime humanity ; it was forbearance 
 and self-denial which even the immortal gods have never 
 shown us. He could endure to perish by those torments 
 which alone are both acute and slow ; he could number 
 the steps of death and iniss not one : but he could never 
 see thy tears, nor let thee see his. O weakness above 
 all fortitude ! Glory to the man who rather bears a grief 
 corroding his breast, than permits it prowl beyond, and 
 to prey on the tender and compassionate ! Women com- 
 miserate the brave, men the beautiful. The dominion 
 of Pity has usually this extent, no wider. Thy father 
 was exposed to the obloquy not only of the malicious,
 
 30 DRAMATIC. 
 
 but also of the ignorant and thoughtless, who condemn 
 in the unfortunate what they applaud in the prosperous. 
 There is no shame in poverty or in slavery if we neither 
 make ourselves poor by our own improvidence, nor slaves 
 by our venality. The lowest and highest of the human 
 race are sold ; most of the intermediate are also slaves, 
 but slaves who bring no money into the market ! 
 
 Rhodopi. Surely the great and powerful are never to 
 to be purchased : are they ? 
 
 ALsop. It may be a defect in my vision, but I cannot 
 see greatness on the earth. What they tell me is great 
 and aspiring, to me seems little and crawling. Let me 
 meet thy question with another. What monarch gives 
 his daughter for nothing ? Either he receives stone walls 
 and unwilling cities in return, or he barters her for a 
 parcel of spears and horses and horsemen, waving away 
 from his declining and helpless age young joyous life, and 
 trampling down the freshest and the sweetest memories. 
 Midas, in the height of prosperity, would have given his 
 daughter to Lycaon, rather than to the gentlest, the most 
 virtuous, the most intelligent of his subjects. Thy father 
 threw wealth aside, and, placing thee under the protection 
 of Virtue, rose up from the house of Famine to partake 
 in the festivals of the gods. 
 
 Release my neck, O Rhodope ! for I have other ques- 
 tions to ask of thee about him. 
 
 Rhodopi. To hear thee converse on him in such a 
 manner, I can do even that. 
 
 y^sop. Before the day of separation was he never 
 sorrowful ? Did he never by tears or silence reveal the 
 secret of his soul ? 
 
 Rhodopi. I was too infantine to perceive or imagine 
 his intention. The night before I became the slave of 
 Xanthus, he sat on the edge of my bed. I pretended to 
 be asleep : he moved away silently and softly. I saw
 
 JESOP AND RHODOPfe. 31 
 
 him collect in the hollow of his hand the crumljs I had 
 wasted on the floor, and then eat them, and then look if 
 any were remaining. I thought he did so out of fondness 
 for me, remembering that, even before the famine, he 
 had often swept .up off the table the bread I had broken, 
 and had made me put it between his lips. I would not 
 dissemble very long, but said, 
 
 " Come, now you have wakened me, you must sing 
 me asleep again, as you did when I was little." He 
 smiled faintly at this, and, after some delay, when he 
 had walked up and down the chamber, thus began : "I 
 will sing to thee one song more, my wakeful Rhodope ! 
 my chirping bird ! over whom is no mother's wing ! That 
 it may lull thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in 
 the days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of Mars, 
 guiding in their invisibly rapid onset the dappled steeds 
 of Rhesus. What hast thou to do, my little one, with 
 arrows tired of clustering in the quiver ? How much 
 quieter is thy pallet than the tents which whitened the 
 plain of Simois ! What knowest thou about the river 
 Eurotas ? What knowest thou about its ancient palace, 
 once trodden by assembled gods, and then polluted by 
 the Phrygian ? What knowest thou of perfidious men 
 or of sanguinary deeds ? 
 
 "Pardon me, O goddess who presidest in Cythera ! 
 I am not irreverent to thee, but ever grateful. May she 
 upon whose brow I lay my hand, praise and bless thee 
 for evermore ! 
 
 " Ah yes ! continue to hold up above the coverlet those 
 fresh and rosy palms clasped together : her benefits have 
 descended on thy beauteous head, my child ! The Fates 
 also have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter scenes 
 than snow-fed Hebrus ; of more than dim grottoes and 
 sky -bright waters. Even now a low murmur swells 
 upward to my ear : and not from the spindle comes the
 
 32 DRAMATIC. 
 
 sound, but from those who sing slowly over it, bending 
 all three their tremulous heads together. I wish thou 
 couldst hear it ; for seldom are their voices so sweet. 
 Thy pillow intercepts the song, perhaps : lie down again, 
 lie down, my Rhodope ! I will repeat wha.t they are saying : 
 
 " ' Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious, than even 
 she, the truly beloved, for whose return to the distaff and 
 the lyre the portals of Tsenarus flew open. In the woody 
 dells of Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans 
 of Strymon, the Nymphs called her Eurydice. Thou 
 shalt behold that fairest and that fondest one hereafter. 
 But first thou must go unto the land of the lotos, where 
 famine never cometh, and where alone the works of man 
 are immortal.' 
 
 " O my child ! the undeceiving Fates have uttered this. 
 Other Powers have visited me, and have strengthened my 
 heart with dreams and visions. We shall meet again, my 
 Rhodope ! in shady groves and verdant meadows, and we 
 shall sit by the side of those who loved us." He was 
 rising : I threw my arms about his neck, and before I 
 would let him go, I made him promise to place me not 
 by the side, but between them : for I thought of her who 
 had left us. At that time there were but two, O ^sop ! 
 
 You ponder : you are about to reprove my assurance 
 in having thus repeated my own praises. I would have 
 omitted some of the words, only that it might have dis- 
 turbed the measure and cadences, and have put me out. 
 They are the very words my dearest father sang ; and 
 they are the last : yet shame upon me ! the nurse (the 
 same who stood listening near, who attended me into 
 this country) could remember them more perfectly : it is 
 from her I have learnt them since ; she often sings them, 
 even by herself. 
 
 JEsop. So shall others. There is much both in them 
 and in thee to render them memorable.
 
 MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 33 
 
 Rhodopi. Who flatters now ? 
 
 ALsop. Flattery often runs beyond Truth, in a hurry 
 to embrace her ; but not here. The dullest of mortals, 
 seeing and hearing thee, would never misinterpret the 
 prophecy of the Fates. 
 
 If, turning back, I could overpass the vale of years, 
 and could stand on the mountain-top, and could look 
 again far before me at the bright ascending morn, we 
 would enjoy the prospect together ; we would walk along 
 the summit hand in hand, O Rhodope, and we would only 
 sigh at last when we found ourselves below with others. 
 
 VI. 
 
 MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 
 
 M. Chxudius Marcelliis, in connnainl of the Roman army 
 near Veiiusia, having fallen into an ambuscade of the 
 Carthaginians and their allies, and been 7iiortally 
 wounded, expires in the presence oj Hannibal : a Gaulish 
 chieftain and a surgeon arc in attendance. 
 
 Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster ? 
 Marcellus ! ho ! Marcellus ! He moves not — he is dead. 
 Did he not stir his fingers ? Stand wide, soldiers — wide, 
 forty paces — give him air — bring water — halt ! Gather 
 those broad leaves, and all the rest, growing under the 
 brushwood — unbrace his armour. Loose the helmet first 
 — his breast rises. I fancied his eyes were fixed on me— 
 they have rolled back again. Who presumed to touch 
 my shoulder? This horse? It was surely the horse of 
 Marcellus ! Let no man mount him. Ha ! ha ! the 
 Romans too sink into luxury : here is gold about the 
 charger. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. Execrable thief ! The golden chain 
 
 D
 
 34 DRAMATIC. 
 
 of our king under a beast's grinders ! The vengeance of 
 the gods hath overtaken the impure 
 
 Hannibal. We will talk about vengeance when we have 
 entered Rome, and about purity among the priests, if they 
 will hear us. Sound for the surgeon. That arrow may 
 be extracted from the side, deep as it is. — The conqueror 
 of Syracuse Ues before me. — Send a vessel off to Carthage. 
 Say Hannibal is at the gates of Rome — Marcellus, who 
 stood alone between us, fallen. Brave man ! I would 
 rejoice and cannot. — How awfully serene a countenance ! 
 Such as we hear are in the islands of the Blessed. And 
 how glorious a form and stature ! Such too was theirs ! 
 They also once lay thus upon the earth wet with their 
 blood^ — few other enter there. And what plain armour ! 
 
 Gaulish Chieflain. My party slew him — indeed I think 
 I slew him myself. I claim the chain : it belongs to my 
 king : the glory of Gaul requires it. Never will she 
 endure to see another take it : rather would she lose her 
 last man. We swear ! we swear ! 
 
 Hannibal. My friend, the glory of Marcellus did not 
 require him to wear it. When he suspended the arms of 
 your brave king in the temple, he thought such a trinket 
 unworthy of himself and of Jupiter. The shield he 
 battered down, the breastplate he pierced with his 
 sword, these he showed to the people and to the gods ; 
 hardly his wife and little children saw this, ere his horse 
 wore^t. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. Hear me, O Hannibal ! 
 
 Hannibal. What ! when Marcellus lies before me ? 
 When his life may perhaps be recalled ? When I may 
 lead him in triumph to Carthage ? When Italy, Sicily, 
 Greece, Asia, wait to obey me ? Content thee ! I will 
 give thee mine own bridle, worth ten such. 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. For myself? 
 
 Hannibal. For thyself.
 
 MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 35 
 
 Gaulish Chieftain. And these rubies and emeralds and 
 that scarlet 
 
 Ha7inibal. Yes, yes. 
 
 Gatdish Chieftain. O glorious Hannibal ! unconquerable 
 hero ! O my happy country ! to have such an ally and 
 defender. I swear eternal gratitude— yes, gratitude, love, 
 devotion, beyond eternity. 
 
 Hannibal. In all treaties we fix the time : I could 
 hardly ask a longer. Go back to thy station— I would 
 see what the surgeon is about, and hear what he thinks. 
 The life of Marcellus ! the triumph of Hannibal ! what 
 else has the world in it ? only Rome and Carthage : these 
 follow. 
 
 Surgeon. Hardly an hour of life is left. 
 
 Marcellus. I must die then ! The gods be praised ! 
 The commander of a Roman army is no captive. 
 
 Hannibal {to the Surgeon). Could not he bear a sea- 
 voyage ? Extract the arrow. 
 
 Surgeon. He expires that moment. 
 
 Marcellus. It pains me : extract it. 
 
 Hannibal. Marcellus, I see no expression of pain on 
 your countenance, and never will I consent to hasten the 
 death of an enemy in my power. Since your recovery is 
 hopeless, you say truly you are no captive. 
 
 {To the Surgeon.) Is there nothing, man, that can 
 assuage the mortal pain ? for, suppress the signs of it as 
 he may, he must feel it. Is there nothing to alleviate 
 
 and allay it ? 
 
 Marcellus. Hannibal, give me thy hand — thou hast 
 found it and brought it me, compassion. 
 
 {To the Surgeon.) Go, friend ; others want thy aid; 
 several fell around me. 
 
 Hannibal. Recommend to your country, O Marcellus, 
 while time permits it, reconciliation and peace with me, 
 informing the Senate of my superiority in force, and the
 
 36 DRAMATIC. 
 
 impossibility of resistance. The tablet is ready : let me 
 take off this ring — try to write, to sign it at least. O ! 
 what satisfaction I feel at seeing you able to rest upon the 
 elbow, and even to smile ! 
 
 Marcellus. Within an hour or less, with how severe a 
 brow would Minos say to me, " Marcellus, is this thy 
 writing?" 
 
 Rome loses one man : she hath lost many such, and 
 she still hath many left. 
 
 Hannibal. Afraid as you are of falsehood, say you this t 
 I confess in shame the ferocity of my countrym.en. Un- 
 fortunately too the nearer posts are occupied by Gauls, 
 infinitely more cruel. The Numidians are so in revenge ; 
 the Gauls both in revenge and in sport. My presence is 
 required at a distance, and I apprehend the barbarity of 
 one or other, learning, as they must do, your refusal to exe- 
 cute my wishes for the common good, and feeling that by 
 this refusal you deprive them of their country, after so long 
 an absence. 
 
 Marcellus. Hannibal, thou art not dying. 
 
 Hannibal. What then ? What mean you ? 
 
 Marcellus. That thou mayest, and very justly, have 
 many things yet to apprehend : I can have none. The 
 barbarity of thy soldiers is nothing to me. Mine would 
 not dare be cruel. Hannibal is forced to be absent ; and 
 his authority goes away with his horse. On this turf lies 
 defaced the semblance of a general ; but Marcellus is yet 
 the regulator of his army. Dost thou abdicate a power 
 conferred on thee by thy nation ? or wouldst thou acknow- 
 ledge it to have become, by thy own sole fault, less plenary 
 than thy adversary's ? 
 
 I have spoken too nmch : let me rest : this mantle 
 oppresses me. 
 
 Hannibal. I placed my mantle on your head when the 
 helmet was first removed, and while you were lying in
 
 MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. "^^ 
 
 the sun. Let me fold it under, and then replace the 
 ring. 
 
 Marcelliis. Take it, Hannibal. It was given me by a 
 poor woman who flew to me at Syracuse, and who covered 
 it with her hair, torn off in desperation that she had no 
 other gift to offer. Little thought I that her gift and her 
 words should be mine. How suddenly may the most 
 powerful be in the situation of the most helpless ! Let 
 that ring and the mantle under my head be the exchange 
 of guests at parting. The time may come, Hannibal, 
 when thou (and the gods alone know whether as con- 
 queror or conquered) mayest sit under the roof of my 
 children, and in either case it shall serve thee. In thy 
 adverse fortune, they will remember on whose pillow their 
 father breathed his last ; in thy prosperous (heaven grant 
 it may shine upon thee in some other country) it will 
 rejoice thee to protect them. We feel ourselves the most 
 exempt from affliction when we reheve it, although we 
 are then the most conscious that it may befall us. There 
 is one thing here which is not at the disposal of either. 
 
 Hannibal. What? 
 
 Marcellus. This body. 
 
 Hamiibal. Whither would you be lifted ? Men are 
 ready. 
 
 Marcellus. I meant not so. My strength is failing. 1 
 seem to hear rather what is within than what is without. 
 My sight and my other senses are in confusion. I would 
 have said. This body, when a few bubbles of air shall 
 have left it, is no more worthy of thy notice than of mine ; 
 but thy glory will not let thee refuse it to the piety of my 
 family. 
 
 Hannibal. You would ask something else. I perceive 
 an inquietude not visible till now. 
 
 Marcellus. Duty and Death make us think of home 
 sometimes.
 
 38 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Hannibal. Thitherward the thoughts of the conqueroi 
 and of the conquered fly together. 
 
 Marcellus. Hast thou any prisoners from my escort ? 
 
 Hannibal. A few dying lie about — and let them lie — 
 they are Tuscans. The remainder I saw at a distance, 
 flying, and but one brave man among them — he appeared 
 a Roman — a youth who turned back, though wounded. 
 They surrounded and dragged him away, spurring his 
 horse with their swords. These Etrurians measure their 
 courage carefully, and tack it well together before they 
 put it on, but throw it off again with lordly ease. 
 
 Marcellus, why think about them ? or does aught else 
 disquiet your thoughts ? 
 
 Marcellus. I have suppressed it long enough. My son 
 — my beloved son ! 
 
 ZTawMZi^a/. Where is he ? Can it be? Was he with you? 
 
 ■ Marcellus. He would have shared my fate — and has 
 
 not. Gods of my country ! beneficent throughout life to 
 
 me, in death surpassingly beneficent, I render you, for 
 
 the last time, thanks. 
 
 VII. 
 SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PAN^TIUS. 
 
 The Greek historian Polybius, and the Greek philosoplur 
 Panatius, friends of Publius Scipio jEmilianus, enter 
 his tent after the fall of Cartilage. 
 
 Scipio. Polybius, if you have found me slow in rising 
 to you, if I lifted not up my eyes to salute you on your 
 entrance, do not hold me ungrateful — proud there is no 
 danger that you will ever call me ; this day of all days 
 would least make me so : it shows me the power of the 
 immortal gods, the mutability of fortune, the instability 
 of empire, the feebleness, the nothingness of man. The
 
 SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PAN^ETIUS. 39 
 
 earth stands motionless ; the grass upon it bends and 
 returns, the same to-day as yesterday, the same in this 
 age as in a hundred past : the sky darkens and is serene 
 again ; the clouds melt away, but they are clouds another 
 time, and float like triumphal pageants along the heavens. 
 Carthage is fallen ! to rise no more ! the funereal horns 
 have this hour announced to us, that, after eighteen days 
 and eighteen nights of conflagration, her last embers are 
 extinguished. 
 
 Polybius. Perhaps, O vEmilianus, 1 ought not to have 
 come in. 
 
 Scipio. Welcome, my friend. 
 
 Polybius. While you were speaking I would by no 
 means interrupt you so idly, as to ask you to whom you 
 have been proud, or to whom could you be ungrateful. 
 
 Scipio. To him, if to any, whose hand is in mine ; to 
 him on whose shoulder I rest my head, weary with pre- 
 sages and vigils. Collect my thoughts for me, O my 
 friend ! the fall of Carthage hath shaken and scattered 
 them. There are moments when, if we are quite con- 
 tented with ourselves, we never can remount to what we 
 were before. 
 
 Polybius. Pansetius is absent. 
 
 Scipio. Feeling the necessity, at the moment, of utter 
 loneliness, I despatched him toward the city. There may 
 be (yes, even there) some sufferings which the Senate 
 would not censure us for assuaging. But behold he 
 returns ! We were speaking of you, Pansetius ! 
 
 Panxtius. And about what beside? Come, honestly 
 tell me, Polybius, on what are you reflecting and medi- 
 tating with such sedately intense enthusiasm ? 
 
 Polybius. After the burning of some village, or the 
 overleaping of some garden-wall, to exterminate a few 
 pirates or highwaymen, I have seen the commander's tent 
 thronged with officers ; I have heard as many trumpets
 
 40 DRAMATIC. 
 
 around him as would have shaken down the places of 
 themselves : I have seen the horses start from the pre- 
 torium as if they would fly from under their trappings, and 
 spurred as if they were to reach the east and west before 
 sunset, that nations might hear of the exploit, and sleep 
 soundly. And now do I behold in solitude, almost in 
 gloom, and in such silence that, unless my voice prevent 
 it, the grasshopper is audible, him who has levelled to 
 the earth the strongest and most populous of cities, the 
 wealthiest and most formidable of empires. I had seen 
 Rome ; I had seen (what those who never saw never tvill 
 see) Carthage ; I thought I had seen Scipio : it was but 
 the image of him : here I find him. 
 
 Scipio. There are many hearts that ache this day : there 
 are many that never will ache more : hath one man done 
 it ? one man's breath ? What air, upon the earth, or 
 upon the waters, or in the void of heaven, is lost so 
 quickly ! it flies away at the point of an arrow, and re- 
 turns no more ! the sea-foam stifles it ! the tooth of a 
 reptile stops it ! a noxious leaf suppresses it. WTiat are 
 we in our greatness ? WTience rises it ? Whither tends 
 it ? Merciful gods ! may not Rome be what Carthage is ? 
 may not those who love her devotedly, those who will 
 look on her with fondness and affection after life, see her 
 in such condition as to wish she were so ? 
 
 Polybius. One of the heaviest groans over fallen Car- 
 thage, burst from the breast of Scipio : who would believe 
 this tale ? 
 
 Scipio. Men like my Polybius : others must never hear it. 
 
 Polybius. You have not ridden forth, .^milianus, to 
 survey the ruins. 
 
 Scipio. No, Polybius : since I removed my tent to 
 avoid the heat from the conflagration, I never have ridden 
 nor walked nor looked toward them. At this elevation, 
 and three miles off", the temperature of the season is altered
 
 SCIPIO, P0LYT5IUS, AND PANiETIUS. 4 1 
 
 I do not believe, as those about me would have persuaded 
 me, that the gods were visible in the clouds ; that thrones 
 of ebony and gold were scattered in all directions ; that 
 broken chariots and flaming steeds, and brazen bridges, 
 had cast their fragments upon the earth ; that eagles and 
 lions, dolphins and tridents, and other emblems of power 
 and empire, were visible at one moment, and at the next 
 had vanished ; that purple and scarlet overspread the 
 mansions of the gods ; that their voices were heard at 
 first confusedly and discordantly, and that the apparition 
 closed with their high festivals. I could not keep my 
 eyes on the heavens ; a crash of arch or of theatre or of 
 tower, a column of flame rising higher than they were, or 
 a universal cry, as if none until then had perished, drew 
 them thitherward. Such were the dismal sights and 
 sounds, a fresh city seemed to have been taken every 
 hour, for seventeen days. This is the nineteenth since 
 the smoke arose from the level roofs and from the lofty 
 temples, and thousands died, and tens of thousands ran 
 in search of death. 
 
 Calamity moves me ; heroism moves me more. That 
 a nation whose avarice we have so often reprehended, 
 should have cast into the furnace gold and silver, from 
 the insufficiency of brass and iron for arms ; that palaces 
 the most magnificent should have been demolished by the 
 proprietor for their beams and rafters in order to build a 
 fleet against us ; that the ropes whereby the slaves hauled 
 them down to the new harbour, should in part be com- 
 posed of hair, for one lock of which kings would have 
 laid down their diadems ; that Asdrubal should have 
 found equals, his wife none — my mind, my very limbs, 
 are unsteady with admiration. O Liberty ! what art thou 
 to the valiant and brave, when thou art thus to the weak 
 and timid ! dearer than life, stronger than death, higher 
 than purest love. Never will I call upon thee where thy
 
 42 DRAMATIC. 
 
 name can be profaned, and never shall my soul acknow- 
 ledge a more exalted Power than thee. 
 
 Pafiatius. The Carthaginians and Moors have, beyond 
 other nations, a delicate feeling on female chastity. 
 Rather than that their women should become slaves and 
 concubines, they slay them : is it certain that Asdrubal 
 did not observe, or cause to be observed, the custom oi 
 his country ? 
 
 Polybius. Certain : on the surrender of his army his 
 wife threw herself and her two infants into the flames. 
 Not only memorable acts, of what the dastardly will call 
 desperation, were performed, but some also of deliberate 
 and signal justice. Avaricious as we called the people, 
 and unjustly, as you have proved, /Emilianus, I will 
 relate what I myself was witness to. 
 
 In a part of the city where the fire had subsided, we 
 were excited by loud cries, rather of indignation, we 
 thought, than of such as fear or lament or threaten or 
 exhort ; and we pressed forward to disperse the multitude. 
 Our horses often plunged in the soft dust, and in the 
 holes whence the pavement had been removed for missiles, 
 and often reared up and snorted violently at smells which 
 we could not perceive, but which we discovered to rise 
 from bodies, mutilated and half -burnt, of soldiers and 
 horses, laid bare, some partly, some wholly, by the march 
 of the troop. Although the distance from the place 
 whence we parted to that where we heard the cries, was 
 very short, yet from the incumbrances in that street, and 
 from the dust and smoke issuing out of others, it was 
 some time before we reached it. On our near approach, 
 two old men threw themselves on the ground before us, 
 and the elder spake thus. " Our age, O Romans, neither 
 will nor ought to be our protection : we are, or rather 
 we have been, judges of this land ; and to the uttermost 
 of our power we have invited our countrymen to resist
 
 SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PANiETIUS. 43 
 
 you. The laws are now yours." The expectation of 
 the people was intense and silent : we had heard some 
 groans ; and now the last words of the old man were 
 taken up by others, by men in agony. 
 
 "Yes, O Romans!" said the elder who accompanied 
 him that had addressed us, "the laws are yours; and 
 none punish more severely than you do treason and parri- 
 cide. Let your horses turn this corner, and you will see 
 before you traitors and parricides." 
 
 We entered a small square : it had been a market- 
 place : the roofs of the stalls were demolished, and the 
 stones of several columns (thrown down to extract the 
 cramps of iron and the lead that fastened them) served 
 for the spectators, male and female, to mount on. Five 
 men were nailed on crosses ; two others were nailed 
 against a wall, from scarcity (as we were told) of wood. 
 " Can seven men have murdered their parents in the 
 same year?" cried I. 
 
 " No, nor has any of the seven," replied the first who 
 had spoken. " But when heavy impositions were laid 
 upon those who were backward in voluntary contribu- 
 tions, these men, among the richest in our city, protested 
 by the gods that they had no 'gold or silver left. They 
 protested truly." 
 
 " And they die for this ! inhuman, insatiable, inexorable 
 wretch !" 
 
 " Their books," added he, unmoved at my reproaches, 
 " were seized by public authority and examined. It was 
 discovered that, instead of employing their riches in 
 external or internal commerce, or in manufactures, or in 
 agriculture, instead of reserving it for the embellishment 
 of the city, or the utility of the citizens, instead of lend- 
 ing it on interest to the industrious and the needy, they 
 had lent it to foreign kings and tyrants, some of whom 
 were waging unjust wars by these very means, and others
 
 44 DRAMATIC. 
 
 were enslaving their own country. For so heinous a crime 
 the laws had appointed no specific punishment. On such 
 occasions the people and elders vote in what manner the 
 delinquent shall be prosecuted, lest any offender should 
 escape with impunity, from their humanity or improvi- 
 dence. Some voted that these wretches should be cast 
 amid the panthers ; the majority decreed them (I think 
 wisely) a more lingering and more ignominious death." 
 
 The men upon the crosses held down their heads, 
 whether from shame or pain or feebleness. The sun- 
 beams were striking them fiercely ; sweat ran from them, 
 liquefying the blood that had blackened and hardened on 
 their hands and feet. A soldier stood by the side of each, 
 lowering the point of his spear to the ground ; but no one 
 of them gave it up to us. A centurion asked the nearest 
 of them how he dared to stand armed before him. 
 
 "Because the city is in ruins, and the laws still live," 
 said he. "At the first order of the conqueror or the 
 elders, I surrender my spear." 
 
 "What is your pleasure, O Commander?" said the 
 elder. 
 
 " That an act of justice be the last public act per- 
 formed by the citizens of Carthage, and that the suffer- 
 ings of these wretches be not abridged." 
 
 Such was my reply. The soldiers piled their spears, 
 for the points of which the hearts of the crucified men 
 thirsted, and the people hailed us as they would have 
 hailed deliverers.
 
 SCIPIO, PAN^TIUS, AND POLYBIUS. 45 
 
 VIII. 
 
 SCIPIO, PAN^TIUS, AND POLYPIUS. 
 
 The same speakers converse on the genius of Gi eti:e, 
 
 Polybius. Eternal thanks to the Romans ! — who, what- 
 ever reason they may have had to treat the Greeks as 
 enemies, to traverse and persecute such men as Lycortas 
 my father, and as Philopcemen my early friend, to con- 
 sume our cities with fire, and to furrow our streets with 
 torrents (as we have heard lately) issuing from the re- 
 molten images of gods and heroes, have however so far 
 respected the mother of Civilisation and of Law, as never 
 to permit the cruel mockery of erecting Barbarism and 
 Royalty on their vacant bases. 
 
 Panathis. Our ancient institutions in part exist ; we 
 lost the rest when we lost the simplicity of our forefathers. 
 Let it be our glory that we have resisted the most populous 
 and wealthy nations, and that, having been conquered, 
 we have been conquered by the most virtuous ; that every 
 one of our chief cities hath produced a greater number of 
 illustrious men than all the remainder of the earth around 
 us ; that no man can anywhere enter his hall or portico, 
 and see the countenances of his ancestors from their 
 marble columels, without a commemorative and grateful 
 sense of obligation to us ; that neither his solemn feasts 
 nor his cultivated fields are silent on it ; that not the 
 lamp which shows him the glad faces of his children, and 
 prolongs his studies, and watches by his rest, — that not 
 the ceremonies whereby he hopes to avert the vengeance 
 of the gods, nor the tenderer ones whereon are founded 
 the affinities of domestic life, nor finally those which lead 
 toward another, — would have existed in his country, if
 
 46 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Greece had not conveyed them. Bethink thee, Scipio, 
 how little hath been done by any other nation to pro- 
 mote the moral dignity or enlarge the social pleasures ol 
 the human race. What parties ever met, in their most 
 populous cities, for the enjoyment of liberal and specula- 
 tive conversation ? What Alcibiades, elated with war and 
 glory, turned his youthful mind from general admiration 
 and from the cheers and caresses of coeval friends, to 
 strengthen and purify it under the cold reproofs of the 
 aged ? What Aspasia led Philosophy to smile on Love, 
 or taught Love to reverence Philosophy ? These, as thou 
 knowest, are not the safest guides for either sex to follow ; 
 yet in these were united the gravity and the graces of 
 wisdom, never seen, never imagined, out of Athens. 
 
 I would not offend thee by comparing the genius of the 
 Roman people with ours : the offence is removable, and 
 in part removed already by thy hand. The little of sound 
 learning, the little of pure wit, that hath appeared in 
 Rome from her foundation, hath been concentrated under 
 thy roof : one tile would cover it. Have we not walked 
 together, O Scipio, by starlight, on the shores of Surren- 
 tum and Baise, of Ischia, and Caprea, and hath it not 
 occurred to thee that the heavens themselves, both what 
 we see of them and what lieth above our vision, are 
 peopled with our heroes and heroines ? The ocean, that 
 roars so heavily in the ears of other men, hath for us its 
 tuneful shells, its placid nymphs, and its beneficent ruler. 
 The trees of the forest, the flowers, the plants, passed 
 indiscriminately elsewhere, awaken and warm our affection ; 
 they mingle with the objects of our worship ; they breathe 
 the spirit of our ancestors ; they lived in our form ; they 
 spoke in our language ; they suffered as our daughters 
 may suffer ; the deities revisit them with pity ; and some 
 (we think) dwell among them. 
 
 Scipio. Poetry ! poetry !
 
 METELLUS AND MARIUS. 47 
 
 Panatiiis. Yes ; I own it. The spirit of Greece, pas* 
 ing through and ascending above the world, hath so 
 animated universal nature, that the very rocks and woods, 
 the very torrents and wilds burst forth with it — and it 
 falls, ^milianus, even from me. 
 
 Scipio. It is from Greece I have received my friends 
 Pansetius and Polybius. 
 
 Pancetius. Say more, ^milianus ! You have indeed 
 said it here already ; but say it again at Rome : it is 
 Greece who taught the Romans all beyond the rudiments 
 of war : it is Greece who placed in your hand the sword 
 that conquered Carthage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 METELLUS AND MARIUS. 
 
 At the siege of Numantia, the Roman centurion Caitts 
 Marius enters the besieged city at the desire of the 
 iribttne Cacilius Metelliis, and re/iorts to him what he 
 has seen within. 
 
 Metelius. Well met, Caius Marius ! My orders are to 
 find instantly a centurion who shall mount the walls ; 
 one capable of observation, acute in remark, prompt, 
 calm, active, intrepid. The Numantians are sacrificing 
 to the gods in secrecy : they have sounded the horn once 
 only i and hoarsely, and low, and mournfully. 
 
 Marius. Was that ladder I see yonder among the caper- 
 bushes and purple lilies, under where the fig-tree grows 
 out of the rampart, left for me ? 
 
 Metelltii. Even so, wert thou willing. Wouldst thou 
 mount it ? 
 
 Marius. Rejoicingly. If none are below or near, may 
 I explore the state of things by entering the city ? 
 
 Metelius. Use thy discretion in that.
 
 48 DRAMATIC. 
 
 What seest thou ? Wouldst thou leap down ? Lift the 
 ladder. 
 
 Marius. Are there spikes in it where it sticks in the 
 turf? I should slip else. 
 
 MeteUiis. How ! bravest of our centurions, art even 
 thou afraid ? Seest thou any one by ? 
 
 Alarms. Ay ; some hundreds close beneath me. 
 
 Metelhis. Retire then. Hasten back ; I will protect 
 thy descent. 
 
 Marius. May I speak, O Metellus, without an offence 
 to discipline? ^ 
 
 Metellus. Say. 
 
 Marius. Listen ! dost thou not hear ? 
 
 Metellus. Shame on thee ! alight, alight ! my shield 
 shall cover thee. 
 
 Marius. There is a murmur like the hum of bees in the 
 beanfield of CereatK^ ; for the sun is hot, and the ground is 
 thirsty. \Vhen will it have drunk up for me the blood that 
 has run, and is yet oozing on it, from those fresh bodies ! 
 
 Metellus. How ? We have not fought for many days ; 
 what bodies then are fresh ones ? 
 
 Marius. Close beneath the wall are those of infants and 
 girls : in the middle of the road are youths, emaciated ; 
 some either unwounded or wounded months ago ; some on 
 their spears, others on their swords : no few have re- 
 ceived in mutual death the last interchange of friendship ; 
 their daggers unite them, hilt to hilt, bosom to bosom. 
 
 Metellus. Mark rather the living — what are they about ? 
 
 ATarius. About the sacrifice, which portends them, I 
 conjecture, but little good ; it burns sullenly and slowly. 
 The victim will lie upon the pyre till morning, and still 
 be unconsumed, unless they bring more fuel. I will leap 
 down and walk on cautiously, and return with tidings, if 
 death should spare me. 
 
 1 The farm of Marius, near Arpinum.
 
 METELLUS AND MARIUS. 49 
 
 Never was .iny race of mortals so unmilitary as these 
 Numantians : no watch, no stations, no paHsades across 
 the streets. 
 
 Metelhts. Did they want then all the wood for the altar ? 
 
 Alarius. It appears so — I will return anon. 
 
 Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave honest Marius ! 
 
 Marius {rettirning after an inte>-val). The ladder 
 should have been better spiked for that shppery ground. 
 I am down again safe however. Here a man may walk 
 securely, and without picking his steps. 
 
 Metellus. Tell me, Caius, what thou sawest. 
 
 Marius. The streets of Numantia. 
 
 Mdellus. Doubtless ; but what else ? 
 
 Marius. The temples and markets and places of exer- 
 cise and fountains. 
 
 Metellus. Art thou crazed, centurion! what more? 
 speak plainly, at once, and briefly. 
 
 Marius. I beheld then all Numantia. 
 
 Metellus. Has terror maddened thee ? hast thou des- 
 cried nothing of the inhabitants but those carcases under 
 the ramparts ? 
 
 Marius. Those, O Metellus, lie scattered, although not 
 indeed far asunder. The greater part of the soldiers and 
 citizens, of the fathers, husbands, widows, wives, espoused, 
 were assembled together. 
 
 Metellus. About the altar ? 
 
 Marius. Upon it. 
 
 Metellus. So busy and earnest in devotion ! but how 
 all upon it ? 
 
 Marius. It blazed under them and over them and 
 round about them. 
 
 Metellus. Immortal gods ! Art thou sane, Caius 
 Marius? Thy visage is scorched: thy speecii may 
 wander after such an enterprise : thy shield burns my 
 hand. 
 
 E
 
 50 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Maritis. I thought it had cooled again. Why, truly, 
 it seems hot : I now feel it. 
 
 Metellus. Wipe off those embers. 
 
 Maritis. 'Twere better : there will be none opposite to 
 shake them upon, for some time. 
 
 The funereal horn that sounded with such feebleness, 
 sounded not so from the faint heart of him who blew it. 
 Him I saw ; him only of the living. Should I say it ? — 
 there was another : there was one child whom its parent 
 could not kill, could not part from. She had hidden it 
 in her robe, I suspect ; and when the fire had reached it, 
 either it shrieked or she did. For suddenly a cry pierced 
 through the crackling pinewood, and something of round 
 in figure fell from brand to brand, until it reached the 
 pavement, at the feet of him who had blown the horn. 
 I rushed toward him, for I wanted to hear the whole 
 story, and felt the pressure of time. Condemn not my 
 weakness, O Csecilius ! I wished an enemy to live an 
 hour longer ; for my orders were to explore and bring 
 intelligence. When I gazed on him, in highth almost 
 gigantic, I wondered not that the blast of his trumpet was 
 so weak : rather did I wonder that Famine, whose hand 
 had indented every limb and feature, had left him any 
 voice articulate. I rushed toward him, however, ere my 
 eyes had measured either his form or strength. He held 
 the child against me, and staggered under it. 
 
 "Behold," he exclaimed, "the glorious ornament of 
 a Roman triumph !" 
 
 I stood horror-stricken; when suddenly drops, as of 
 rain, pattered down from the pyre. I looked ; and many 
 were the precious stones, many were the amulets and 
 rings and bracelets, and other barbaric ornaments, un- 
 known to me in form or purpose, that tinkled on the 
 hardened and black branches, from mothers and wives 
 and betrothed maids ; and some, too, I can imagine,
 
 METELLUS AND MARIUS. 5 1 
 
 from robuster arms, things of joyance won in battle 
 The crowd of incumbent bodies was so dense and heavy, 
 that neither the fire nor the smoke could penetrate upward 
 from among them ; and they sank, whole and at once, 
 into the smouldering cavern eaten out below. He at 
 whose neck hung the trumpet, felt this, and started. 
 
 "There is yet room," he cried, "and there is strength 
 enough yet, both in the element and in me. " 
 
 He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the 
 gaunt hnks of his throat, and upon gnarled knees, that 
 smote each other audibly, tottered into the civic fire. It, 
 like some hungry and strangest beast on the innermost 
 wild of Africa, pierced, broken, prostrate, motionless, 
 gazed at by its hunter in the impatience of glory, in the 
 delight of awe, panted once more, and seized him ! 
 
 I have seen within this hour, O Metellus ! what Rome 
 in the cycle of her triumphs will never see, what the Sun 
 in his eternal course can never show her, what the Earth 
 has borne but now and must never rear again for her, 
 what Victory herself has envied her — a Numantian. 
 
 Metelhis. We shall feast to-morrow. Hope, Caius 
 Marius, to become a tribune : trust in fortune. 
 
 Marius. Auguries are surer : surestof all is perseverance. 
 
 Metellus. I hope the wine has not grown vapid in my tent : 
 I have kept it waiting, and must now report to Scipio the 
 intelligence of our discovery. Come after me, Caius. 
 
 Maritts (alone). The tribune is the discoverer ! the 
 centurion is the scout ! Caius Marius must enter more 
 Numantias. Light-hearted Cascilius, thou mayest per- 
 haps hereafter, and not with humbled but with exulting 
 pride, take orders from this hand. If Scipio's words are 
 fate, and to me they sound so, the portals of the Capitol 
 may shake before my chariot, as my horses plunge back 
 at the applauses of the people, and Jove in his high domi 
 cile may welcome the citizen of Arpinum.
 
 52 DRAMATIC. 
 
 TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 
 
 Tiberius Claudius Nero having been compelled by Ins tnothet 
 Livia and by A ugnsUis to put away Ms first wife Vip- 
 sania, the daughter of Agrippa, and to marry Julia, 
 the daughter of Augustus, afterwards meets Vipsania 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 Tibe7-iiis. Vipsania, my Vipsania, whither art thou 
 walking ? 
 
 Vipsania. Whom do I see ? my Tiberius ? 
 
 Tiberius. Ah ! no, no, no ! but thou seest the father 
 of thy little Drusus. Press him to thy heart the more 
 closely for this meeting, and give him 
 
 Vipsania. Tiberius ! the altars, the gods, the destinies, 
 are between us — I will take it from this hand ; thus, 
 thus shall he receive it. 
 
 Tiberius. Raise up thy face, my beloved ! I must nol 
 shed tears. Augustus ! Livia ! ye shall not extort them 
 from me. Vipsania, I may kiss thy head — for I have saved 
 it. Thou sayest nothing. I have wronged thee ; ay ? 
 
 Vipsania. Ambition does not see the earth she treads 
 on : the rock and the herbage are of one substance to her. 
 Let me excuse you to my heart, O Tiberius. It has 
 many wants ; this is the first and greatest. 
 
 Tiberius. My ambition, I swear by the immortal gods, 
 placed not the bar of severance between us. A stronger 
 hand, the hand that composes Rome and sways the 
 world 
 
 Vipsania. Overawed Tiberius. I know it ; Augustus 
 willed and commanded it. 
 
 Tiberius. And overawed Tiberius ! Power bent. 
 Death terrified, a Nero ! What is our race, that any
 
 TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 53 
 
 should look down on us and spurn us ! Augustus, my 
 benefactor, I have wronged thee ! Livia, my mother, 
 this one cruel deed was thine ! To reign forsooth is a 
 lovely thing ! O womanly appetite ! Who would have 
 been before me, though the palace of Caesar cracked and 
 split with emperors, while I, sitting in idleness on a cliff 
 of Rhodes, eyed the sun as he swang his golden censer 
 athwart the heavens, or his image as it overstrode the sea. 
 I have it before me ; and though it seems falling on me, 
 I can smile at it ; just as I did from my little favourite 
 skiff, painted round with the marriage of Thetis, when 
 the sailors drew their long shaggy hair across their eyes, 
 many a stadium away from it, to mitigate its effulgence. 
 These too were happy days : days of happiness like these 
 I could recall and look back upon with unaching brow. 
 
 O land of Greece ! Tiberius blesses thee, bidding thee 
 rejoice and flourish. 
 
 Why can not one hour, Vipsania, beauteous and light 
 as we have led, return ? 
 
 Vipsania. Tiberius ! is it to me that you were speak- 
 ing? I would not interrupt you ; but I thought I heard 
 my name as you walked away and looked up toward the 
 East. So silent ! 
 
 Tiberius. Who dared to call thee? Thou wert mine 
 before the gods — do they deny it ? was it my fault ? 
 
 Vipsania. Since we are separated, and for ever, O 
 Tiberius, let us think no more on the cause of it. Let 
 neither of us believe that the other was to blame ; so 
 shall separation be less painful. 
 
 Tiberius. O mother ! and did I not tell thee what she 
 was ? patient in injury, proud in innocence, serene in grief ! 
 
 Vipsania. Did you say that too ? but I think it was so : 
 1 had felt little. One vast wave has washed away the 
 impression of smaller from my memory. Could Livia, 
 could your mother, could she who was so kind to me
 
 54 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Tiberius. The wife of Csesar did it. But hear me now, 
 hear me : be calm as I am. No weaknesses are such as 
 those of a mother who loves her only son immoderately ; 
 and none are so easily worked upon from without. Who 
 knows what impulses she received ? She is very, very 
 kind ; but she regards me only ; and that which at her 
 bidding is to encompass and adorn me. All the weak 
 look after power, protectress of weakness. Thou art a 
 woman, O Vipsania ! is there nothing in thee to excuse 
 my mother ? So good she ever was to me ! so loving ! 
 
 Vipsania, I quite forgive her : be tranquil, O Tiberius ! 
 
 Tiberius. Never can I know peace— never can I pardon 
 — any one. Threaten me with thy exile, thy separation, 
 thy seclusion ! remind me that another climate might 
 endanger thy health ! There death met me and turned 
 me round. Threaten me to take our son from us ! our 
 one boy ! our helpless little one ! him whom we made 
 cry because we kissed him both together. Rememberest 
 thou ? or dost thou not hear ? turning thus away from 
 me ! 
 
 Vipsania. I hear ; I hear. O cease, my sweet Tiberius ! 
 Stamp not upon that stone : my heart hes under it. 
 
 Tiberius. Ay, there again death, and more than death, 
 stood before me. O she maddened me, my mother did, 
 she maddened me — she threw me to where I am at one 
 breath. The gods cannot replace me where I was, nor 
 atone to me, nor console me, nor restore my senses. To 
 whom can I fly ? to whom can I open my heart ? to whom 
 speak plainly ? There was upon the earth a man I could 
 converse with, and fear nothing : there was a woman too 
 I could love, and fear nothing. What a soldier, what a 
 Roman, was thy father, O my young bride ! How could 
 those who never saw him have discoursed so rightly upon 
 virtue ! 
 
 Vipsania. These words cool my breast like pressing
 
 TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 55 
 
 his urn against it. He was brave : shall Tiberius want 
 courage ? 
 
 Tiberius. My enemies scorn me. I am a garland 
 dropped from a triumphal car, and taken up and looked on 
 for the place I occupied ; and tossed away and laughed at. 
 Senators ! laugh, laugh ! Your merits may be yet re- 
 warded — be of good cheer ! Counsel me in your wisdom, 
 what services I can render you, conscript fathers ! 
 
 Vipsania. This seems mockery : Tiberius did not 
 smile so, once. 
 
 Tiberius. They had not then congratulated me. 
 
 Vipsania. On what ? 
 
 Tiberius. And it was not because she was beautiful, as 
 ihey thought her, and virtuous as I know she is, but be- 
 cause the flowers on the altar were to be tied together by 
 my heart-string. On this they congratulated me. Their 
 day will come. Their sons and daughters are what I 
 would wish them to be : worthy to succeed them. 
 
 Vipsania. Where is that quietude, that resignation, 
 that sanctity, that heart of true tenderness ? 
 
 Tiberius. Where is my love ? my love ? 
 
 Vipsania. Cry not thus aloud, Tiberius ! there is an echo 
 in the place. Soldiers and slaves may burst in upon us. 
 
 Tiberius. And see my tears? There is no echo, 
 Vipsania ! why alarm and shake me so ? We are too 
 high here for the echoes : the city is below us. Methinks 
 it trembles and totters : would it did ! from the marble 
 quays of the Tiber to this rock. There is a strange buzz 
 and murmur in my brain ; but I should listen so intensely, 
 I should hear the rattle of its roofs, and shout with joy. 
 
 Vipsania. Calm, O my life ! calm this horrible trans- 
 port. 
 
 Tib'^rius. Spake I so loud ? Did I indeed then send 
 my voice after a lost sound, to bring it back ; and thou 
 fanciedst it an echo ? Will not thou laugh with me, as
 
 56 DRAMATIC. 
 
 thou wert wont to do, at such an error ? What was 1 
 saying to thee, my tender love, when I commanded — I 
 know not whom — to stand back, on pain of death ? Why 
 starest thou on me in such agony ? Have I hurt thy 
 fingers, child ? I loose them : now let me look ! Thou 
 turnest thine eyes away from me. Oh ! oh ! I hear my 
 crime ! Immortal gods ! I cursed then audibly, and 
 before the sun, my mother ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 
 
 The Lady Godiva, '■iding with her husband Earl Lcofric 
 into the city 0/ Coventry, makes intercession ■with him 
 on behalf of the people, and learns f-om his lips on wJiat 
 condition he will pardon them. 
 
 Godiva. There is a dearth in the land, my sweet Leo- 
 fric ! Remember how many weeks of drought we have 
 had, even in the deep pastures of Leicestershire ; and 
 how many Sundays we have heard the same prayers for 
 rain, and supplications that it would please the Lord in 
 his mercy to turn aside his anger from the poor pining 
 cattle. You, my dear husband, have imprisoned more 
 than one malefactor for leaving his dead ox in the public 
 way ; and other hinds have fled before you out of the 
 traces, in which they and their sons and their daughters, 
 and haply their old fathers and mothers, were dragging 
 the abandoned wain homeward. Although we were ac- 
 companied by many brave spearmen and skilful archers, 
 it was perilous to pass the creatures which the farm-yard 
 dogs, driven from the hearth by the poverty of their 
 masters, were tearing and devouring ; while others, bitten 
 and lamed, filled the air either with long and deep howls
 
 LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 57 
 
 or sharp and quick barkings, as they struggled with 
 hunger and feebleness or were exasperated by heat and 
 pain. Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor the 
 bruised branches of the fir-tree, extinguish or abate the 
 foul odour. 
 
 Leofric. And now, Godiva my darling, thou art afraid 
 we should be eaten up before we enter the gates of 
 Coventry ; or perchance that in the gardens there are 
 no roses to greet thee, no sweet herbs for thy mat and 
 pillow. 
 
 Godiva. Leofric, I have no such fears. This is the 
 month of roses : I find them everywhere since my blessed 
 marriage : they, and all other sweet herbs, I know not 
 why, seem to greet me wherever I look at them, as 
 though they knew and expected me. Surely they cannot 
 feel that I am fond of them. 
 
 Leofric. O Hght laughing simpleton ! But what wouldst 
 thou ? I came not hither to pray ; and yet if praying 
 would satisfy thee, or remove the drought, I would ride 
 up straightway to Saint Michael's and pray until morning. 
 
 Godiva. I would do the same, O Leofric ! but God 
 hath turned away his ear from hoHer lips than mine. 
 Would my own dear husband hear me, if I implored him 
 for what is easier to accomplish ? What he can do like 
 God. 
 
 Leofric. How ! What is it ? 
 
 Godiva. I would not, in the first hurry of your wrath, 
 appeal to you, my loving lord, in behalf of these unhappy 
 men who have offended you. 
 
 Leofric. Unhappy ! is that all ? 
 
 Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be to have offended 
 you so grievously. What a soft air breathes over us ! 
 how quiet and serene and still an evening ! how calm are 
 the heavens and the earth ! shall none enjoy them ? Not 
 even we, my Leofric ! The sun is ready to set : let if
 
 58 DRAMATIC. 
 
 never set, O Leofric, on your anger. These are not my 
 words ; they are better than mine ; should they lose theii 
 virtue from my unworthiness in uttering them ! 
 
 Leofric. Godiva, wouldst thou plead to me for rebels ? 
 
 Godiva. They have then drawn the sword against you ! 
 Indeed I knew it not. 
 
 Leofric. They have omitted to send me my dues, 
 established by my ancestors, well knowing of our nuptials, 
 and of the charges and festivities they require, and that in 
 a season of such scarcity my own lands are insufficient. 
 
 Godiva. If they were starving as they said they were 
 
 Leofric. Must I starve too ! Is it not enough to lose 
 my vassals? 
 
 Godiva. Enough ! O God ! too much ! too much ! may 
 you never lose them ! Give them hfe, peace, comfort, 
 contentment. There are those among them who kissed 
 me in my infancy, and who blessed me at the baptismal 
 font. Leofric, Leofric ! the first old man I meet I shall 
 think is one of those ; and I shall think on the blessing 
 he gave and (ah me !) on the blessing I bring back to 
 him. My heart will bleed, will burst — and he will weep 
 at it ! he will weep, poor soul ! for the wife of a cruel 
 lord who denounces vengeance on him, who carries death 
 into his family. 
 
 Leofric. We must hold solemn festivals. 
 Godiva. We must indeed. 
 
 Leofric. Well then. 
 
 Godiva. Is the clamourousness that succeeds the death of 
 God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered 
 cattle, festivals ? are maddening songs and giddy dances, 
 and hireling praises from party-coloured coats ? Can the 
 voice of a minstrel tell us better things of ourselves than 
 our own internal one might tell us? or can his breath 
 make our breath softer in sleep ? O my beloved ! let 
 everything be a joyance to us : it will, if we will. Sad is
 
 LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 59 
 
 the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the black- 
 bird in the garden and do not throb with joy. But, Leo- 
 fric, the high festival is strown by the servant of God upon 
 the heart of man. It is gladness, it is thanksgiving ; it 
 is the orphan, the starveling pressed to the bosom, and 
 bidden as its first commandment to remember its bene- 
 factor. We will hold this festival, the guests are ready : 
 we may keep it up for weeks, and months, and years 
 together, and always be the happier and the richer for it. 
 The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter than bee 
 or flower or vine can give us : it flows from heaven ; and 
 in heaven will it abundantly be poured out again, to him 
 who pours it out here unsparingly. 
 
 Leofric. Thou art wild. 
 
 Godiva. I have indeed lost myself. Some Power, 
 some good, kind Power, melts me (body and soul and 
 voice) into tenderness and love. O, my husband, we 
 must obey it. Look upon me ! look upon me ! lift your 
 sweet eyes from the ground ! I will not cease to suppli- 
 cate ; I dare hot. 
 
 Leofric. We may think upon it. 
 
 Godiva. Never say that ! What ! think upon goodness 
 when you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for 
 sustenance ! The mother of our blessed Lord will hear 
 them ; us never, never afterward. 
 
 Leofric. Here comes the bishop : we are but one mile 
 from the walls. Why dismountest thou ? No bishop can 
 expect it. Godiva ! my honour and rank among men are 
 humbled by this : Earl Godwin will hear of it : up ! up ! 
 the bishop hath seen it : he urgeth his horse onward : dost 
 thou not hear him now upon the solid turf behind thee ? 
 
 Godiva. Never, no, never will I rise, O Leofric, until 
 you remit this most impious tax, this tax on hard labour, 
 on hard life. 
 
 Leofric. Turn round : look how the fat nag canters, as
 
 6o DRAMATIC. 
 
 to the tune of a sinner's psalm, slow and hard-breathing. 
 What reason or right can the people have to complain, 
 while their bishop's steed is so sleek and well caparisoned ? 
 Inchnation to change, desire to abolish old usages. Up ! 
 up ! for shame ! They shall smart for it, idlers ! Sir 
 bishop, I must blush for my young bride. 
 
 Godiva. My husband, my husband ! will you pardon 
 the city ? 
 
 Leofric. Sir bishop ! I could not think you would have 
 seen her in this plight. Will I pardon ? Yea, Godiva, 
 by the holy rood, will I pardon the city, when thou ridest 
 naked at noontide through the streets. 
 
 Godiva. O my dear cruel Leofric, where is the heart 
 you gave me ! It was not so ! can mine have hardened 
 it! 
 
 Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse ; she turneth 
 pale and weepeth. Lady Godiva, peace be with thee. 
 
 Godiva. Thanks, holy man ! peace will be with me 
 when peace is with your city. Did you hear my lord's 
 cruel word ? 
 
 Bishop. I did, lady. 
 
 Godiva. Will you remember it, and pray against it ? 
 
 Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter ? 
 
 Godiva. I am not offended. 
 
 Bishop. Angel of peace and purity ! 
 
 Godiva. But treasure it up in your heart : deem it 
 an incense, good only when it is consumed and spent, 
 ascending with prayer and sacrifice. And now what 
 was it ? 
 
 Bishop. Christ save us ! that he vnll pardon the city 
 when thou ridest naked through the streets at neon. 
 
 Godiva. Did he not swear an oath ? 
 
 Bishop. He sware by the holy rood. 
 
 Godiva. My Redeemer ! thou hast heard it ! Save the 
 city !
 
 LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 6l 
 
 Leofric. We are now upon the beginning of the pave- 
 ment : these are the suburbs : let us think of feasting : we 
 may pray afterward : to-morrow we shall rest. 
 
 Godiva. No judgments then to-morrow, Leofric? 
 
 Leofric. None : we will carouse. 
 
 Godiva. The saints of heaven have given me strength 
 and confidence : my prayers are heard : the heart of my 
 beloved is now softened. 
 
 Leofric {aside). Ay, ay— they shall smart though. 
 
 Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed no other 
 hope, no other mediation ? 
 
 Leofnc. I have sworn : beside, thou hast made me 
 redden and turn my face away from thee, and all the 
 knaves have seen it ; this adds to the city's crime. 
 
 Godiva. I have blushed too, Leofric, and was not rash 
 nor obdurate. 
 
 Leofric. But thou, my sweetest, art given to blushing ; 
 there is no conquering it in thee. I wish thou hadst not 
 ahghted so hastily and roughly : it hath shaken down a 
 sheaf of thy hair : take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it 
 anguish thee. Well done ! it mingleth now sweetly with 
 the cloth of gold upon the saddle, running here and there, 
 as if it had life and faculties and business, and were work- 
 ing there upon some newer and cunninger device. O my 
 beauteous Eve ! there is a Paradise about thee ! the world 
 is refreshed as thou movest and breathest on it. I cannot 
 see or think of evil where thou art. I could throw my 
 arms even here about thee. No signs for me ! no shaking 
 of sunbeams ! no reproof or frown or wonderment — I will 
 say it — now then for worse — I could close with my kisses 
 thy half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and loving eyes, 
 before the people. 
 
 Godiva. To-morrow you shall kiss me, and they shall 
 bless you for it. I shall be very pale, for to-night I must 
 fast and pray.
 
 62 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Leofric. I do not hear thee ; the voices of the folk are 
 so loud under this archway. 
 
 Godiva {to herself). God help them ! good kind sculs ! 
 I hope they will not crowd about me so to-morrow. O 
 Leofric ! could my name be forgotten ! and yours alone 
 remembered ! But perhaps my innocence may save me 
 from reproach ! and how many as innocent are in fear and 
 famine ! No eye will open on me but fresh from tears. 
 What a young mother for so large a family ! Shall my 
 youth harm me ! Under God's hand it gives me courage. 
 Ah, when will the morning come ! ah, when will the 
 noon be over ! 
 
 The story of Godiva, at one of whose festivals or fairs I was pre- 
 sent in my boyhood, has always interested me ; and I wrote a poem 
 on it, sitting, I remember, by the sqttare J>ool at Rugby. When I 
 showed it to the friend in whom I had most confidence, he began to 
 scoff at the subject ; and on his reaching the last line his laughter 
 was loud and immoderate. This Conversation has brought both 
 laughter and stanza back to me, and the earnestness with which I 
 entreated and implored my friend 7iot to tell the lads; so heart- 
 strickenly and desperately was I ashamed. The verses are these, 
 if any one else should wish another laugh at me : — 
 
 In every hour, in every mood, 
 O lady, it is sweet and good 
 
 To bathe the soul in prayer ; 
 And at the close of such a day, 
 ^Vhen we have ceased to bless and pray, 
 
 To dream on thy long hair. 
 
 May the peppermint be still growing on the bank in that place ! 
 
 W. S. L.
 
 TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA, 63 
 
 XII. 
 
 TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA. 
 
 During the struggle for the cro7vn of Sicily between the 
 Etnperor Henry VI., married to Constance daughter 
 of the Sicilian King Williavt II., and Tancred Count 
 ofLecce, natural son of King Roger II., Constance has 
 fallen a prisoner into the hands of Tancred. 
 
 Constaiitia. Is this in mockery, sir ? Do you place me 
 under a canopy, and upon what (no doubt) you presume 
 to call a throne, for derision ? 
 
 Tancredi. Madonna ! if it never were a throne before, 
 henceforward let none approach it but with reverence. 
 The greatest, the most virtuous, of queens and empresses 
 (it were indecorous in such an inferior as I am to praise in 
 your presence aught else in you that raises men's admira- 
 tion) leaves a throne for homage wherever she has rested. 
 
 Constantia. Count Tancredi ! your past conduct ill 
 accords with your present speech. Your courtesy, great 
 as it is, would have been much greater, if you yourself 
 had taken me captive, and had not turned your horse 
 and rode back, on purpose that villanous hands might 
 seize me. 
 
 Tancredi. Knightly hands (I speak it with all sub- 
 mission) are not villanous. I could not in my heart 
 command you to surrender ; and I would not deprive 
 a brave man, a man distinguished for deference and 
 loyalty, of the pleasure he was about to enjoy in en- 
 countering your two barons. I am confident he never 
 was discourteous. 
 
 Constantia. He was ; he took my horse's bridle by the 
 bit, turned his back on me, and would not let me go.
 
 64 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Tancredi. War sometimes is guilty of such enormities, 
 and even worse. 
 
 Cotistantia. I would rather have surrendered myself 
 to the most courageous knight in Italy. 
 
 Tancredi. Which may that be ? 
 
 Constantia. By universal consent, Tancredi, Count of 
 Lecce. 
 
 Tancredi. To possess the highest courage, is but small 
 glory ; to be without it, is a great disgrace. 
 
 Constaiitia. Loyalty, not only to ladies, but to princes, 
 is the true and solid foundation of it. Count of Lecce ! 
 am I not the daughter of your king ? 
 
 Tancredi. I recognise in the Lady Constantia the 
 daughter of our late sovran lord. King William, of glorious 
 memory. 
 
 Constantia. Recognise then your queen. 
 
 Tancredi. Our laws, and the supporters of these lawSj 
 forbid it. 
 
 Constantia. Is that memory a glorious one, as you call 
 it, which a single year is sufficient to erase? And did 
 not my father nominate me his heir ? 
 
 Tancredi. A kingdom is not among the chattels, of a 
 king : a people is paled within laws, and not within parks 
 and chases : the powerfuUest have no privilege to sport 
 in that inclosure. The barons of the realm and the 
 knights and the people assembled in Palermo, and there 
 by acclamation called and appointed me to govern the state. 
 Certainly the Lady Constantia is nearer to the throne in 
 blood, and much worthier : I said so then. The unani- 
 mous reply was that Sicily should be independent of all 
 other lands, and that neither German Kings nor Roman 
 Emperors should control her. 
 
 Constantia. You must be aware, sir, that an armed 
 resistance to the Emperor is presumptuous and traitorous. 
 
 Tancredi. He has carried fire and sword into my
 
 TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA. 65 
 
 country, and has excited the Genoese and Pisans, men 
 speaking the same language as ourselves, to debark on 
 our coasts, to demolish our villages, and to consume our 
 harvests. 
 
 Constantia. Being a sovran, he possesses the undoubted 
 right. 
 
 Tancredi. Being a Sicilian, I have no less a right to 
 resist him. 
 
 Constantia. Right ? Do rights appertain to vassals ? 
 Tancredi. Even to them ; and this one particularly. 
 Were I still a vassal, I should remember that I am a 
 king by election, by birth a Sicilian, and by descent a 
 Norman. 
 
 Constantia. All these fine titles give no right whatever to 
 the throne, from which an insuperable bar precludes you. 
 Tancredi. What bar can there be which my sword and 
 my people's love are unable to bear down ? 
 Constantia. Excuse my answer. 
 
 Tancredi. Deign me one, I entreat you, Madonna ! 
 although the voice of my country may be more persuasive 
 with me even than yours. 
 
 Constantia. Count Lecce ! you are worthy of all honour, 
 excepting that alone which can spring only from lawful 
 descent. 
 
 Tancredi. My father was the first-born of the Norman 
 conqueror. King of Sicily : my mother, in her own right, 
 Countess of Lecce. I have no reason to blush at my 
 birth ; nor did ever the noble breast which gave me 
 nourishment heave with a sense of ignominy as she pressed 
 me to it. She thought the blessing of the poor equivalent 
 to the blessing of the priest. 
 
 Constantia. I would not refer to her ungently : but she 
 by her alliance set at nought our Holy Father. 
 
 Tancredi. In all her paths, in all her words and actions, 
 she obeyed him. 
 
 F
 
 66 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Constantia. Our Holy Father ? 
 
 Tancredi. Our holiest, our holy one, " our Father 
 which is in heaven." She wants no apology: precedent 
 is nothing : but remember our ancestors : I say ours ; for 
 I glory in the thought that they are the same, and so near. 
 Among the early dukes of Normandy, vanquishers of 
 France, and (what is greater) conquerors of England, fewer 
 were born within the pale of wedlock than without. 
 Nevertheless the ladies of our nation were always as 
 faithful to love and duty, as if hoods and surplices and 
 psalms had gone before them, and the church had been 
 the vestibule to the bed-chamber. 
 
 Cojistantia. My cousin the countess was irreproachable, 
 and her virtues have rendered you as popular as your ex- 
 ploits. Who is this pretty boy who holds down his head 
 so, with the salver in his hand ? 
 
 Tancredi. He is my son. 
 
 Constantia. Why then does he kneel before me ? 
 
 Taiici-edi. To teach his father his duty 
 
 Constantia. You acknowledge the rights of my husband ? 
 
 Tancredi. To a fairer possession than fair Sicily. 
 
 Co7tstantia. I must no longer hear this language. 
 
 Tancredi. I utter it from the depths of a heart as pure 
 as the coldest. 
 
 Constantia {to the boy). Yes, my sweet child ! I accept 
 the refreshments you have been holding so patiently and 
 present so gracefully. But you should have risen from 
 your knees, such a posture is undue to a captive. 
 
 Boy. Papa ! what did the lady say ? Do you ever 
 make ladies captives ? 
 
 (To Constantia). Run away : I will hold his hands for 
 him. 
 
 Constantia. I intend to run away ; but you are quite 
 as dangerous as your father. Count ! you must name my 
 ransom.
 
 MAHOIVIRT AND SERGIUS. 67 
 
 Tdncredi. Madonna, I received it when you presented 
 your royal hand to my respectful homage. The barons 
 who accompanied you are mounted at the door, in order 
 to reconduct you ; and the most noble and the most 
 venerable of mine will be proud of the same permission. 
 
 Consiantia. I also am a Sicilian, Tancredi ! I also am 
 sensible to the glories of the Norman race. Never shall 
 my husband, if I have any influence over him, be the 
 enemy of so courteous a knight. I could almost say 
 prosper ! prosper ! for the defence, the happiness, the 
 example, of our Sicily. 
 
 Tancredi. We may be deprived of territory and power ; 
 but never of knighthood. The brave alone can merit it, 
 the brave alone can confer it, the recreant alone can lose 
 it. So long as there is Norman blood in my veins I am 
 a knight : and our blood and our knighthood are given us 
 to defend the sex. Insensate ! I had almost said the 
 weaker ! and with your eyes before me ! 
 
 Constantia. He cannot be a rebel, nor a false bad man. 
 
 Ta7icredi. Lady ! the sword which I humbly lay at 
 your feet was, a few years ago, a black misshapen mass 
 of metal : the gold that surrounds it, the jewel that sur- 
 mounts it, the victories it hath gained, constitute now its 
 least value ; it owes the greatest to its position. 
 
 XIII. 
 MAHOMET AND SERGIUS. 
 
 Mahoviet confides his schemes and his asJ>i7-ations to hii 
 friend, the Nestorian mo7ik Sergins. 
 
 Mahomet. I should rather like, if convenient to Sergius, 
 to extend my empire over the plains of Damascus ; chiefly 
 because this empire must be extended l:)y the sword, which
 
 68 DRAMATIC. 
 
 is tempered nowhere in such perfection as by the waters 
 of Abbana and Pharphar. 
 
 Sergius. I demur to this. 
 
 Mahomet. I would engage to give thee in exchange 
 the whole of Europe. 
 
 Sergius. Mahomet, thou art ambitious. 
 
 Mahomet. To serve my friend ; otherwise no mortal 
 was ever so far removed from it. I have many other 
 faults ; none however which a friend can suffer from, or 
 ought to see. 
 
 Sergius. Although I little doubt that any plausible new 
 religion would subvert the old rottenness that lies accumu- 
 lated around us, now that people find the priests of Christ 
 assuming the garb and language of despots, with the 
 temper and trade of executioners, yet it may be the labour 
 of years to penetrate with an army from the centre of 
 Arabia into this country. 
 
 Mahomet. Of two or three at most. I have had visions 
 that promise me Syria. 
 
 Sergius. Mahomet, the system I laid down for thee 
 contains no visions. 
 
 Mahomet. Many spring from it. 
 
 Sergitis. Thou wouldst alter it, I see. 
 
 Mahomet. It was too pure : people have fed upon pro- 
 digies ; they must have them still. Situate the native of 
 a watery plain upon the mountain, and he will regret the 
 warm comfortable fogs and the low fleeting lights of his 
 marsh. I would continue on the best terms with my 
 adviser and guide ; but verily my entrails yearn for the 
 good people of Damascus. 
 
 Sergius. Leave them to me ; and if thy entrails yearn 
 take a goblet of Cyprus. 
 
 Mahomet. I dare not drink wine : it aggravates my 
 malady, the only one to which I am subject. Another 
 inspiration here comes over me. I will forbid the usf
 
 MAHOMET AND SERGIUS. 69 
 
 of this beverage. Why should others enjoy what I can 
 not? 
 
 Sergius. True religionist ! But, Mahomet ! Mahomet ! 
 will vision upon vision, revelation upon revelation, super- 
 sede this delicious habit? Relinquish such an imprac- 
 ticable conceit. Forbid wine indeed ! God himself, if 
 he descended on earth, and commanded it in a louder 
 and clearer voice than that at which the creation sprang 
 forth, unless first he altered the composition both of body 
 and soul, would utterly fail in this commandment. 
 
 Mahomet. I will order it ; I will see it executed : for 
 now thou urgest me. Yea, Sergius ! men shall abstain 
 from wine in all those regions of the earth where wine 
 hath fragrance and captivation : and they shall continue 
 to drink it and be damned where it is nauseous and fiery 
 ^nd .(Ethiopian in complexion : and the priests in those 
 regions shall drink the most of it. Thus saith the Lord. 
 
 Sergius. He hath said many things which nobody 
 minds. If whole nations abstain from wine, by any 
 ordinance, prophetic or angelic, and from such wine as 
 Syria and Cyprus and Chios and Crete afford us, there 
 will be a miracle not resembling most others ; no miracle 
 of a moment, witnessed by the ignorant and run away 
 with by the impostor, a sacrilege to examine ; but a mir- 
 acle to be touched and interrogated, as long, as attentively, 
 as intrinsically, as the most incredulous could require, 
 and such as all the world must acknowledge to be irresist- 
 ible, and must bend before its divinity. » , » 
 
 Mahomet. Hitherto, when I dreamed that thou madest 
 to me any cession of territory for the plantation of the 
 faith, thou didst give me thy blessing and cede it. 
 
 Sergius. And thou didst to me in like manner. But 
 now thy dreams cover nation after nation ; let us agree, 
 my friend Mahomet, to dream no more. Lie on thy left 
 side, man, on thy noble camel-hair couch, white and
 
 70 DRAMATIC. 
 
 black like a zebra (as thou boastest in thy poetry), and 
 never turn thy face again toward Syria. 
 
 Mahomet. This seems, my friend, like a threat. 
 
 Sergitis. Say rather, like divination. 
 
 Mahomet. I can divine better than thou canst. 
 
 Sergius. Contentment is better than divination or 
 visions. Thou wert born and educated in Arabia : and 
 nothing can transcend the description thou hast given me 
 of thy native country. 
 
 Ala/iomet. All native countries are most beautiful ; yet 
 we want something from them which they will not give 
 us. Our first quarrels of any seriousness are with them ; 
 as the first screams and struggles of infants, the first tear- 
 ing of robes and sobs of anger, are against their mothers. 
 
 Delightful is it to bathe in the moonsea on the sands, 
 and to listen to tales of genii in the tent : but then in 
 Arabia the anxious heart is thrown into fierce and 
 desperate commotion, by the accursed veil that separates 
 beauty from us. There we never see the blade of that 
 sweet herbage rise day after day into light and loveliness, 
 never see the blossom expand ; but receive it unselected, 
 unsolicited, and unwon. Happy the land where the 
 youthful are without veils, the aged without suspicion ; 
 where the antelope may look to what resting-place she 
 listeth, and bend her slender foot to the fountain that 
 most invites her. 
 
 Odoriferous gales ! whether of Deban or of Dafar, if 
 ye bring only fragrance with you, carry it to the thought- 
 less and light-hearted ! carry it to the drinker of wine, to 
 the feaster and the dancer at the feast. If ye never have 
 played about the beloved of my youth, if ye bring me no 
 intelligence of her, pass on ! away with you 1
 
 FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 7 1 
 
 XIV. 
 FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 
 
 The painter Fra Filippo Lippi, en his return from 
 captivity in Darbary, is questioned by Pope Engcniiis 
 IV. concerning his experiences in the service of the 
 corsair A hdiiL 
 
 Etigenitis. How wert thou mainly occupied ? 
 
 Filippo. I will give your Holiness a sample both of my 
 employments and of Abdul's character. He was going 
 one evening to a country house, about fifteen miles from 
 Tunis ; and he ordered me to accompany him. I found 
 there a spacious garden, overrun with wild-flowers and 
 most luxuriant grass, in irregular tufts, according to the 
 dryness or the humidity of the spot. The clematis over- 
 topped the lemon and orange trees ; and the perennial 
 pea sent forth here a pink blossom, here a purple, here 
 a white one, and, after holding (as it were) a short 
 conversation with the humbler plants, sprang up about 
 an old cypress, played among its branches, and miti- 
 gated its gloom. White pigeons, and others in colour 
 like the dawn of day, looked down on us and ceased 
 to coo, until some of their companions, in whom they 
 had more confidence, encouraged them loudly from re- 
 moter boughs, or alighted on the shoulders of Abdul, 
 at whose side I was standing. A few of them examined 
 me in every position their inquisitive eyes could take -, 
 displaying all the advantages of their versatile necks, 
 and pretending querulous fear in the midst of petulant 
 approaches. 
 
 Eiigenius. Is it of pigeons thou art talking, O Filippo? 
 I hope it may be.
 
 72 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Filippo. Of Abdul's pigeons. He was fond of taming 
 all creatures ; men, horses, pigeons, equally : but he tamed 
 them all by kindness. In this wilderness is an edifice not 
 unlike our Italian chapter-houses built by the Lombards, 
 with long narrow windows, high above the ground. The 
 centre is now a bath, the waters of which, in another 
 part of the enclosure, had supplied a fountain, at present 
 in ruins, and covered by tufted canes, and by every variety 
 of aquatic plants. The structure has no remains of roof : 
 and, of six windows, one alone is unconcealed by ivy. 
 This had been walled up long ago, and the cement in the 
 inside of it was hard and polished. "Lippi!" said 
 Abdul to me, after I had long admired the place in silence, 
 " I leave to thy superintendence this bath and garden. 
 Be sparing of the leaves and branches : make paths only 
 wide enough for me. Let me see no mark of hatchet or 
 pruning-hook, and tell the labourers that whoever takes 
 a nest or an egg shall be impaled." 
 
 Engenius. Monster ! so then he would really have 
 impaled a poor wretch for eating a bird's egg? How 
 disproportionate is the punishment to the offence ! 
 
 Filippo. He efficiently checked in his slaves the desire 
 of transgressing his command. To spare them as much 
 as possible, I ordered them merely to open a few spaces, 
 and to remove the weaker trees from the stronger. Mean- 
 while I drew on the smooth blank window the figure of 
 Abdul and of a beautiful girl. 
 
 Eugenius. Rather say handmaiden : choicer expres- 
 sion : more decorous. 
 
 Filippo. Holy Father ! I have been lately so much out 
 of practice, I take the first that comes in my way. Hand- 
 maiden I will use in preference for the future. 
 
 Etigenius. On then ! and God speed thee ! 
 
 Filippo. I drew Abdul with a blooming handmaiden. 
 One of his feet is resting on her lap, and she is drying
 
 FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 73 
 
 the ankle with a saffron robe, of which the greater part is 
 fallen in doing it. That she is a bondmaid is discernible, 
 not only by her occupation, but by her humility and 
 patience, by her loose and flowing brown hair, and by 
 her eyes expressing the timidity at once of servitude and 
 of fondness. The countenance was taken from fancy, and 
 was the loveliest I could imagine : of the figure I had 
 some idea, having seen it to advantage in Tunis. After 
 seven days Abdul returned. He was delighted with the 
 improvement made in the garden. I requested him to 
 visit the bath. " We can do nothing to that," answered 
 he impatiently. " There is no sudatoiy, no dormitory, no 
 dressing-room, no couch. Sometimes I sit an hour there 
 in the summer, because I never found a fly in it : the 
 principal curse of hot countries, and against which 
 plague there is neither prayer nor amulet, nor indeed 
 any human defence." He went away into the house. 
 At dinner he sent me from his table some quails and 
 ortolans, and tomatoes and honey and rice, beside a 
 basket of fruit covered with moss and bay-leaves, under 
 which I found a verdino fig, deliciously ripe, and bear- 
 ing the impression of several small teeth, but certainly 
 no reptile's. 
 
 Eugenius. There might have been poison in them for 
 all that. 
 
 Filippo. About two hours had passed, when I heard a 
 whirr and a crash in the wdndows of the bath (where I 
 had dined and was about to sleep) occasioned by the 
 settling and again the flight of some pheasants. Abdul 
 entered. " Beard of the Prophet ! What hast thou been 
 doing? That is myself! No, no, Lippi ! thou never 
 canst have seen her : the face proves it : but those limbs ! 
 thou hast divined them aright : thou hast had sweet 
 dreams then ! Dreams are large possessions : in them 
 the possessor may cease to possess his own. To the slave
 
 74 DRAMATIC. 
 
 O Allah ! to the slave is permitted what is not his ! — 1 
 burn with anguish to think how much — yea, at that very 
 
 hour. I would not another should, even in a dream but, 
 
 Lippi ! thou never canst have seen above the sandal?" 
 To which I answered, " I never have allowed my eyes to 
 look even on that. But if any one of my lord Abdul's 
 fair slaves resembles, as they surely must all do, in duty 
 and docility, the figure I have represented, let it express 
 to him my congratulation on his happiness." " I be- 
 lieve," said he, "such representations are forbidden by 
 the Koran ; but as I do not remember it, I do not sin. 
 There it shall stay, unless the angel Gabriel comes to 
 forbid it." He smiled in saying so. 
 
 Eugenius. There is hope of this Abdul. His faith 
 hangs about him more like oil than pitch. 
 
 Filippo. He inquired of me whether I often thought of 
 those I loved in Italy, and whether I could bring them 
 before my eyes at will. To remove all suspicion from 
 him, I declared I always could, and that one beautiful 
 object occupied all the cells of my brain by night and 
 day. He paused and pondered, and then said, "Thou 
 dost not love deeply." I thought I had given the true 
 signs. "No, Lippi ! we who love ardently, we, with all 
 our wishes, all the efforts of our souls, can not bring 
 before us the features which, while they were present, we 
 thought it impossible we ever could forget. Alas ! when 
 we most love the absent, when we most desire to see her, 
 we try in vain to bring her image back to us. The 
 troubled heart shakes and confounds it, even as ruffled 
 waters do with shadows. Hateful things are more hate- 
 ful when they haunt our sleep : the lovely flee away, or 
 are changed into less lovely." 
 
 Eugenius. What figures now have these unbehevers ? 
 
 Filippo. Various in their combinations as the letters oi 
 the numerals ; but they all, like these, signify something.
 
 FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 75 
 
 Almeida (did I not inform your Holiness?) has large 
 hazel eyes. 
 
 Eugcnius. Has she? thou never toldest me that. 
 Well, well ! and what else has she ? Mind ! be cautious ! 
 use decent terms. 
 
 Filippo. Somewhat pouting lips. 
 
 Eugenius. Ha ! ha ! What did they pout at ? 
 
 Filifpo. And she is rather plump than otherwise. 
 
 Eugenius. No harm in that. 
 
 Filippo. And moreover is cool, smooth, and firm as a 
 nectarine gathered before sunrise. 
 
 Eugenius. Ha ! ha ! do not remind me of nectarines. 
 I am very fond of them ; and this is not the season ! 
 Such females as thou describest, are said to be among 
 the likeliest to give reasonable cause for suspicion. I 
 would not judge harshly, I would not think uncharitably ; 
 but unhappily, being at So great a distance from spiritual 
 aid, peradventure a desire, a suggestion, an inkling — ay! 
 If she, the lost Almeida, came before thee when her 
 
 master was absent — which I trust she never did But 
 
 those flowers and shrubs and odours and alleys and 
 long grass and alcoves, might strangely hold, perplex, 
 and entangle, two incautious young persons — ay ? 
 
 Filippo. I confessed all I had to confess in this matter, 
 the evening I landed. 
 
 Eurcnitts. Ho ! I am no candidate for a seat at the 
 
 o 
 
 rehearsal of confession : but perhaps my absolution 
 might be somewhat more pleasing and unconditional. 
 Well ! well ! since I am unworthy of such confidence, go 
 about thy business— paint ! paint ! 
 
 Filippo. Am I so unfortunate as to have offended your 
 Beatitude ? 
 
 Eugenius. Offend »ie, man ! who offends tiie ? I took 
 an interest in thy adventures, and was concerned lest 
 thou niightest have sinned ; for by my soul ! Filippo !
 
 76 DRAMATIC. 
 
 those are the women that the devil hath set his mark 
 on. 
 
 Filippo. It would do your Holiness's heart good to rub 
 it out again, wherever he may have had the cunning to 
 make it. 
 
 Eugenius. Deep ! deep ! 
 
 Filippo. Yet it may be got at ; she being a Biscayan 
 by birth, as she told me, and not only baptised, but 
 going by sea along the coast for confirmation, when she 
 was captured. 
 
 Eugenius. Alas ! to what an imposition of hands was 
 this tender young thing devoted ! Poor soul ! 
 
 Filippo. I sigh Tor her myself when I think of her. 
 
 Eugenius. Beware lest the sigh be mundane, and lest 
 the thought recur too often. I wish it were presently in 
 my power to examine her myself on her condition. What 
 thinkest thou ? Speak. 
 
 Filippo. Holy Father ! she would laugh in your face. 
 
 Et{genius. So lost ! 
 
 Filippo. She declared to me she thought she should 
 have died, from the instant she was captured until she 
 was comforted by Abdul : but that she was quite sure she 
 should if she were ransomed. 
 
 Eugenius. Has the wretch then shaken her faith ? 
 
 Filippo. The very last thing he would think of doing. 
 Never did I see the virtue of resignation in higher perfec- 
 tion than in the laughing light-hearted Almeida. 
 
 Eugenius. Lamentable ! Poor lost creature ! lost in 
 this world and in the next. 
 
 Filippo. What could she do? how could she help 
 herself? 
 
 Eugenitis. She might have torn his eyes out, and have 
 died a martyr. 
 
 Filippo. Or have been bastinadoed, whipped, and given 
 up to the cooks and scullions for it
 
 FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 77 
 
 Eugenius. Martyrdom is the more glorious the greater 
 the indignities it endures. 
 
 Filippo. Almeida seems unambitious. There are many 
 in our Tuscany who would jump at the crown over those 
 sloughs and briars, rather than perish without them : she 
 never sighs after the like. 
 
 Eugenius. Nevertheless, what must she witness ! what 
 abominations ! what superstitions ! 
 
 Filippo. Abdul neither practises nor exacts any other 
 superstition than ablutions. 
 
 Eugeniiis^. Detestable rites ! without our authority. I 
 venture to affirm that in the whole of Italy and Spain no 
 convent of monks or nuns contains a bath ; and that the 
 worst inmate of either would shudder at the idea of 
 observing such a practice in common with the unbeliever. 
 For the washing of the feet indeed we have the authority 
 of the earlier Christians ; and it may be done ; but 
 solemnly and sparingly. Thy residence among the 
 Mahometans, I am afraid, hath rendered thee more 
 favourable to them than beseems a Catholic, and thy 
 mind, I do suspect, sometimes goes back into Barbary 
 unreluctantly. 
 
 Filippo. While I continued in that country, although 
 I was well treated, I often wished myself away, thinking 
 of my friends in Florence, of music, of painting, of our 
 villeggiatura at the vintage-time ; whether in the green 
 and narrow glades of Pratolino, with lofty trees above 
 us, and little rills unseen, and little bells about the necks 
 of sheep and goats, tinkling together ambiguously ; or 
 amid the grey quarries or under the majestic walls of 
 ancient Fiesole ; or down in the woods of the Doccia, 
 where the cypresses are of such a girth that, when a youth 
 stands against one of them, and a maiden stands opposite, 
 and they clasp it, their hands at the time do little more 
 than meet. Beautiful scenes, on which Heaven smiles
 
 78 DRAMATIC. 
 
 eternally, how often has my heart ached for you ! Ht 
 who hath lived in this country, can enjoy no distant one. 
 He breathes here another air ; he lives more life ; a 
 brighter sun invigorates his studies, and serener stars 
 influence his repose. Barbary hath also the blessing of 
 climate ; and although I do not desire to be there again, 
 I feel sometimes a kind of regret at leaving it. A bell 
 warbles the more mellifluously in the air when the sound 
 of the stroke is over, and when another swims out from 
 underneath it, and pants upon the element that gave it 
 birth. In like manner the recollection of a thing is fre- 
 quently more pleasing than the actuality ; what is harsh 
 is dropped in the space between. 
 
 XV. 
 
 LEONORA DI ESTE AND FATHER PANIGAROLA. 
 
 Leonora di Este, sister to the Duke of Ferrara, beloved by 
 Tasso, questions Panigarola on her death-bed concern- 
 ing the manner in which the />oet {being in confinejnent 
 as a hinatic') has borne the news that she is about to die. 
 
 Leonora. You have then seen him, father ? Have you 
 been able, you who console so many, you who console 
 even me, to comfort poor Torquato? 
 
 Panigarola. Madonna ! the ears of the unhappy man 
 are quickened by his solitude and his sorrow. He seemed 
 aware, or suspicious at least, that somebody was listening 
 at his prison-door ; and the cell is so narrow that every 
 sound in it is audible to those who stand outside. 
 
 Leonora. He might have whispered. 
 
 Panigarola. It would have been most imprudent. 
 
 Leonora. Said he nothing? not a word? — to prove — to 
 prove that he had not lost his memory ; his memory ? of
 
 LEONORA AND PANIGAROLA. 79 
 
 what ? of reading his verses to me, and of my listening Ic 
 them. Lucrezia listened to them as attentively as I did, 
 mtil she observed his waiting for my applause first. 
 When she applauded, he bowed so gracefully : when I 
 applauded he only held down his head. I was not angry 
 at the difference. But tell me, good father ! tell me, 
 pray, whether he gave no sign of sorrow at hearing how 
 soon I am to leave the world. Did you forget to men- 
 tion it ! or did you fear to pain him ? 
 
 Panigarola. I mentioned it plainly, fully. 
 
 Leonora. And was he, was gentle Torquato, very 
 sorry ? 
 
 Panigarola. Be less anxious. He bore it like a Chris- 
 tian. He said deliberately, but he trembled and sighed, 
 as Christians should sigh and tremble, that, although he 
 grieved at your illness, yet that to write either in verse 
 or prose, on such a visitation of Providence, was repug- 
 nant to his nature. 
 
 Leonora. He said so ? could he say it ? But I thought 
 you told me he feared a listener. Perhaps too he feared 
 toawaken in me the sentiments he once excited. How- 
 ever it may be, already I feel the chilliness of the grave : 
 his words breathe it over me. I would have entreated 
 him to forget me ; but to be forgotten before I had en- 
 treated it !— O father, father ! 
 
 Panigarola. Human vanity still is lingering on the 
 precincts of the tomb. Is it criminal, is it censurable in 
 him, to anticipate your wishes ? 
 
 Leonora. Knowing the certainty and the nearness of 
 my departure, he might at least have told me through 
 you that he lamented to lose me. 
 
 Panigarola. Is there no voice v/ithin your heart that 
 clearly tells you so ? 
 
 Leonora That voice is too indistinct, too troubled with 
 the throbbings round about it. We women want some-
 
 8o DRAMATIC. 
 
 times to hear what we know ; we die unless we heai 
 what we doubt. 
 
 Panigarola. Madonna ! this is too passionate for the 
 hour. But the tears you are shedding are a proof of 
 your compunction. May the Virgin, and the Saints 
 around her throne, accept and ratify it. 
 
 Leonora. Father ! what were you saying ? What were 
 you asking me ? Whether no voice whispered to me, 
 assured me ? I know not. I am weary of thinking. He 
 must love me. It is not in the nature of such men ever 
 to cease from loving. Was genius ever ungrateful ? 
 Mere talents are dry leaves, tossed up and down by gusts 
 of passion, and scattered and swept away ; but Genius 
 lies on the bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet. 
 
 Panigarola. Be composed, be calm, be resigned to the 
 will of Heaven, be ready for that journey's end where the 
 happier who have gone before, and the enduring who 
 soon must follow, will meet. 
 
 Leonora. I am prepared to depart ; for I have struggled 
 (God knows) to surmount what is insurmountable ; and 
 the wings of angels will sustain and raise me, seeing my 
 descent toward earth too rapid, too unresisted, and too 
 prone. Pray, father, for my deliverance : pray also for 
 poor Torquato's : do not separate us in your prayers. 
 
 ! could he leave his prison as surely and as speedily as 
 
 1 shall mine ! it would not be more thankfully. O ! that 
 bars of iron were as fragile as bars of clay ! O ! that 
 princes were as merciful as Death ! But tell him, tell 
 Torquato— go again ; entreat, persuade, command him, 
 to forget me. 
 
 Panigarola. Alas ! even the command, even the com- 
 mand from you and from above, might not avail perhaps. 
 You smile. Madonna ! 
 
 Leonora. I die happy.
 
 MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 8 1 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 
 
 Jeanne tTArc is introduced into the /'rescnce of Aggies Soret, 
 mistress of the French king, Charles VII. 
 
 Agnes. If a boy could ever be found so beautiful and so 
 bashful, I should have taken you for a boy about fifteen 
 years old. Really, and without flattery, I think you very 
 lovely. 
 
 Jcan7ie. I hope I shall be greatly more so. 
 
 Agnes. Nay, nay : do not expect to improve, except a 
 little in manner. Manner is the fruit, blushes are the 
 blossom : these must fall off before the fruit sets. 
 
 Jean7te. By God's help I may be soon more comely ii) 
 the eyes of men. 
 
 Agnes. Ha ! ha ! even in piety there is a spice of vanity. 
 The woman can only cease to be the woman when angels 
 have disrobed her in Paradise. 
 
 Jeanne. I shall be far from loveliness, even in my own 
 eyes, until I execute the will of God in the deliverance of 
 his people. 
 
 Agnes. Never hope it. 
 
 Jeanne. The deliverance that is never hoped seldom 
 comes. We conquer by hope and trust. 
 
 Agnes. Be content to have humbled the proud islanders. 
 O how I rejoice that a mere child has done so. 
 
 Jeanne. A child of my age, or younger, chastised the 
 Philistines, and smote down the giant their leader. 
 
 Agnes. But Talbot is a giant of another mould : his 
 will is immovable, his power irresistible, his word of com- 
 mand is Conquer.
 
 82 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Jeanne. It shall be heard no longer. The tempest of 
 battle drowning it in English blood. 
 
 Agnes. Poor simpleton ! The English will recover 
 from the stupor of their fright, believing thee no longer 
 to be a sorceress. Did ever sword or spear intimidate 
 them ? Hast thou never heard of Creci ? hast thou never 
 heard of Agincourt ? hast thou never heard of Poictiers ? 
 where the chivalry of France was utterly vanquished by 
 sick and starving men, one against five. The French are 
 the eagle's plume, the English are his talon. 
 
 Jeanne. The talon and the plume shall change places. 
 
 Agties Too confident ! 
 
 Jeanne. O lady ! is any one too confident in God ? 
 
 Agnes. We may mistake his guidance. Already not 
 only the whole host of the English, but many of our wisest 
 and most authoritative churchmen, believe you in their 
 consciences to act under the instigation of Satan. 
 
 Jeanne. What country or what creature has the Evil- 
 one ever saved ? With what has he tempted me ? With 
 reproaches, with scorn, with weary days, with slumberless 
 nights, with doubts, distrusts, and dangers, with absence 
 from all who cherish me, with immodest soldierly lan- 
 guage, and perhaps an untimely and a cruel death. 
 
 Agnes. But you are not afraid. 
 
 Jeajine. Healthy and strong, yet always too timorous, 
 a few seasons ago I fled away from the lowings of a young 
 steer, if he ran opposite ; I awaited not the butting of 
 a full-grown kid; the barking of a house-dog at our 
 neighbour's gate turned me pale as ashes. And (shame 
 upon me !) I scarcely dared kiss the child, when he 
 called on me with burning tongue in the pestilence of a 
 fever. 
 
 Agnes. No wonder ! A creature in a fever ! What a 
 frightful thing ! 
 
 Jeanne. It would be were it not so piteous.
 
 MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 83 
 
 Agnes. And did you kiss it ? Did you really kiss the 
 lips ? 
 
 Jeanne. I fancied mine would refresh them a little. 
 
 Agnes. And did they? I should have thought mine 
 could do but trifling good in such cases. 
 
 Jeanne. Alas ! when I believed I had quite cooled 
 them, it was death had done it. 
 
 Agnes. Ah ! this is courage. 
 
 Jeanne. The courage of the weaker sex, inherent in us 
 all, but as deficient in me as in any, until an infant taught 
 me my duty by its cries. Yet never have I quailed in the 
 front of the fight, where I directed our ranks against the 
 bravest. God pardon me if I err ! but I believe his 
 Spirit flamed within my breast, strengthened my arm, and 
 led me on to victory. 
 
 Agnes. Say not so, or they will burn thee alive, poor 
 child ! Why fallest thou before me ? I have some power 
 indeed, but in this extremity I could little help thee. 
 The priest never releases the victim. 
 
 What ! how ! thy countenance is radiant with a heavenly 
 joy : thy humility is hke an angel's at the feet of God : I 
 am unworthy to behold it. Rise, Jeanne, rise ! 
 
 Jea7ine. Martyrdom too ! The reward were too great 
 for such an easy and glad obedience. France will become 
 just and righteous : France will praise the Lord for her 
 deliverance. 
 
 Agnes. Sweet enthusiast ! I am confident, I am cer- 
 tain, of thy innocence. 
 
 Jeanne. O Lady Agnes ! 
 
 Agnes. Why fixest thou thy eyes on me so piteously ? 
 Why sobbest thou ? thou, to whom the representation of 
 an imminent death to be apprehended for thee, left un- 
 troubled, joyous, exulting. Speak ; tell me. 
 
 Jeanne. I must. This also is commanded me. You 
 believe me innocent ?
 
 84 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Agnes. In truth I do : why then look abashed ? Alas ! 
 alas ! could I mistake the reason ? I spoke of innocence ! 
 Leave me, leave me. Return another time. Follow thy 
 vocation. 
 
 /eanne. Agnes Sorel ! be thou more than innocent, if 
 innocence is denied thee. In the name of the Almighty, 
 I call on thee to earn his mercy. 
 
 Agnes. I implore it incessantly, by day, by night. 
 
 Jeanne. Serve him as thou mayest best serve him ; and 
 thy tears, I promise thee, shall soon be less bitter than 
 those which are dropping on this jewelled hand, and on 
 the rude one which has dared to press it. 
 
 Agnes. What can I, what can I do ? 
 
 Jeanne. Lead the king back to his kingdom. 
 
 Agnes. The king is in France. 
 
 Jeanne. No, no, no. 
 
 Agnes, Upon my word of honour. 
 
 Jeanne. And at such a time, O Heaven ! in idleness 
 and sloth ! 
 
 Agnes. Indeed no. He is busy (this is the hour) in 
 feeding and instructing two young hawks. Could you 
 but see the little miscreants, how they dare to bite and 
 claw and tug at him. He never hurts or scolds them for 
 it; he is so good-natured : he even lets them draw blood; 
 he is so very brave ! 
 
 Running away from France ! Who could have raised 
 such a report ? Indeed he is here. He never thought of 
 leaving the country : and his affairs are becoming more 
 and more prosperous ever since the battle. Can you not 
 take my asseveration ? Must I say it ? he is now in this 
 very house. 
 
 Jean7te. Then not in France. In France all love their 
 country. Others of our kings, old men tell us, have been 
 captives ; but less ignominously. Their enemies have 
 respected their misfortunes and their honour.
 
 MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 85 
 
 Agnes. The English have always been merciful and 
 generous. 
 
 Jeanne. And will you be less generous, less merciful ? 
 
 Agnes. I ? 
 
 Jeanne. You ; the beloved of Charles. 
 
 Agnes. This is too confident. No, no : do not draw 
 back : it is not too confident : it is only too reproachful. 
 But your actions have given you authority. I have, 
 nevertheless, a right to demand of you what creature on 
 earth I have ever treated ignominiously or unkindly. 
 
 Jeanne. Your beloved ; your king. 
 
 Agnes. Never. I owe to him all I have, all I am. 
 
 Jeanne. Too true ! But let him in return owe to you, 
 O Lady Agnes, eternal happiness, eternal glory. Con- 
 descend to labour with the humble handmaiden of the 
 Lord, in fixing his throne and delivering his people. 
 
 Agitei. I can not fight : I abominate war. 
 
 Jeanne. Not more than 1 do ; but men love it. 
 
 Agnes. Too much. 
 
 Jeanne. Often too much, for often unjustly. But when 
 God's right hand is visible in the vanguard, we who are 
 called must follow. 
 
 Agnes. I dare not ; indeed I dare not. 
 
 Jeanne. You dare not ? you who dare withhold the 
 king from his duty ! 
 
 Agnes. We must never talk of their duties to our 
 princes. 
 
 Jeanne. Then we omit to do much of our own. It is 
 now mine : but above all it is yours. 
 
 Agnes. There are learned and religious men who might 
 more properly. 
 
 Jeanne. Are these learned and religious men in the 
 court ? Pray tell me : since, if they are, seeing how 
 poorly they have sped, I may perad venture, however un- 
 willingly, however blameably, abate a little of my rever-
 
 86 DRAMATIC. 
 
 ence for learning, and look for pure religion in lower 
 places. 
 
 Agnes. They are modest ; and they usually ask of me 
 in what manner they may best please their master. 
 
 Jeanne. They believe then that your aflFection is pro- 
 portional to the power you possess over him. I have 
 heard complaints that it is usually quite the contrary. 
 But can such great men be loved? And do you love 
 him ? Why do you sigh so ? 
 
 Agnes. Life is but sighs, and when they cease 'tis over. 
 
 Jeanne. Now deign to answer me : do you truly love 
 him? 
 
 Agnes. From my soul ; and above it. 
 
 Jeanne. Then save him. 
 
 Lady ! I am grieved at your sorrow, although it will 
 hereafter be a source of joy to you. The purest water 
 runs from the hardest rock. Neither worth nor wisdom 
 come wdthout an effort ; and patience and piety and 
 salutary knowledge spring up and ripen from under the 
 harrow of affliction. Before there is wine or there is oil, 
 the grape must be trodden and the olive must be pressed. 
 
 I see you are framing in your heart the resolution. 
 
 Agnes. My heart can admit nothing but his image. 
 
 Jeanne. It must fall thence at last. 
 
 Agnes. Alas ! alas ! Time loosens man's affections. 
 I may become unworthy. In the sweetest flower there 
 is much that is not fragrance, and which transpires when 
 the freshness has passed away. 
 
 Alas ' if he should ever cease to love me ! 
 
 Jeanne. Alas ! if God should ! 
 
 Agnes. Then indeed he might afflict me with sc 
 grievous a calamity. 
 
 Jeanne. And none worse after ? 
 
 Agnes. What can there be ? 
 
 O Heaven ! mercy ! mercy !
 
 MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 87 
 
 Jeanne. Resolve to earn it : one hour suffices. 
 
 Agnes. I am lost. Leave me, leave me. 
 
 Jeaune. Do we leave the lost ? Are they beyond 
 our care ? Remember who died for them, and them 
 only. 
 
 Agnes. You subdue me. Spare me : I would only 
 collect my thoughts. 
 
 Jeanne. Cast them away. Fresh herbage springs from 
 under the withered. Be strong, and, if you love, be 
 generous. Is it more glorious to make a captive than to 
 redeem one ? 
 
 Agnes. Is he in danger ! O ! — you see all things — is 
 he ? is he ? is he ? 
 
 Jeanne. From none but you. 
 
 Agnes. God, it is evident, has given to thee alone the 
 power of rescuing both him and France. 
 
 He has bestowed on thee the mightiness of virtue, 
 
 Jeanne. Believe, and prove thy belief, that he has left 
 no little of it still in thee. 
 
 Agnes. When we have lost our chastity, we have lost 
 all, in his sight and in man's. But man is unforgiving, 
 God is merciful. 
 
 Jeanne. I am so ignorant, I know only a part of my 
 duties : yet those which my Maker has taught me I am 
 earnest to perform. He teaches me that divine love 
 has less influence over the heart than human : He teaches 
 me that it ought to have more : finally. He commands me 
 to announce to thee, not His anger, but His will. 
 
 Agites. Declare it ; O declare it. I do believe His 
 holy word is deposited in thy bosom. 
 
 Jeanne. Encourage the king to lead his vassals to the 
 field. 
 
 Agnes. When the season is milder. 
 
 Jeanne. And bid him leave you for ever. 
 
 Agnes. Leave me ! one whole campaign ! one entire
 
 88 DRAMATIC. 
 
 summer ! Oh anguish ! It sounded in my ears as if you 
 said " for ever." 
 
 Jeanne. I say it again. 
 
 Agnes. Thy power is superhuman, mine is not. 
 
 Jeanne. It ought to be, in setting God at defiance. 
 The mightiest of the angels rued it. 
 
 Agnes. We did not make our hearts. 
 
 Jeanne. But we can mend them. 
 
 Agnes. Oh ! mine (God knows it) bleeds. 
 
 Jeanne. Say rather it repels from it the last stagnant 
 drop of its rebellious sin. Salutary pangs may be pain- 
 fuller than mortal ones. 
 
 Agnes. Bid him leave me ! wish it ! permit ! think it 
 near ! believe it ever can be ! Go, go — I am lost 
 eternally. 
 
 Jeanne. And Charles too. 
 
 Agnes. Hush ! hush ! What has he done that other 
 men have not done also ? 
 
 Jeanne. He has left undone what others do. 
 
 Other men fight for their country. 
 
 I always thought it was pleasant to the young and 
 beautiful to see those they love victorious and applauded. 
 Twice in my lifetime I have been present at wakes, where 
 prizes were contended for : what prizes I quite forget : 
 certainly not kingdoms. The winner was made happy : 
 but there was one made happier. Village maids love 
 truly : ay, they love glory too ; and not their own. The 
 tenderest heart loves best the courageous one : the gentle 
 voice says, "Why wert thou so hazardous?" the deeper- 
 toned replies, " For thee, for thee." 
 
 Agnes. But if the saints of heaven are offended, as I 
 fear they may be, it would be presumptuous in the king 
 to expose his person in battle, until we have supplicated 
 and appeased them. 
 
 Jeamie. One hour of self-denial, one hour of stern exer
 
 MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 89 
 
 tion against the assaults of passion, outvalues a life of 
 prayer. 
 
 Agnes. Prayer, if many others will pray with us, can do 
 all things. I will venture to raise up that arm which has 
 only one place for its repose : I will steal away from that 
 undivided pillow, fragrant with fresh and unextinguishable 
 love. 
 
 Jeanne. Sad earthly thoughts ! 
 
 Agnes. You make them sad, you cannot make them 
 earthly. There is a divinity in a love descending from on 
 high, in theirs who can see into the heart and mould it to 
 their will. 
 
 Jeanne. Has man that power ? 
 
 Agnes. Happy, happy girl ! to ask it, and unfeignedly. 
 
 Jeanne. Be happy too. 
 
 Agnes, How? how? 
 
 Jeanne. By passing resolutely through unhappiness. 
 It must be done. 
 
 Agnes. I will throw myself on the pavement, and pray 
 until no star is in the heavens. Oh ! I will so pray, so 
 weep. 
 
 Jeanne. Unless you save the tears of others, in vain you 
 shed your own. 
 
 Agnes. Again I ask you what can I do? 
 
 Jeanne. When God has told you what you ought to do, 
 he has already told you what you can. 
 
 Ag7tes. I will think about it seriously. 
 
 Jeanne, Serious thoughts are folded up, chested, and 
 unlooked at : lighter, like dust, settle all about the chamber. 
 The promise to think seriously dismisses and closes the 
 door on the thought. Adieu ! God pity and pardon you. 
 Through you the wrath of Heaven will fall upon the 
 kingdom. 
 
 Agnes. Denouncer of just vengeance, recall the sentence ! 
 I tremble before that countenance severely radiant : I
 
 90 
 
 DRAMATIC. 
 
 sink amid that calm, more appalling than the tempest. 
 Look not into my heart with those gentle eyes ! O how 
 they penetrate ! They ought to see no sin : sadly must 
 it pain them. 
 
 Jeanne. Think not of me : pursue thy destination : save 
 France. 
 
 Agnes {after a long pause). Glorious privilege ! divine 
 appointment ! Is it thus, O my Redeemer ! my crimes 
 are visited ? Come with me, blessed Jeanne ! come in- 
 stantly with me to the king : come to him whom thy 
 virtue and valour have rescued. 
 
 Jeanne. Not no-,v ; nor ever with thee. Again I shall 
 behold him ; a conqueror at Orleans, a king at Rheims. 
 Regenerate Agnes ! be this thy glory, if there be any that 
 is not God's. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 HENRY VTII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 The King /•resents Idmself suddenly and in disguise be/ore 
 /lis cast-off ivifc after she has teen condemned to death. 
 
 Henry. Uost thou know me, Nanny, in this yeoman's 
 dress? 'Sblood ! does it require so long and vacant a 
 stare to recollect a husband, after a week or two ? No 
 tragedy-tricks with me ! a scream, a sob, or thy kerchief 
 a trifle the wetter, were enough. Why ! verily the little 
 fool faints in earnest. These whey faces, like their kins- 
 folk the ghosts, give us no warning. {Sprinkling -water 
 over her.) Hast had water enough upon thee ? take that 
 then — art thyself again ? 
 
 Anne. Father of mercies ! do T meet again my husband, 
 as was my last prayer on earth ! do I behold my beloved 
 lord— in peace— and pardoned, my partner in eternal
 
 HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 91 
 
 bliss ! It was his voice. I cannot see him— why cannot 
 I ? O why do these pangs interrupt the transports of 
 the blessed ! 
 
 Henry. Thou openest thy arms : faith ! I came for 
 that : Nanny, thou art a sweet slut : thou groanest, 
 wench : art in labour ? Faith ! among the mistakes of 
 the night, I am ready to think almost that thou hast 
 been drinking, and that I have not. 
 
 Anne. God preserve your Highness : grant me your 
 forgiveness for one slight offence. My eyes were heavy ; 
 I fell asleep while I was reading ; I did not know of 
 your presence at first, and when I did I could not speak. 
 I strove for utterance ; I wanted no respect for my hege 
 and husband. 
 
 Henry. My pretty warm nestling, thou wilt then lie ! 
 Thou wert reading, and aloud, too, with thy saintly cup 
 of water by thee, and — what ! thou art still girlishly fond 
 of those dried cherries ! 
 
 Anne. I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the 
 first time I saw you, and you were then pleased to invent 
 for me some reason why they should be acceptable. I did 
 not dry these : may I present them such as they are ? 
 We shall have fresh next month. 
 
 Henry. Thou art always driving away from the dis- 
 course. One moment it suits thee to know me, another 
 not. 
 
 Anne. Remember, it is hardly three months since I 
 miscarried ; I am still weak and liable to swoons. 
 
 Henry. Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with 
 lustre upon them when there is none elsewhere, and 
 obstinate lips, resisting all impression ; but, now thou 
 talkest about miscarrying, who is the father of that boy ? 
 
 Anne. The father is yours and mine — he who has taken 
 him to his own home, before (like me) he could struggle 
 or cry for it.
 
 92 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Henry. Pagan, or worse, to talk so ! He did not 
 come into the world alive : there was no baptism. 
 
 Anne. I thought only of our loss : my senses are 
 confounded. I did not give him my milk, and yet I 
 loved him tenderly ; for I often fancied, had he lived, 
 how contented and joyful he would have made you and 
 England. 
 
 Henry. No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou 
 canst not say, whether at my entrance, thou wert waking 
 or wandering. 
 
 Anne. Faintness and drowsiness came upon me sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Henry. Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst, 
 what didst dream of? 
 
 Anm. I begin to doubt whether I did indeed sleep. 
 
 Henry. Ha ! false one — never two sentences of truth 
 together. — But come, what didst think about, asleep or 
 awake ? 
 
 Anne. I thought that God had pardoned me my 
 offences, and had received me unto him, 
 
 Henry. And nothing more ? 
 
 Anne. That my prayers had been heard and my wishes 
 were accomplishing : the angels alone can enjoy more 
 beatitude than this. 
 
 Henry. Vexatious little devil ! she says nothing now 
 about me, merely from perverseness. — Hast thou never 
 thought about me, nor about thy falsehood and adultery ? 
 
 Anne. If I had committed any kind of falsehood, in 
 regard to you or not, I should never have rested until I 
 had thrown myself at your feet and obtained your par- 
 don : but if ever I had been guilty of tliat other crime, 
 I know not whether I should have dared to implore it, 
 even of God's mercy. 
 
 Henry. Thou hast heretofore cast some soft glances 
 upon Smeaton ; hast thou not ?
 
 HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 93 
 
 Anne. He taught me to play on the virginals, as you 
 know, when I was little, and thereby to please your 
 Highness. 
 
 Henry. And Brereton and Norris, what have thej 
 taught thee ? 
 
 Anne. They are your servants, and trusty ones. 
 
 Henry. Has not Weston told thee plainly that he 
 loved thee ? 
 
 Anne. Yes ; and 
 
 Heti7-y. What didst thou ? 
 
 Anne. I defied him. 
 
 Henry. Is that all ? 
 
 Anne. I could have done no more if he had told me 
 that he hated me. Then indeed I should have incurred 
 more justly the reproaches of your Highness : I should 
 have smiled. 
 
 Henry. We have proofs abundant : the fellows shall 
 one and all confront thee — ay, clap thy hands and kiss 
 my sleeve, harlot ! 
 
 Anne. O that so great a favour is vouchsafed me ! my 
 honour is secure ; my husband will be happy again ; he 
 will see my innocence. 
 
 Henry. Give me an account of the monies thou hast 
 received from me, within these nine months : I want 
 them not back : they are letters of gold in record of thy 
 guilt. Thou hast had no fewer than fifteen thousand 
 pounds within that period, without even thy asking ; 
 what hast done with it, wanton ? 
 
 Anne. I have regularly placed it out to interest. 
 
 Henry. Where ? I demand of thee. 
 
 Anne. Among the needy and ailing. My lord arch- 
 bishop has the account of it, sealed by him weekly : I 
 also had a copy myself : those who took away my papers 
 may easily find it, for there are few others, and they 
 lie open.
 
 94 DRAMATIC. 
 
 I/emy. Think on my munificence to thee ; recollect 
 who made thee — dost sigh for what thou hast lost ? 
 
 Anne. I do indeed. 
 
 Heiny. I never thought thee ambitious ; but thy vices 
 creep out one by one. 
 
 Anne. I do not regret that I have been a queen and 
 am no longer one ; nor that my innocence is called in 
 question by those who never knew me : but I lament 
 that the good people, who loved me so cordially, hate 
 and curse me ; that those who pointed me out to their 
 daughters for imitation, check them when they speak 
 about me ; and that he whom next to God I have served 
 with most devotion, is my accuser. O my lord, my hus- 
 band, and king ! the judgments of God are righteous ; on 
 this surely we must think alike. 
 
 Henry. And what then ? speak out — again I command 
 thee, speak plainly — thy tongue was not so torpid but 
 this moment. 
 
 Anne. If any doubt remains upon your royal mind of 
 your equity in this business, — should it haply seem possible 
 to you that passion or prejudice, in yourself or another, 
 may have warped so strong an understanding, — do but 
 supplicate the Almiglity to strengthen and enlighten it, 
 and he will hear you. 
 
 Henry. What ! thou wouldst fain change thy quarters, 
 ay? 
 
 Anne. My spirit is detached and ready, and I shall 
 change them shortly, whatever your Highness may deter- 
 mine. 
 
 Henry. Yet thou appearest hale and resolute, and (they 
 tell me) smirkest and smilest to them all. 
 
 Anne. The withered leaf catches the sun sometimes, 
 little as it can profit by it ; and I have heard stories of 
 the breeze in other climates, that sets in when daylight is 
 about to close, and how constant it is, and how refreshing.
 
 HENRY VIII. AND ANNE EOLEYN. 95 
 
 My heart indeed is now sustained strangely : it became the 
 more sensibly so from that time forward when power and 
 grandeur and all things terrestrial were sunk from sight. 
 Every act of kindness from those about me gives satisfac- 
 tion and pleasure, such as I did not feel formerly. I was 
 worse before God chastened me ; yet I was never an 
 ingrate. What pains have I taken to find out the village 
 girls who placed their posies in my chamber ere I arose 
 in the morning ! how gladly would I have recompensed 
 the forester who lit up a brake on my birthnight which 
 else had warmed him half the winter ! But these are 
 times past : I was not Queen of England. 
 Henry. Nor adulterous, nor heretical. 
 Anne. God be praised ! 
 
 Henry. Learned saint, thou knowest nothing of the 
 lighter, but perhaps canst inform me about the graver of 
 them. 
 
 Anne. Which may it be, my liege ? 
 Henry. Which may it be, pestilence ! I marvel that 
 the walls of this tower do not crack around us at such 
 impiety. 
 
 Anne. I vi^ould be instructed by the wisest of theo- 
 logians ; such is your Highness. 
 
 Henry. Are the sins of the body, foul as they are, com- 
 parable to those of the soul ? 
 
 Anne. When they are united they must be worst. 
 Henry. Go on, go on : thou pushest thy own breast 
 against the sword : God has deprived thee of thy reason 
 for thy punishment. I must hear more ; proceed, I charge 
 thee. 
 
 Anne. An aptitude to believe one thing rather than 
 another from ignorance or weakness, or from the more 
 persuasive manner of the teacher, or from his purity of 
 life, or from the strong impression of a particular text at 
 a particular time, and various things besides, may influ-
 
 96 DRAMATIC. 
 
 ence and decide our opinion ; and the hand of the Al- 
 mighty, let us hope, will fall gently on human faUibility. 
 
 Henry. Opinion in matters of faith ! rare wisdom ! rare 
 religion ! Troth ! Anne, thou hast well sobered me : I 
 came rather warmly and lovingly ; but these light ring- 
 lets, by the holy rood, shall not shade this shoulder much 
 longer. Nay, do not start ; I tap it for the last time, 
 my sweetest. If the Church permitted it, thou shouldst 
 set forth on the long journey with the eucharist between 
 thy teeth, however loth. 
 
 Anne. Love your Elizabeth, my honoured Lord, and 
 God bless you ! She will soon forget to call me ; do 
 not chide her ; think how young she is. 
 
 Could I, could I kiss her, but once again I it would 
 comfort my heart — or break it. 
 
 xVlil. 
 
 ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 Roger Aschain prepares the mind of his pupil Lady Jane 
 Grey for the perils that will encompass her after her 
 }narriage. 
 
 Aschain. Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a 
 most awful state ; thou art passing into matrimony and 
 great wealth. God hath w illed it : submit in thankfulness. 
 
 Thy affections are rightly placed and well distributed. 
 Love is a secondary passion in those who love most, a 
 primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by 
 it in a high degree is inspired by honour in a higher : it 
 never reaches its plenitude of growth and perfection but 
 in the most exalted minds. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Jane. What aileth my virtuous Ascham ? what is 
 anii§s ? why do I tremble ?
 
 ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 97 
 
 Aschavt. I remember a sort of prophecy, made three 
 years ago : it is a prophecy of thy condition and of my 
 feehngs on it. Recollectest thou who wrote, sitting upon 
 the sea-beach the evening after an excursion to the Isle 
 of Wight, these verses ? 
 
 Invisibly bright water ! so like air, 
 
 Oil looking down I feared thou couldst not bear 
 
 My little bark, of all light barks most light, 
 
 And look'd again, and drew me from the sight, 
 
 And, hanging back, breath'd each fresh gale aghast. 
 
 And held the bench, not to go on so fast. 
 
 Jane. 1 was very childish when I composed them ; 
 and, if I had thought any more about the matter, I 
 should have hoped you had been too generous to keep 
 them in your memory as witnesses against me. 
 
 Ascham. Nay, they are not much amiss for so young a 
 girl, and there being so few of them, I did not reprove 
 thee. Half-an-hour, I thought, might have been spent 
 more unprofitably ; and I now shall believe it firmly, if 
 thou wilt but be led by them to meditate a little on the 
 similarity of situation in which thou then wert to what 
 thou art now in. 
 
 Jane. I will do it, and whatever else you command ; 
 for I am weak by nature, and very timorous, unless where 
 a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. There 
 God acteth, and not his creature. 
 
 Those were with me at sea who would have been 
 attentive to me if I had seemed to be afraid, even though 
 worshipful men and women were in the company ; so 
 that something more powerful threw my fear overboard. 
 Yet I never will go again upon the water. 
 
 Ascham. Exercise that beauteous couple, that mind 
 and body, much and variously, but at home, at home, 
 Jane ! indoors, and about things indoors ; for God is 
 
 H
 
 98 DRAMATIC. 
 
 there too. We have rocks and quicksands on the banks 
 of our Thames, O lady, such as Ocean never heard of; 
 and many (who knows how soon !) may be engulfed in 
 the current under their garden-walls. 
 
 Jane. Thoroughly do I now understand you. Yes 
 indeed, I have read evil things of courts ; but I think 
 nobody can go out bad who entereth good, if timely and 
 true warning shall have been given. 
 
 Ascham. I see perils on perils which thou dost not see, 
 albeit thou art wiser than thy poor old master. And it 
 is not because Love hath blinded thee, for that surpasseth 
 his supposed -omnipotence ; but it is because thy tender 
 heart, having always leant affectionately upon good, hath 
 felt and known nothing of evil. 
 
 I once persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now per- 
 suade thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, to lay 
 aside books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on what 
 is under and before thee. 
 
 Jane. I have well bethought me of my duties : O how 
 extensive they are ! what a goodly and fair inheritance ! 
 But tell me, would you command me never more to read 
 Cicero and Epictetus and Plutarch and Polybius? The 
 others I do resign : they are good for the arbour and for 
 the gravel-walk : yet leave unto me, I do beseech you, 
 my friend and father, leave unto me for my fireside and 
 for my pillow, truth, eloquence, courage, constancy. 
 
 Ascham. Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy child- 
 bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotless undrooping lily, 
 they have fenced thee right well. These are the men for 
 men : these are to fashion the bright and blessed creatures 
 whom God one day shaU smile upon in thy chaste bosom. 
 Mind thou thy husband. 
 
 Jane. I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused 
 me ; I love him with the fondest, the most solicitous 
 affection ; I pray to the Almighty for his goodness and
 
 ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 99 
 
 happiness, and do forget at times, unworthy supplicant ! 
 the prayers I should have offered for myself. Never fear 
 that I will disparage my kind religious teacher, by dis- 
 disobedience to my husband in the most trying duties. 
 
 Ascham. Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous : but time 
 will harden him : time must harden even thee, sweet 
 Jane ! Do thou, complacently and indirectly, lead liim 
 from ambition. 
 
 Jane. He is contented with me and with home. 
 
 Ascham. Ah, Jane ! Jane ! men of high estate grow 
 tired of contentedness. 
 
 Jane. He told me he never liked books unless I read 
 them to him : I will read them to him every evening : I 
 will open new worlds to him richer than those discovered 
 by the Spaniard : I will conduct him to treasures, O 
 what treasures ! on which he may sleep in innocence and 
 peace. 
 
 Ascham. Rather do thou walk -with him, ride with 
 him, play with him, be his faery, his page, his everything 
 that love and poetry have invented ; but watch him well ; 
 sport with his fancies ; turn them about like the ringlets 
 round his cheek ; and if ever he meditate on power, go toss 
 up thy baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into 
 his heart by the music of thy discourse. 
 
 Teach him to live unto God and unto thee ; and he 
 will discover that women, like the plants in woods, derive 
 tlieir softness and tenderness from the shade.
 
 lOO DRAMATIC. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ESSEX AND SPENSER. 
 
 The poet Spenser, newly returned from Ireland after tin 
 burning of his house and infant son, has been summoned 
 to confer with tite Earl of Essex, who as yet is ignorant 
 of his misfortune. 
 
 Essex. Instantly on hearing of thy arrival from Ireland, 
 I sent a message to thee, good Edmund, that I might 
 learn from one so judicious and dispassionate as thou art, 
 the real state of things in that distracted country ; it 
 having pleased the queen's majesty to think of appointing 
 me her deputy, in order to bring the rebellious to sub- 
 mission. 
 
 Spenser. Wisely and well considered ; but more worthily 
 of her judgment than her affection. May your lordship 
 overcome, as you have ever done, the difficulties and 
 dangers you foresee. 
 
 Essex. We grow weak by striking at random ; and 
 knowing that I must strike, and strike heavily, I would 
 fain see exactly where the stroke shall fall. 
 
 Some attribute to the Irish all sorts of excesses ; others 
 tell us that these are old stories ; that there is not a more 
 inoffensive race of merry creatures under heaven, and that 
 their crimes are all hatched for them here in England, by 
 the incubation of printers' boys, and are brought to 
 market at times of distressing dearth in news. From all 
 that I myself have seen of them, I can only say that the 
 civilised (I mean the richer and titled) are as susceptible of 
 heat as iron, and as impenetrable to light as granite. The 
 half barbarous are probably worse ; the utterly barbarous 
 may be somewhat better. Like game-cocks, they must 
 spur when they meet. One tights because he fights an
 
 ESSEX AND SPENSER. lOl 
 
 Englishman ; another because the fellow he quarrels 
 with comes from a distant county ; a third because the 
 next parish is an eye-sore to him, and his fist-mate is from 
 it. The only thing in which they all agree as proper law 
 is the tooth for tooth act * * * 
 
 Various plans have been laid before us for civilising or 
 coercing them. Among the pacific, it was proposed to 
 make an offer to five hundred of the richer Jews in the 
 Hanse-towns, and in Poland, who should be raised to the 
 dignity of the Irish peerage, and endowed with four 
 thousand acres of good forfeited land, on condition of 
 each paying two thousand pounds, and of keeping up ten 
 horsemen and twenty foot, Germans or Poles, in readiness 
 for service. 
 
 The Catholics bear nowhere such ill-will toward Jews 
 as toward Protestants. Brooks make even worse neigh- 
 bours than oceans do. 
 
 I myself saw no objection to the measure : but our 
 gracious queen declared she had an insuperable one ; 
 they stank ! We all acknowledged the strength of the 
 argument, and took out our handkerchiefs. Lord Burleigh 
 almost fainted ; and Raleigh wondered how the Emperor 
 Titus could bring up his men against Jerusalem. 
 
 "Ah !" said he, looking reverentially at her majesty, 
 "the star of Berenice shone above him! and what evil 
 influence could that star not quell ! What mahgnancy 
 could it not annihilate ! " 
 
 Hereupon he touched the earth with his brow until 
 the queen said, 
 
 " Sir Walter ! lift me up those laurels." 
 
 At which manifestation of princely good-will he was 
 advancing to kiss her majesty's hand, but she waved it, 
 and said sharply, 
 
 •'Stand there, dog !" 
 
 Now what tale have you for us ?
 
 1 02 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Spenser. Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer 
 each question distinctly, my mind being in sad confusion 
 at what I have seen and undergone. 
 
 Essex. Give me thy account and opinion of these veiy 
 affairs as thou leftest them ; for I would rather know one 
 part well, than all imperfectly ; and the violences of which 
 I have heard within the day surpass belief. 
 
 Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? Have the 
 rebels sacked thy house ? 
 
 Spenser. They have plundered and utterly destroyed it. 
 
 Essex. I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted. 
 
 Spenser. In this they have little harmed me. 
 
 Essex. How ! I have heard it reported that thy grounds 
 are fertile, and thy mansion large and pleasant. 
 
 Spenser. If river and lake and meadow -ground and 
 mountain could render any place the abode of pleasant- 
 ness, pleasant was mine, indeed ! 
 
 On the lovely banks of Mulla I found deep content- 
 ment. Under the dark alders did I muse and meditate. 
 Innocent hopes were my gravest cares, and my play- 
 fullest fancy was with kindly wishes. Ah ! surely of all 
 cruelties the worst is to extinguish our kindness. Mine is 
 gone : I love the people and the land no longer. My 
 lord, ask me not about them ; I may speak injuriously. 
 
 Essex. Think rather then of thy happier hours and 
 busier occupations ; these likewise may instruct me. 
 
 Spenser. The first seeds I sowed in the garden, ere the 
 old castle was made habitable for my lovely bride, were 
 acorns from Penshurst. I planted a little oak before my 
 mansion at the birth of each child. My sons, I said to 
 myself, shall often play in the shade of them when I am 
 gone, and every year shall they take the measure of their 
 growth, as fondly as I take theirs. 
 
 Essex. Well, well ; but let not this thought make thee 
 weep so bitterly.
 
 ESSEX AND SPENSER. 103 
 
 Spenser. Poison may ooze from beautiful plants ; deadly 
 grief from dearest reminiscences. 
 
 I must grieve ; I must weep : it seems the law of God, 
 and the only one that men are not disposed to contravene. 
 In the performance of this alone do they effectually aid 
 one another. 
 
 Essex. Spenser ! I wish I had at hand any arguments 
 or persuasions, of force sufficient to remove thy sorrow : 
 but really I am not in the habit of seeing men grieve at 
 anything, except the loss of favour at court, or of a hawk, 
 or of a buck hound. And were I to swear out my condol- 
 ences to a man of thy discernment, in the same round 
 roll-call phrases we employ with one another on these 
 occasions, I should be guilty, not of insincerity but of 
 insolence. True grief hath ever something sacred in it ; 
 and when it visiteth a wise man, and a brave, is most holy. 
 
 Nay, kiss not my hand : he whom God smiteth hath 
 God with him. In his presence what am I ? 
 
 Spemer. Never so great, my lord, as at this hour, when 
 you see aright who is greater. May He guide your 
 counsels, and preserve your life and gloiy ! 
 
 Essex. Where are thy friends ? Are they with thee? 
 
 Spenser. Ah, where indeed ! Generous, true-hearted 
 Philip ! where art thou ! whose presence was unto me 
 peace and safety ; whose smile was contentment and 
 whose praise renown. My lord ! I can not but think of 
 him among still heavier losses : he was my earliest friend, 
 and would have taught me wisdom. 
 
 Essex. Pastoral poetry, my dear .Spenser, doth not 
 require tears and lamentations. Dry thine eyes ; rebuild 
 thine house : the queen and council, I venture to promise 
 thee, will make ample amends for every evil thou hast sus- 
 tained. What ! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder ? 
 
 Spenser. Pardon me, bear with me, most noble heart ! I 
 have lost what no council, no queen, no Essex, can restore.
 
 1 04 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Essex. We will see that. There are other swords, and 
 other arms to wield them, beside a Leicester's and a 
 Raleigh's. Others can crush their enemies and serve 
 their friends. 
 
 Spenser. O my sweet child ! And of many so power- 
 ful, many so wise and so beneficent, was there none to 
 save thee ? None ! none ! 
 
 Essex. I now perceive that thou lamentest what almost 
 every father is destined to lament. Happiness must be 
 bought, although tlie payment may be delayed. Con- 
 sider ; the same calamity might have befallen thee here 
 in London. Neither the houses of ambassadors, nor the 
 palaces of kings, nor the altars of God himself, are 
 asylums against death. How do I know but under this 
 very roof there may sleep some latent calamity, that in 
 an instant shall cover with gloom every inmate of the 
 house, and every far dependant ? 
 
 Spenser. God avert it ! 
 
 Essex. Every day, every hour of the year, do hundreds 
 mourn what thou moumest. 
 
 Spenser. Oh, no, no, no ! Calamities there are around 
 us ; calamities there are all over the earth ; calamities 
 there are in all seasons ; but none in any season, none in 
 any place, like mine. 
 
 Essex. So say all fathers, so say all husbands. Look 
 at any old mansion-house, and let the sun shine as glori- 
 ously as it may on the golden vanes, or the arms recently 
 quartered over the gateway, or the embayed window, and 
 on the happy pair that haply is toying at it ; never- 
 theless, thou mayest say that of a certainty the same 
 fabric hath seen much sorrow within its chambers, and 
 heard many wailings : and each time this was the heaviest 
 stroke of all. Funerals have passed along through 
 the stout-hearted knights upon the wainscot, and amid 
 the laughing nymphs upon the arras. Old servants
 
 ESSEX AND SPENSER. 1 05 
 
 have shaken their heads, as if somebody had deceived them, 
 when they found that beauty and nobihty could perish. 
 
 Edmund ! the things that are too true pass by us as ii 
 they were not true at all ; and when they have singled us 
 out, then only do they strike us. Thou and I must go 
 too. Perhaps the next year may blow us away with its 
 fallen leaves.^ 
 
 Spenser. Yox you, my lord, many years (I trust) are 
 waiting : I shall never see those fallen leaves. No leaf, 
 no bud, will spring upon the earth before I sink into her 
 breast for ever. 
 
 Essex. Thou, who art wiser than most men, shouldst 
 bear with patience, equanimity, and courage, what is 
 common to all. 
 
 Spenser. Enough I enough ! enough ! Have all men 
 seen their infant burned to ashes before their eyes ? 
 
 Essex. Gracious God ! Merciful Father ! what is this ? 
 
 Spenser. Burned alive ! burned to ashes ! burned to 
 ashes ! The flames dart their serpent tongues through 
 the nursery-window. I cannot quit thee, my Elizabeth ! 
 I cannot lay down our Edmund. Oh these flames ! 
 they persecute, they enthrall me, they curl round my 
 temples, they hiss upon my brain, they taunt me with 
 their fierce foul voices, they carp at me, they wither me, 
 they consume me, throwing back to me a little of life, to 
 roll and suffer in, with their fangs upon me. Ask me, 
 my lord, the things you wish to know from me ; I may 
 answer them, I am now composed again. Command me, 
 my gracious lord ! I would yet serve you ; soon I shall 
 be unable. You have stooped to raise me up ; you have 
 borne with me ; you have piLied me, even like one not 
 powerful ; you have brought me comfort, and will leave 
 it with me ; for gratitude is comfort. 
 
 Oh ! my memory stands all a tip-toe on one burning 
 
 lit happenni 50.
 
 Io6 DRAMATIC. 
 
 point : when it drops from it, then it perishes. Sparc 
 me : ask me nothing ; let me weep before you in peace ; 
 the kindest act of greatness. 
 
 Essex. I should rather have dared to mount into the 
 midst of the conflagration, than I now dare intreat thee 
 not to weep. The tears that overflow thy heart, my 
 Spenser, will staunch and heal it in their sacred stream, 
 but not without hope in God. 
 
 Spenser. My hope in God is that I may soon see again 
 what he has taken from me. Amid the myriads of angels 
 there is not one so beautiful : and even he (if there be 
 any) who is appointed my guardian, could never love me 
 so. Ah ! these are idle thoughts, vain wanderings, dis- 
 tempered dreams. If there ever were guardian angels, 
 lie who so wanted one, my helpless boy, would not have 
 left these arms upon my knees. 
 
 Essex. God help and sustain thee, too gentle Spenser ! 
 I never will desert thee. But what am I ? Great they 
 have called me ! Alas, how powerless then and infantile 
 is greatness in the presence of calamity ! 
 
 Come, give me thy hand : let us walk up and down 
 the galleiy. Bravely done ! I will envy no more a Sidney 
 or a Raleie-h, 
 
 XX. 
 
 LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 
 
 Alice Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt, condemned to death for 
 sheltering the adherettts of Monmouth, converse in prison 
 before their execution. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Madam, I am confident you will pardon 
 me ; for affliction teaches forgiveness. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. From the cell of the condemned we
 
 LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 1 07 
 
 are going, unless my hopes mislead me, where alone we 
 can receive it. Tell me, I beseech you, lady ! in what 
 matter or manner do you think you can have offended a 
 poor sinner such as I am. Surely we come into this 
 dismal place for our offences ; and it is not here that any 
 can be given or taken. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Just now, when I entered the prison, I saw 
 your countenance serene and cheerful ; you looked upon 
 me for a time with an unaltered eye : you turned away 
 from me, as I fancied, only to utter some expressions of 
 devotion, and again you looked upon me, and tears rolled 
 down your face. Alas ! that I should by any circum- 
 stance, any action or recollection, make another unhappy. 
 Alas ! that I should deepen the gloom in the veiy shadow 
 of death. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. Be comforted : you have not done 
 it. Grief softens and melts and flows away with tears. 
 
 I wept because another was greatly more wretched than 
 myself. I wept at that black attire ; at that attire of 
 modesty and of widowhood. 
 
 Lady Lisle. It covers a wounded, almost a broken 
 heart : an unworthy offering to our blessed Redeemer. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. In his name let us now rejoice ! Let 
 us offer our prayers and our thanks at once together ! 
 We may yield up our souls perhaps at the same hour. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Is mine so pure ? Have I bemoaned as I 
 should have done the faults I have committed ? Have 
 my sighs arisen for the unmerited mercies of my God ? 
 and not rather for him, the beloved of my heart, the ad- 
 viser and sustainer I have lost ! 
 Open, O gates of death ! 
 
 Smile on me, approve my last action in this world, O 
 virtuous husband ! O saint and martyr ! my brave, com- 
 passionate, and loving Lisle ! 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. And cannot you too smile, sweet
 
 Io8 DRAMATIC. 
 
 lady? are not you with him even now? Doth body, 
 doth clay, doth air, separate and estrange free spirits? 
 Bethink you of his gladness, of his glory ; and begin to 
 partake them. O ! how could an Englishman, how could 
 twelve, condemn to death, condemn to so great an evil 
 as they thought it, and may find it, this innocent and 
 helpless widow ! 
 
 Lady Lisle. Blame not that jury ! blame not the jury 
 which brought against me the verdict of guilty. I was 
 so : I received in my house a wanderer who had fought 
 under the rash and giddy Monmouth. He was hungry 
 and thirsty, and I took him in. My Saviour had com- 
 manded, my king had forbidden it. 
 
 Yet the twelve would not have delivered me over to 
 death unless the judge had threatened them with an accusa- 
 tion of treason in default of it. Terror made them unani- 
 mous : they redeemed their properties and lives at the 
 stated price. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. I hope at least the unfortunate man, 
 whom you received in the hour of danger, may avoid his 
 penalty. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Let us hope it. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. I too am imprisoned for the same 
 offence ; and I have little expectation that he who was 
 concealed by me hath any chance of happiness, although 
 he hath escaped. Could I find the means of conveying 
 to him a small pittance, I should leave the world the 
 more comfortably. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Trust in God ; not in one thing or another, 
 but in all. Resign the care of this wanderer to his guid- 
 ance. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. He abandoned that guidance. 
 
 Lady Lisle. Unfortunate ! how can money then avail 
 him ! 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. It might save him from distress and
 
 LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 1 09 
 
 despair, from the taunts of hard-hearted and from the 
 inclemency of the godly. 
 
 Lady Lisle. In godliness, O my friend ! there can not 
 be inclemency. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. You are thinking of perfection, my 
 dear lady ; and I marvel not at it ; for what else hath 
 ever occupied your thoughts ! But godliness, in almost 
 the best of us, often is austere, often uncompliant and 
 rigid, proner to reprove than to pardon, to drag back or 
 thrust aside than to invite and help onward. 
 
 Poor man ! I never knew him before : I cannot tell 
 how he shall endure his self-reproach, or whether it will 
 bring him to calmer thoughts hereafter. 
 
 Lady Lisle. I am not a busy idler in curiosity ; nor, if 
 I were, is there time enough left me for indulging in it ; 
 yet gladly would I learn the history of events, at the first 
 appearance so resembling those in mine. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. The person's name I never may dis- 
 close ; which would be the worst thing I could betray of 
 the trust he placed in me. He took refuge in my humble 
 dwelling, imploring me in the name of Christ to harbour 
 him for a season. Food and raiment were afforded him 
 unsparingly ; yet his fears made him shiver through them. 
 Whatever I could urge of prayer and exhortation was not 
 wanting ; still, although he prayed, he was disquieted. 
 Soon came to my ears the declaration of the king, that 
 his majesty would rather pardon a rebel than the con- 
 cealer of a rebel. The hope was a faint one : but it was 
 a hope ; and I gave it him. His thanksgivings were 
 now more ardent, his prayers more humble, and oftener 
 repeated. They did not strengthen his heart ; it was 
 unpurified and unprepared for them. Poor creature ! he 
 consented with it to betray me ; and I am condemned to be 
 burnt alive. Can we believe, can we encourage the hope, 
 that in his weary way through life he will find those only
 
 no DRAMATIC. 
 
 who will conceal from him the knowledge of this execu- 
 tion ? Heavily, too heavily, must it weigh on so irresolute 
 and infirm a breast. 
 
 Let it not move you to weeping. 
 
 Lady Lisle. It does not : oh ! it does not. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. What then ? 
 
 Lady Lisle. Your saintly tenderness, your heavenly 
 tranquillity. 
 
 Elizabeth Gaunt. No, no : abstain ! abstain ! It was 
 I who grieved : it was I who doubted. Let us now be 
 firmer : we have both the same rock to rest upon. See ! 
 I shed no tears. I saved his life, an unprofitable and ("I 
 fear) a joyless one : he, by God's grace, has thrown open 
 to me, and at an earlier hour than ever I ventured to 
 expect it, the avenue to eternal bliss. 
 
 Lady Lisle. O my good angel ! that bestrewest with 
 fresh flowers a path already smooth and pleasant to me, 
 may those timorous men who have betrayed, and those 
 misguided ones who have prosecuted us, be conscious on 
 their deathbeds that we have entered it ! And they too 
 will at last find rest. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. 
 
 Peter the Great reprimaiuis and orders for trial his son 
 Alexis, who had fled to Vienna : the Chancellor reports 
 the result. 
 
 Peter. And so, after flying from thy fiither's house, thou 
 hast returned again from Vienna. After this aff'ront in 
 the face of Europe, thou darest to appear before me ? 
 
 Ale.xis. My emperor and father ! I am brought before 
 your majesty, not at my own desire.
 
 PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. I I I 
 
 Peter. I believe it well. 
 
 Alexis. I would not anger you. 
 
 Petei: What hope hadst thou, rebel, in thy flight to 
 Vienna ? 
 
 Alexis. The hope of peace and privacy ; the hope of 
 security ; and above all things, of never more offending 
 you. 
 
 Peter. That hope thou hast accomplished. 
 
 Thou imaginedst then that my brother of Austria would 
 maintain thee at his court — Speak ! 
 
 Alexis. No, sir ! I imagined that he would have af- 
 forded me a place of refuge. 
 
 Peter. Didst thou then take money with thee ? 
 
 Alexis. A few gold pieces. 
 
 Peter. How many ? 
 
 Alexis. About sixty. 
 
 Peter. He would have given thee promises for half the 
 money ; but the double of it does not purchase a house : 
 ignorant wretch ! 
 
 Alexis. I knew as much as that ; although my birth 
 did not appear to destine me to purchase a house any- 
 where ; and hitherto your liberality, my father, hath sup- " 
 plied my wants of every kind. 
 
 Peter. Not of wisdom, not of duty, not of spirit, not of 
 courage, not of ambition. I have educated thee among 
 my guards and horses, among my drums and trumpets, 
 among my flags and masts. When thou wert a child, and 
 couldst hardly walk, I have taken thee into the arsenal, 
 though children should not enter, according to regula- 
 tions ; I have there rolled cannon-balls before thee over 
 iron plates ; and I have shown thee bright new arms, 
 bayonets and sabres ; and I have pricked the back of my 
 hands until the blood came out in many places ; and I 
 have made thee lick it ; and I have then done the same 
 to thine. Afterward from thy tenth year, I have mixed
 
 112 DRAMATIC. 
 
 gunpowder in thy grog ; I have peppered thy peaches ; 1 
 have poured bilge-water (with a little good wholesome 
 tar in it) upon thy melons ; I have brought out girls to 
 mock thee and cocker thee, and talk like mariners, to 
 make thee braver. Nothing would do. Nay, recollect 
 thee ! I have myself led thee forth to the window when 
 fellows were hanged and shot ; and I have shown thee 
 every day the halves and quarters of bodies ; and I have 
 sent an orderly or chamberlain for the heads ; and I have 
 pulled the cap up from over the eyes ; and I have made 
 thee, in spite of thee, look steadfastly upon them ; incor- 
 rigible coward ! And now another word with thee 
 about thy scandalous flight from the palace ; in time 
 of quiet too ! To the point ! did my brother of Austria 
 invite thee ? Did he, or did he not ? 
 
 Alexis. May I answer without doing an injury or dis- 
 service to his imperial majesty? 
 
 Peter. Thou mayest. What injury canst thou or any 
 one do, by the tongue, to such as he is ? 
 
 Alexis. At the moment, no ; he did not. Nor indeed 
 can I assert that he at any time invited me : but he said 
 he pitied me. 
 
 Peter. About what ? hold thy tongue : let that pass. 
 Princes never pity but when they would make traitors : 
 then their hearts grow tenderer than tripe. He pitied 
 thee, kind soul, when he would throw thee at thy father's 
 head ; but finding thy father too strong for hirn, he now 
 commiserates the parent, laments the son's rashness and 
 disobedience, and would not make God angry for the 
 world. At first, however, there must have been some 
 overture on his part ; otherwise thou art too shame-faced 
 for intrusion. Come — thou hast never had wit enough 
 to lie — tell me the truth, the whole truth. 
 
 Alexis. He said that, if ever I wanted an asylum, his 
 court was open to me.
 
 PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. II3 
 
 Peter. Open ! so is the tavern ; but folks pay for 
 what they get there. Open tnily ! and didst thou find 
 it so? 
 
 Alexis. He received me kindly. 
 
 Peter. I see he did. 
 
 Alexis. Derision, O my father, is not the fate I merit. 
 
 Peter. True, true ! it was not intended. 
 
 Alexis. Kind father ! punish me then as you will. 
 
 Peter. Villain ! wouldst thou kiss my hand too ? Art 
 thou ignorant that the Austrian threw thee away from 
 him, with the same indifference as he would the outermost 
 leaf of a sandy sunburnt lettuce } 
 
 Alexis. Alas ! I am not ignorant of this. 
 
 Peter. He dismissed thee at my order. If I had de- 
 manded from him his daughter, to be the bed-fellow of a 
 Kalmuc, he would have given her, and praised God. 
 
 Alexis. O father ! is his baseness my crime ? 
 
 Peter. No ; thine is greater. Thy intention, I know, 
 is to subvert the institutions it has been the labour of my 
 lifetime to establish. Thou hast never rejoiced at my 
 victories. 
 
 Alexis. I have rejoiced at your happiness and your 
 safety. 
 
 Peter. Liar ! coward ! traitor ! when the Polanders and 
 Swedes fell before me, didst thou from thy soul congratu- 
 late me ? Didst thou get drunk at home or abroad, or 
 praise the Lord of Hosts and Saint Nicolas ? Wert thou 
 not silent and civil and low-spirited ? 
 
 Alexis. I lamented the irretrievable loss of human life ; 
 I lamented that the bravest and noblest were swept away 
 the first ; that the gentlest and most domestic were the 
 earliest mourners ; that frugality was supplanted by in- 
 temperance ; that order was succeeded by confusion ; and 
 that your Majesty was destroying the glorious plans you 
 alone were capable of devising. 
 
 I
 
 114 DRAMATIC. 
 
 Peter. I destroy them ! how ? Of what plans art thou 
 speaking ? 
 
 Alexis. Of civihsing the Muscovites. The Polanders 
 in part were civilised : the Swedes more than any other 
 nation on the continent ; and so excellently versed were 
 they ill military science, and so courageous, that every 
 man you killed cost you seven or eight. 
 
 Peter. Thou liest : nor six. And civilised forsooth ! 
 Why, the robes of the Metropolitan, him at Upsal, are 
 not worth three ducats, between Jew and Livornese. I 
 have no notion that Poland and Sweden shall be the 
 only countries that produce great princes. What right 
 have they to such as Gustavus and Sobieski ? Europe 
 ought to look to this, before discontent becomes general, 
 and the people does to us what we have the privilege of 
 doing to the people. I am wasting my words : there is 
 no arguing with positive fools like thee. So thou wouldst 
 have desired me to let the Polanders and Swedes lie still 
 and quiet ! Two such powerful nations ! 
 
 Alexis. For that reason and others I would have gladly 
 seen them rest, until our own people had increased in 
 numbers and prosperity. 
 
 Peter. And thus thou disputest my right, before my 
 face, to the exercise of the supreme power. 
 
 Alexis. Sir ! God forbid ! 
 
 Peter. God forbid indeed ! What care such villains as 
 thou art what God forbids ! He forbids the son to be 
 disobedient to the father : he forbids — he forbids — twenty 
 things. I do not wish, and will not have, a successor 
 who dreams of dead people. 
 
 Alexis. My father ! I have dreamt of none such. 
 
 Peter. Thou hast ; and hast talked about them-- 
 Scythians 1 think they call 'em. Now who told thee, 
 Mr. Professor, that the Scythians were a happier people 
 than we are ; that they were inoffensive ; that they were
 
 PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. II5 
 
 free ; that they wandered with their carts from pasture to 
 pasture, from river to river ; that they traded witli good 
 faith ; that they fought with good courage ; that they in- 
 jured none, invaded none, and feared none ? At this rate 
 I have effected nothing. The great founder of Rome, I 
 heard in Holland, slew his brother for despiting the 
 weakness of his walls : and shall the founder of this 
 better place spare a degenerate son, who prefers a vaga- 
 bond life to a civilised one, a cart to a city, a Scythian to 
 a Muscovite ? Have I not shaved my people, and breeched 
 them ? Have I not formed them into regular armies, with 
 bands of music and havresacs? Are bows better than 
 cannon, shepherds than dragoons, mare's milk than brandy, 
 raw steaks than broiled ? Thine are tenets that strike at 
 the root of politeness and sound government. Every 
 prince in Europe is interested in rooting them out by fire 
 and sword. There is no other way with false doctrines : 
 breath against breath does little. 
 
 Alexis. Sire, I never have attempted to disseminate my 
 opinions. 
 
 Peter. How couldst thou? the seed would fall only 
 on granite. Those, however, who caught it brought it 
 to me. 
 
 Alexis. Never have I undervalued civilisation : on the 
 contrary, I regretted whatever impeded it. In my 
 opinion, the evils that have been attributed to it, sprang 
 from its imperfections and voids ; and no nation has yet 
 acquired it more than very scantily. 
 
 Peter. How so ? give me thy reasons ; thy fancies 
 rather ; for reason thou hast none. 
 
 Alexis. When I find the first of men, in rank and 
 genius, hating one another, and becoming slanderers and 
 liars in order to lower and vilify an opponent ; when I 
 hear the God of mercy invoked to massacres, and thanked 
 for furthering what he reprobates and condemns ;— I look
 
 I I 6 DRAMATIC. 
 
 back in vain on any barbarous people for worse barbarism. 
 I have expressed my admiration of our forefathers, who, 
 not being Christians, were yet more virtuous than those 
 who are ; more temperate, more just, more sincere, more 
 chaste, more peaceable. 
 
 Peter. Malignant atheist ! 
 
 Alexis. Indeed, my father, were I malignant I must be 
 an atheist ; for malignity is contrary to the command, 
 and inconsistent with the belief, of God. 
 
 Peter. Am I Czar of Muscovy, and hear discourses on 
 reason and religion ! from my own son too ! No, by the 
 Holy Trinity ! thou art no son of mine. If thou touchesl 
 my knee again, I crack thy knuckles with this tobacco- 
 stopper : I wish it were a sledge-hammer for thy sake. 
 Off, sycophant ! off, run-away slave ! 
 
 Alexis. Father ! father ! my heart is broken ! If I 
 have offended, forgive me ! 
 
 Peter. The state requires thy signal punishment. 
 
 Alexis. If the state requires it, be it so : but let my 
 father's anger cease. 
 
 Peter. The world shall judge between us. I will 
 brand thee with infamy. 
 
 Alexis. Until now, O father ! I never had a proper 
 sense of glory. Hear me, O Czar ! let not a thing so vile 
 as I am stand between you and the world ! Let none 
 accuse you ! 
 
 Peter. Accuse me ! rebel ! Accuse me ! traitor ! 
 
 Alexis. Let none speak ill of you, O my father ! The 
 public voice shakes the palace ; the public voice pene- 
 trates the grave ; it precedes the chariot of Almighty God, 
 and is heard at the judgment seat. 
 
 Peter Let it go to the devil ! I will have none of it 
 here in Petersburgh. Our church says nothing about it ; 
 our laws forbid it. As for thee, unnatural brute, I have 
 no more to do with thee neither !
 
 I'ETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. 1 I 7 
 
 Ho there ! Chancellor ! What ! come at last ! Wert 
 napping, or counting thy ducats ? 
 
 Chaftcellor {eniering). Your Majesty's will and pleasure ! 
 
 Peter. Is the Senate assembled in that room ? 
 
 Chancellor. Every member, sire. 
 
 Peter. Conduct this youth with thee, and let them 
 judge him : thou understandest me. 
 
 Chancellor. Your Majesty's commands are the breath 
 of our nostrils. 
 
 Peter. If these rascals are remiss, I will try my new 
 cargo of Livonian hemp upon 'em. 
 
 Chancellor {^returning after an interval). Sire ! sire ! 
 
 Peter. Speak, fellow ! Surely they have not condemned 
 him to death, without giving themselves time to read the 
 accusation, that comest back so quickly. 
 
 Chancellor. No, sire ! nor has either been done, 
 
 Peter. Then thy head quits thy shoulders. 
 
 Chancellor. O sire ! 
 
 Peter. Curse thy silly sires ! What art thou about ? 
 
 Chancellor. Alas ! he fell. 
 
 Peter. Tie him up to thy chair then. Cowardly beast ! 
 what made him fall? 
 
 Chancellor. The hand of Death ; the name of father. 
 
 Peter. Thou puzzlest me ; pi^thee speak plainer. 
 
 Chancellor. We told him that his crime was proven 
 and manifest ; that his life was forfeited. 
 
 Peter. So far, well enough. 
 
 Chancellor. He smiled. 
 
 Peter. He did ! did he ! Impudence shall do him 
 little good. Who could have expected it from that 
 smock-face ! Go on : what then ? 
 
 Chancellor. He said calmly, but not without sighing 
 twice or thrice, "Lead me to tlie scaffold : I am weary 
 of life : nobody loves me." I condoled with him, and 
 wept upon his hand, holding the paper against my bosom.
 
 Il8 DRAMATIC. 
 
 He took the comer of it between his fingers, and said, 
 "Read me this paper: read my death-warrant. Your 
 silence and tears have signified it ; yet the law has its 
 forms. Do not keep me in suspense. My father says, 
 too truly, I am not courageous : but the death that leads 
 me to my God shall never tenify me. " 
 
 Petef. I have seen these white-livered knaves die reso- 
 lutely : I have seen them quietly fierce like white ferrets, 
 with their watery eyes and tiny teeth. You read it ? 
 
 Chancellor. In part, sire! When he heard your Majesty's 
 name, accusing him of treason and attempts at rebellion 
 and parricide, he fell speechless. We raised him up : he 
 was motionless : he was dead ! 
 
 Peter. Inconsiderate and barbarous varlet as thou art, 
 dost thou recite this ill accident to a father ! and to one 
 who has not dined ! Bring me a glass of brandy. 
 
 Chancellor. And it please your Majesty, might I call a 
 — a 
 
 Peter. Away, and bring it : scamper ! All equally 
 and alike shall obey and serve me. 
 
 Harkye ! bring the bottle with it : I must cool myself 
 — and — harkye ! a rasher of bacon on thy life ! and some 
 pickled sturgeon, and some krout and caviar, and good 
 strong cheese.
 
 NARRATIVE. 
 
 XXTI. 
 
 THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAR. 
 
 Cebir, a prince of Spain, tneets and fails in love with 
 his enemy Charoba, Queen of Egypt, whose country 
 he lias invaded in revenge for ancestral wrongs. He 
 sets out to confide his passion to his shephei-d brother 
 Taiiiar. Taiiiar on his part discloses his own love for 
 a sea-nymph, who in the guise of a sailor had challenged, 
 him to wrestle atid overthrown him. 
 
 Gebir, at Egypt's youthful queen's approach. 
 
 Laid by his orbed shield ; his vizor-helm, 
 
 His buckler and his corslet he laid by, 
 
 And bade that none attend him ; at his side 
 
 Two faithful dogs that urge the silent course. 
 
 Shaggy, deep-chested, croucli'd ; the crocodile, 
 
 Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid ears 
 
 And push their heads within their master's hand. 
 
 There was a brightening paleness in his face, 
 
 Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks 
 
 Shower'd on the lonely Latmian ; on his brow 
 
 Sorrow there was, yet nought was there severe. 
 
 But when the royal damsel first he saw, 
 
 Faint, hanging on her handmaid, and her knees 
 
 Tottering as from the motion of the car, 
 
 His eyes look'd earnest on her, and those eyes 
 
 Shovv'd, if they had not, that they might have, loved,
 
 I20 NARRATIVE. 
 
 For there was pity in them at that hour. 
 With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks, 
 He sooth'd her ; but lest Pity go beyond 
 And cross'd Ambition lose her lofty aim, 
 Bending, he kiss'd her garment, and retired. 
 
 He went, nor slumber 'd in the sultry noon. 
 When viands, couches, generous wines, persuade, 
 And slumber most refreshes ; nor at night, 
 When heavy dews are laden with disease. 
 And blindness waits not there for lingering age. 
 
 Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he arrived 
 At those rich meadows where young Tamar fed 
 The royal flocks entrusted to his care. 
 " Now," said he to himself, "will I repose 
 At least this burthen on a brother's breast." 
 His brother stood before him : he, amazed, 
 Rear'd suddenly his head, and thus began. 
 " Is it thou, brother? Tamar, is it thou? 
 Why, standing on the valley's utmost verge, 
 Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore 
 Where beyond sight Nile blackens all the sand ? 
 And why that sadness? When I past our sheep 
 The dew-drops were not shaken off the bar, 
 Therefore if one be wanting, 'tis untold. " 
 
 " Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold," 
 Said Tamar ; "and this dull and dreary shore 
 Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." 
 Whereon the tear stole silent down his cheek, 
 Silent, but not by Gebir unobserved : 
 Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake. 
 " Let me approach thee ; does the morning light 
 Scatter this wan suffusion o'er thy brow, 
 This faint blue lustre under both thine eyes?" 
 
 " O brother, is this pity or reproach?" 
 Cried Tamar, " cruel if it be reproach.
 
 THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAR. 121 
 
 If pity, O how vain !" " Wha^e'er it be 
 That grieves thee, I will pity, thou but speak, 
 And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang." 
 
 " Gebir ! then more than brothers are we now ! 
 Everything (take my hand) will I confess. 
 I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold ; 
 How can I, lost in love ? But, Gebir, why 
 That anger which has risen to your cheek ? 
 Can other men ? could you ? what, no reply ! 
 And still more anger, and still worse conceal'd ! 
 Are these your promises? your pity this?" 
 
 "Tamar, I well may pity what I feel — 
 Mark me aright — I feel for thee — proceed — 
 Relate me all." " Then will I all relate," 
 Said the young shepherd, gladden'd from his heart. 
 " 'Twas evening, though not sunset, and the tide 
 Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher 
 Twas pleasant, and I loosen'd from my neck 
 The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
 
 that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
 It always brings us enemies or love. 
 
 Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
 Some swimmer's head m.ethought I saw ascend ; 
 I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe 
 Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. 
 Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine ! 
 
 1 cannot wait describing how she came. 
 How I was sitting, how she first assumed 
 The Sailor ; of what happen'd there remains 
 Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
 The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank 
 Before I was aware ; for with surprise 
 Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
 Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
 
 I heard a rustling, and where that arose
 
 122 NARRATIVE. 
 
 My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
 
 Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
 
 By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
 
 Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 
 
 Her eyes too ! O immortal gods ! her eyes 
 
 Resembled — what could they resemble ? what 
 
 Ever resemble those ? Even her attire 
 
 Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 
 
 Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, 
 
 Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
 
 ' Shepherd,' said she, 'and will you wrestle now, 
 
 And with the sailor's hardier race engage ? ' 
 
 I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
 
 How to keep up contention : could I fail 
 
 By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? 
 
 ' Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
 
 Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
 
 I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage. ' 
 
 ' But first,' said she, ' what wager will you lay?' 
 
 'A sheep,' I answered : ' add whate'er you will.' 
 
 ' I cannot,' she replied, ' make that return : 
 
 Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
 
 Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 
 Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
 
 In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
 
 Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
 
 Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear. 
 
 And it remembers its august abodes, 
 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
 
 And I have others given me by the nymphs. 
 
 Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have : 
 
 But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend ; 
 
 This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
 
 THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAK. I23 
 
 Now came she forward eager to engage, 
 
 But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd, 
 
 And heaved it, doubting if she could deceive. 
 
 Her bosom seem'd, inclosed in haze like heaven. 
 
 To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined : 
 
 Above her knee she drew the robe succinct, 
 
 Above her breast, and just below her arms. 
 
 ' This will preserve my breath when tightly bound, 
 
 If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.' 
 
 Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, 
 
 And, rushing at me, closed : I thrill'd throughout 
 
 And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. 
 
 Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood. 
 
 And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, 
 
 I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, 
 
 Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. 
 
 Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms 
 
 I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath 
 
 Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined ; 
 
 Often mine springing with eluded force 
 
 Started aside and trembled till replaced : 
 
 And when I most succeeded, as I thought, 
 
 My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd 
 
 That hfe was almost quivering on my lips. 
 
 Yet nothing was there painful : these are signs 
 
 Of secret arts and not of human might ; 
 
 What arts I cannot tell ; I only know 
 
 My eyes grew dizzy and my strength decay'd ; 
 
 I was indeed o'ercome — with what regret, 
 
 And more, with what confusion, when I reach'd 
 
 The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried, 
 
 ' This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid. ' 
 
 She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain 
 
 Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip. 
 
 And eyes that languish'd, lengthening, just like love.
 
 * ^4 NARRATIVE. 
 
 She went away ; I on the wicker gate 
 Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone. 
 The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
 But when I heard its bleating, as I did, 
 And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet 
 Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip, 
 One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd. 
 Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ; 
 Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
 To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down the tide ; 
 And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand 
 Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd. " 
 
 XXIII. 
 THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS. 
 
 Dalica, the nurse of Charoba, repairs by night to her nativt 
 city o/Masar, to concoct an incantation against Gcbir 
 and encounters her sister Myrthyr among the ruins. 
 
 Once a fair city, courted then by kings, 
 Mistress of nations, throng'd by palaces 
 Raising her head o'er destiny, her face 
 Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresh'd, 
 Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth, 
 Bereft of beauty, bare of ornament. 
 Stood, in the wilderness of woe, Masar. 
 Ere far advancing, all appear'd a plain ; 
 Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced : 
 Her glory so gone down, at human step 
 The fierce hyjena frighted from the walls 
 Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed,
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS. 125 
 
 Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired. 
 Yet were remaining some of ancient race, 
 And ancient arts were now their sole delight. 
 With Time's first sickle they had mark'd the hour 
 When at their incantation would the Moon 
 Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted light. 
 The rifted rays they gather'd, and immersed 
 In ]:)otent portion of that wondrous wave. 
 Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect. 
 And led her armies through his crystal gates. 
 
 Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none) 
 Hied the Masarian Dalica : 'twas night, 
 And the still breeze fell languid on the waste. 
 She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts, 
 Stopp'd ; and before the city she descried 
 A female form emerge above the sands : 
 Intent she fix'd her eyes, and on herself 
 Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way ; 
 Nor disappear'd the woman ; but exclaim'd, 
 (One hand retaining tight her folded vest) 
 " Stranger ! who loathest life, there lies Masar. 
 Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn 
 The cormorant in his solitary haunt 
 Of insulated rock or sounding cove 
 Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for prey. 
 My lips can scatter them o'er every sea 
 Under the rising and the setting sun. 
 So shrivell'd in one breath as all the sands 
 We tread on, could not in a hundred years. 
 Wretched who die nor raise their sepulchre ! 
 Therefore begone." But Dalica unawed, 
 (Though in her wither'd but still firm right hand, 
 Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep, 
 Glimmer'd her brazen sickle, and enclosed 
 Within its figured curve the fading moon)
 
 126 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Spake thus aloud. " By yon bright orb of Heaven, 
 In that most sacred moment when her beam 
 (Guided first thither by the forked shaft,) 
 Strikes thro' the crevice of Arishtah's tower " 
 
 " Sayest thou?" astonished cried the sorceress, 
 " Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death, 
 From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss, 
 Hast thou invisible that spell o'erheard ? 
 What potent hand hath touched thy quicken'd corse, 
 What song dissolved thy cerements? who unclosed 
 Those faded eyes, and fill'd them from the stars ? 
 But if with inextinguish'd light of life 
 Thou breathest, soul and body unamerced, 
 Then whence that invocation ? who hath dared 
 Those hallow'd words, divulging, to profane?" 
 
 Dalica cried, " To heaven not earth address'd 
 Prayers for protection cannot be profane. " 
 
 Here the pale sorceress turn'd her face aside 
 Wildly, and mutter' d to herself amazed, 
 " I dread her who, alone at such an hour, 
 Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine 
 The words of reason with our gifted rites. 
 Yet will I speak once more. If thou hast seen 
 The city of Charoba, hast thou marked 
 The steps of Dalica ?" 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 Of Dalica has then our rites divulged." 
 "Whose rites?" 
 
 " Her mother's." 
 
 "Never. 
 
 ' The tongue 
 
 Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica." 
 Woman ! and who art thou?" 
 
 " One would think, 
 "I am;
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS. \2^ 
 
 Willi close embrace 
 Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried, 
 "Art thou then not my sister? ah ! I fear 
 The golden lamps and jewels of a court 
 Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity : 
 O Dalica ! mine watch the waning moon, 
 For ever patient in our mother's art. 
 And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts 
 Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power : 
 Studies intense of stern and strong delight ! 
 And thou too, Dalica, so many years 
 Wean'd from the bosom of thy native land, 
 Returnest back and seekest true repose. 
 O what more pleasant than the short-breath'd sigh 
 When, laying down your burthen at the gate 
 And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace 
 The cool and quiet of a homespun bed." 
 
 " Alas !" said Dalica, "tho' all commend 
 This choice, and many meet with no control. 
 Yet none pursue it ! Age by care oppress'd 
 Feels for the couch and drops into the grave. 
 The tranquil scene lies further still from Youth : 
 Frenzied Ambition and desponding Love 
 Consume Youth's fairest flowers ; compared with Youth 
 Age has a something something like repose. 
 Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary 
 Like the horizon, which, as you advance. 
 Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes : 
 But mind my errand, and my suit perform."
 
 128 NARRATIVE. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE MORNING. 
 
 Gebir and Charoba are to be united in the presence of tfuit 
 respective hosts. The poet describes the excitement in 
 the camp and in the city, and iicnu the bridegroo'" ci>^ 
 bride severally rise and begin the day. 
 
 The long awaited day at last arrived, 
 When, link'd together by the seven-arm'd Nile, 
 Egypt with proud Iberia should unite. 
 
 Here the Tartessian, there the Gadite tents 
 Rang with impatient pleasure : here engaged 
 Woody Nebrissa's quiver-bearing crew, 
 Contending warm with amicable skill ; 
 While they of Durius raced along the beach 
 And scatter'd mud and jeers on all behind. 
 The strength of Bsetis too removed the helm 
 And stripp'd the corslet off, and stanch'd the foot 
 Against the mossy maple, while they tore 
 Their quivering lances from the hissing wound. 
 Others push forth the prows of their compeers, 
 And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak, 
 Swells up the sides, and closes far astem : 
 The silent oars now dip their level wings, 
 And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave 
 Others, afraid of tardiness, return; 
 Now, entering the still harbour, every surge 
 Runs with a louder murmur up their keel, 
 And the slack cordage rattles round the mast. 
 
 Sleepless with pleasure and expiring fears 
 Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn,
 
 THE MARRIAGE MORNING. 1 29 
 
 And o'er the plains appointed for the feast 
 Hurried with ardent step : the swains admired 
 What so transversely could have swept the dew : 
 For never long one path had Gebir trod, 
 Nor long — unheeding man — one pace preserved. 
 
 Not thus Charoba : she despair'd the day : 
 The day was present ; true ; yet she despair'd. 
 In the too tender and once tortured heart 
 Doubts gather strength from habit, like disease ; 
 Fears, like the needle verging to the pole, 
 Tremble and tremble into certainty. 
 How often, when her maids with merry voice 
 Call'd her and told the sleepless queen 'twas morn, 
 How often would she feign some fresh delay, 
 And tell them (though they saw) that she arose. 
 Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors, 
 A bath of purest marble, purest wave, 
 On its fair surface bore its pavement high : 
 Arabian gold enchased the crystal roof. 
 With fluttering boys adorn'd and girls unrobed : 
 These, when you touch the quiet water, start 
 From their aerial sunny arch, and pant 
 Entangled mid each other's flowery wreaths, 
 And each pursuing is in turn pursued. 
 
 Here came at last, as ever wont at morn, 
 Charoba : long she linger'd at the brink ; 
 Often she sigh'd, and, naked as she was. 
 Sate down, and leaning on the couch's edge 
 On the soft inward pillow of her arm 
 Rested her burning cheek : she moved her eyes : 
 She blush'd ; and blushing plunged into the wave. 
 
 Now brazen chariots thunder through each street 
 And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay, 
 While o'er the palace breathes the dulcimer, 
 Lute, and aspiring harp, and lisping reed ; 
 
 K
 
 13° NARRATIVE. 
 
 Loud rush the trumpets bursting through the throng 
 
 And urge the high-shoulder'd vulgar ; now are heard 
 
 Curses and quarrels and constricted blows, 
 
 Threats and defiance and suburban war. 
 
 Hark ! the reiterated clangour sounds ! 
 
 Now murmurs like the sea or like the storm 
 
 Or like the flames on forests, move and mount 
 
 From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll, 
 
 Till all the people is one vast applause. 
 
 Yes, 'tis herself, Charoba — now the strife 
 
 To see again a form so often seen ! 
 
 Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, 
 
 Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again ? 
 
 Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight 
 
 To reproduce in hour of bitterness ? 
 
 She goes, the king awaits her from the camp : 
 
 Him she descried, and trembled ere he reach'd 
 
 Her car, but shudder'd paler at his voice. 
 
 So the pale silver at the festive board 
 
 Grows paler fill'd afresh and dew'd with wine : 
 
 So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring 
 
 To whiten, bending from a balmy gale. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CHRYSAOR. 
 
 Neptune, at the request of Jo7<e, severs the rock oj G,uies 
 from the mainland in order to chastise the insolence oJ 
 the Iberian king, Chrysaor. 
 
 Though seated then on Afric's further coast, 
 Yet sudden, at his voice, so long unheard, 
 (For he had griev'd, and treasured up his grieQ 
 With short kind greeting meet from every side
 
 THE DEATH OF CHRYSAOR. I3I 
 
 The Triton herds, and warm with melody 
 
 The azure concave of their curling shells. 
 
 Swift as an arrow, as the wind, as light, 
 
 He glided through the deep, and now arrived, 
 
 Leapt from his pearly beryl-studded car. 
 
 Earth trembled ; the retreating tide, black-brow'd, 
 
 Gather'd new strength, and rushing on, assail'd 
 
 The promontory's base ; but when the god 
 
 Himself, resistless Neptune, struck one blow, 
 
 Rent were the rocks asunder, and the sky 
 
 Was darkened with their fragments ere they fell. 
 
 Lygeia vocal, Xantho yellow-haired, 
 
 Spio with sparkling eyes, and Beroe 
 
 Demure, and sweet lone, youngest bom. 
 
 Of mortal race, but grown divine by song — 
 
 Had you seen playing round her placid neck 
 
 The sunny circles, braidless and unbound, 
 
 O ! who had call'd them boders of a storm ? — 
 
 These and the many sister Nereids, 
 
 Forgetful of their lays and of their loves, 
 
 All, unsuspicious of the dread intent, 
 
 Stop suddenly their gambols, and with shrieks 
 
 Of terror plunge amid the closing wave. 
 
 Still, just above, one moment more, appear 
 
 Their darken'd tresses floating in the foam. 
 
 Thrown prostrate on the earth, the Sacrilege 
 Rais'd up his head astounded, and accurs'd 
 The stars, the destinies, the gods — his breast 
 Panted from consternation and dismay. 
 And pride untoward, on himself o'erthrown. 
 From his distended nostrils issued gore, 
 At intervals, wherewith his wiiy locks. 
 Huge aiTns, and bulky bosom, shone beslimed : 
 And thrice he call'd his brethren, with a voice 
 More dismal than the blasts from Phlegethon
 
 132 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Below, that urge along ten thousand ghosts 
 Wafted loud-wailing o'er the fiery tide. 
 
 * * -ft « 
 
 Shrunken mid brutal hair his violent veins 
 Subsided, yet were hideous to behold 
 As dragons panting in the noontide brake. 
 At last, absorbing deep the breath of heaven, 
 And stifling all within his deadly grasp, 
 Struggling, and tearing up the glebe to turn ; 
 And from a throat that, as it throbb'd and rose, 
 Seem'd shaking ponderous links of dusky iron. 
 Uttering one anguish-forced indignant groan, 
 Fired with infernal rage, the spirit flew. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 TIIRASYMEDES AND EUNOE. 
 
 Who will away to Athens with me ? who 
 
 Loves choral songs and maidens crovra'd with flowers, 
 
 Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist the sail. 
 
 I promise ye, as many as are here, 
 
 Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste 
 
 From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine 
 
 Of a low vineyard or a plant ill pruned, 
 
 But such as anciently the ^gean isles 
 
 Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts : 
 
 And the same goblets shall ye grasp, emboss'd 
 
 With no vile figures of loose languid boors, 
 
 But such as gods have lived with and have led. 
 
 The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail 
 Plays yonder ? What pursues it ? Like two hawks 
 Away they fly. Let us away in time 
 To overtake them. Are they menaces
 
 THRASYMEDES AND EUNOfi. 1 33 
 
 We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak, 
 
 Enraged at her defender ? Hippias 1 
 
 Art thou the man ? 'Twas Hippias. He had found 
 
 His sister borne from the Cecropian port 
 
 By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly ? 
 
 Ask, ask the maiden ; I have no reply. 
 
 •'Brother! O brother Hippias ! O, if love, 
 
 If pity, ever touch'd thy breast, forbear ! 
 
 Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved. 
 
 My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone 
 
 Protecting his own head and mine from harm." 
 
 "Didst thou not once before," cried Hippias, 
 
 Regardless of his sister, hoarse with wrath 
 
 At Thrasymedes, " didst not thou, dog-eyed, 
 
 Dare, as she walk'd up to the Parthenon, 
 
 On the most holy of all holy days, 
 
 In sight of all the city, dare to kiss 
 
 Her maiden cheek ? " 
 
 " Ay, before all the gods, 
 Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis, 
 Ay, before Aphrodite, before Here, 
 I dared ; and dare again. Arise, my spouse ! 
 Arise ! and let my lips quaff purity 
 From thy fair open brow. " 
 
 The sword was up. 
 And yet he kiss'd her twice. Some God withheld 
 The arm of Hippias ; his proud blood seeth'd slower 
 And smote his breast less angrily ; he laid 
 His hand on the white shoulder, and spake thus : 
 " Ye must return with me. A second time 
 Offended, will our sire Peisistratos 
 Pardon the affront ? Thou shouldst have ask'd thyself 
 This question ere the sail first flapp'd the mast." 
 " Already thou hast taken life from me ; 
 Put up thy sword," said the sad youth, his eyes
 
 1 34 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Sparkling ; but whether love or rage or grief 
 They sparkled with, the gods alone could see. 
 Peirseeus they re-enter'd, and their ship 
 Drove up the little waves against the quay, 
 Whence was thrown out a rope from one above, 
 And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's waist 
 Her lover dropp'd his arm and blush'd to think 
 He had retain'd it there in sight of rude 
 Irreverent men : he led her forth, nor spake 
 Hippias walk'd silent too, until they reach'd 
 The mansion of Peisistratos her sire. 
 Serenely in his sternness did the prince 
 Look on them both awhile : they saw not him, 
 For both had cast their eyes upon the ground. 
 " Are these the pirates thou hast taken, son ? " 
 Said he. 
 
 "Worse, father ! worse than pirates they 
 Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse 
 Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites 
 Twice over." 
 
 " Well hast thou performed thy duty," 
 Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos. 
 " Nothing then, rash young man ! could turn thy heart 
 From Eunoe, my daughter ? " 
 
 "Nothing, sir, 
 Shall ever turn it. I can die but once 
 And love but once. O Eunoe ! farewell ! " 
 " Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her." 
 " O father ! shut me in my chamber, shut me 
 In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive, 
 But never let me see what he can bear ; 
 I know how much that is, when borne for me. " 
 "Not yet : come on. And lag not thou behind, 
 Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts ! 
 Before the people and before the goddess
 
 ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. I 35 
 
 Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion, 
 
 And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness, 
 
 To poverty and exile, this my child." 
 
 Then shudder'd Thrasymedes, and exclaim'd, 
 
 " I see my crime : I saw it not before. 
 
 The daughter of Peisistratos was born 
 
 Neither for exile nor for poverty, 
 
 Ah ! nor for me ! " He would have wept, but one 
 
 Might see him, and weep worse. The prince unmoved 
 
 Strode on, and said, "To-morrow shall the people, 
 
 All who beheld thy trespasses, behold 
 
 The justice of Peisistratos, the love 
 
 He bears his daughter, and the reverence 
 
 In which he holds the highest law of God. " 
 
 He spake ; and on the morrow they were one. 
 
 XXVIT. 
 
 ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. 
 
 A VISION came o'er three young men at once, 
 A vision of Apollo : each had heard 
 The same command ; each followed it ; all three 
 Assembled on one day before the god 
 In Lycia, where he gave his oracle. 
 Bright shone the morning ; and the birds that build 
 Their nests beneath the column-heads of fanes 
 And eaves of humbler habitations, dropp'd 
 From under them and wheel'd athwart the sky, 
 When, silently and reverently, the youths 
 March'd side by side up the long steps that led 
 Toward the awful god who dwelt within. 
 
 Of those three youths fame hath held fast the name
 
 136 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Of one alone ; nor would that name survive 
 
 Unless Love had sustain'd it, and blown off 
 
 With his impatient breath the mists of time. 
 
 "Ye come," the god said mildly, "of one will 
 
 To people what is desert in the isle 
 
 Of Lemnos. But strong men possess its shores 
 
 Nor shall you execute the brave emprise 
 
 Unless, on the third day from going forth, 
 
 To him who rules the waters ye devote 
 
 A virgin, cast into the sea alive." 
 
 They heard, and look'd in one another's face. 
 
 And then bent piously before the shrine 
 
 With prayer and praises and thanksgiving hymn. 
 
 And, after a short silence, went away. 
 
 Taking each other's hand and swearing truth, 
 
 Then to the ship in which they came, return'd. 
 
 Two of the youths were joyous, one was sad ; 
 
 Sad was Enallos ; yet those two by none 
 
 Were loved ; Enallos had already won 
 
 Cymodameia, and the torch was near. 
 
 By night, by day, in company, alone, 
 
 The image of the maiden fill'd his breast 
 
 To the heart's brim. Ah ! therefore did that heart 
 
 So sink within him. 
 
 They have sail'd ; they reach 
 Their home again. Sires, matrons, maidens, throng 
 The plashing port, to watch the gather'd sail. 
 And who springs first and farthest upon shore. 
 Enallos came the latest from the deck. 
 Swift ran the rumour what the god had said. 
 And fearful were the maidens, who before 
 Had urged the sailing of the j'ouths they loved, 
 That they might give their hands, and have their homes 
 And nurse their children ; and more thoughts perhaps 
 Led up to these, and even ran before.
 
 ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. I 37 
 
 But they persuaded easily their wooers 
 To sail without them, and return again 
 When they had seized the virgin on the way. 
 Cyniodameia dreamt three nights, the three 
 Before their fresh departure, that her own 
 Enallos had been cast into the deep. 
 And she had saved him. 
 
 She alone embark'd 
 Of all the maidens, and unseen by all, 
 And hid herself before the break of day 
 Among the cloaks and fruits piled high aboard. 
 But when the noon was come, and the repast 
 Was call'd for, there they found her, and they call'd 
 Enallos : when Enallos look'd upon her. 
 Forebodings shook him : hopes rais'd her, and love 
 Warm'd the clear cheek while she wiped off the spray 
 Kindly were all to her and dutiful ; 
 And she slept soundly mid the leaves of figs 
 And vines, and far as far could be apart. 
 Now the third mom had risen, and the day 
 Was dark, and gusts of wind and hail and fogs 
 Perplex'd them : land they saw not yet nor knew, 
 Where land was lying. Sudden lightnings blazed. 
 Thunder-claps rattled round them. The pale crew 
 Howl'd for the victim. " Seize her, or we sink." 
 
 O maid of Pindus ! I would linger here 
 To lave my eyelids at the nearest rill, 
 For thou hast made me weep, as oft thou hast, 
 Where thou and I, apart from living men, 
 And two or three crags higher, sate and sang. 
 Ah ! must I, seeing ill my way, proceed ? 
 And thy voice too, Cymodameia ! thine 
 Conies back upon me, helpless as thyself 
 In this extremity. Sad words ! sad words ! 
 " O save me ! save ! Let me not die so young !
 
 138 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Loving thee so ! Let me not cease to see thee ! " 
 Thus prayed Cymodameia. 
 
 Thus prayed he : 
 " O God ! who givest light to all the world, 
 Take not from me what makes that light most blest ! 
 Grant me, if 'tis forbidden me to save 
 This hapless helpless sea-devoted maid, 
 To share with her (and bring no curses up 
 From outraged Neptune) her appointed fate ! " 
 They wrang her from his knee ; they hurl'd her down 
 (Clinging in vain at the hard slippery pitch) 
 Into the whitening wave. But her long hair 
 Scarcely had risen up again, before 
 Another plunge was heard, another form 
 Clove the straight line of bubbling foam, direct 
 As ringdove after ringdove. Groans from all 
 Burst, for the roaring sea engulph'd them both. 
 Onward the vessel flew ; the skies again 
 Shone bright, and thunder roll'd along, not wroth, 
 But gently murmuring to the white-wing'd sails. 
 
 Lemnos at close of evening was in sight. 
 The shore was won ; the fields mark'd out ; and roofs 
 Collected the dun wings that seek house-fare ; 
 And presently the ruddy-bosom'd guest 
 Of winter, knew the doors : then infant cries 
 Were heard within ; and lastly, tottering steps 
 Patter'd along the image-station'd hall. 
 Ay, three full years had come and gone again, 
 And often, when the flame on windy nights 
 Suddenly flicker'd from the mountain-ash 
 Piled high, men push'd almost from under them 
 The bench on which they talk'd about the dead. 
 
 Meanwhile beneficent Apollo saw 
 With his bright eyes into the sea's calm depth, 
 And there he saw Enallos, there he saw
 
 ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. 139 
 
 Cymodameia. Gravely-gladsome light 
 
 Environed them with its eternal green : 
 
 And many nymphs sate round : one blew aloud 
 
 The spiral shell ; one drew bright chords across 
 
 Shell more expansive ; tenderly a third 
 
 With cowering lip hung o'er the flute, and stopp'd 
 
 At will its dulcet sob, or waked to joy ; 
 
 A fourth took up the lyre and pinch'd the strings, 
 
 Invisible by trembling : many rais'd 
 
 Clear voices. Thus they spent their happy hours. 
 
 I know them all ; but all with eyes downcast, 
 
 Conscious of loving, have entreated me, 
 
 I would not utter now their names above. 
 
 Behold, among these natives of the sea, 
 
 There stands but one young man : how fair ! how fond ! 
 
 Ah ! were he fond to them ! It may not be ! 
 
 Yet did they tend him mom and eve ; by night 
 
 They also watch'd his slumbers : then they heard 
 
 His sighs, nor his alone ; for there were two 
 
 To whom the watch was hateful. In despair 
 
 Upward he rais'd his arms, and thus he prayed. 
 
 " O Phoebus ! on the higher world alone 
 
 Showerest thou all thy blessings ? Great indeed 
 
 Hath been thy favour to me, great to her ; 
 
 But she pines inly, and calls beautiful 
 
 More than herself the nymphs she sees around, 
 
 And asks me, ' Are they not more beautiful ?' 
 
 Be all more beautiful, be all more blest. 
 
 But not with me ! Release her from the sight ; 
 
 Restore her to a happier home, and dry 
 
 With thy pure beams, above, her hitter tears !" 
 
 She saw him in the action of his prayer, 
 Troubled, and ran to soothe him. From the ground 
 Ere she had clasp'd his neck, her feet were borne. 
 He cautrht her robe ; and its white radiance rose
 
 140 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Rapidly, all day long, through the green sea. 
 
 Enallos loos'd not from that robe his grasp. 
 
 But spann'd one ankle too. The swift ascent 
 
 Had stunn'd them into slumber, sweet, serene, 
 
 Invigorating her, nor letting loose 
 
 The lover's arm below ; albeit at last 
 
 It closed those eyes intently fix'd thereon, 
 
 And still as fix'd in dreaming. Both were cast 
 
 Upon an island till'd by peaceful men 
 
 And few, — no port nor road accessible, — 
 
 Fruitful and green as the abode they left, 
 
 And warm with summer, warm with love and song 
 
 'Tis said that some, whom most Apollo loves, 
 Have seen that island guided by his light ; 
 And others have gone near it, but a fog 
 Rose up between them and the lofty rocks ; 
 Yet they relate they saw it quite as well, 
 And shepherd-boys and pious hinds believe. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. 
 
 Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom 
 Gnidos the light of Caria is discern'd, 
 And small are the white-crested that play near, 
 And smaller onward are the purple waves. 
 Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd 
 With rose and myrtle if they were inborn ; 
 If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast 
 Where stern Athene rais'd her citadel. 
 Then olive was entwined with violets 
 Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large ; 
 For various men wore various coronals, 
 But one was their devotion ; 'twas to her
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. I4I 
 
 Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws 
 The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from Zeus, 
 And whom in his chill caves the mutable 
 Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres, 
 And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath pray'd 
 To turn in pity the averted cheek 
 Of her he bore away, with proniises. 
 Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx itself. 
 To give her daily more and sweeter flowers 
 Than he made drop from her on Enna's dell. 
 Rhaicos was looking from his father's door 
 At the long trains that hastened to the town 
 From all the valleys, like bright rivulets 
 Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning wave. 
 And thought it hard he might not also go 
 And offer up one prayer, and press one hand, 
 He knew not whose. The father call'd him in 
 And said, " Son Rhaicos ! those are idle games ; 
 Long enough I have lived to find them so." 
 And ere he ended, sighed ; as old men do 
 Always, to think how idle such games are. 
 " I have not yet," thought Rhaicos in his heart. 
 And wanted proof. 
 
 " Suppose thou go and help 
 Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak 
 And lop its branches off, before we delve 
 About the trunk and ply the root with axe : 
 This we may do in winter." 
 
 Rhaicos went ; 
 For thence he could see farther, and see more 
 Of those who hurried to the city-gate. 
 Echion he found there, with naked arm 
 Swart-hair'd, strong-sinew'd, and his eyes intent 
 Upon the place where first the axe should fall : 
 He held it upright. ' ' There are bees about.
 
 142 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious eld, 
 
 " Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The youth 
 
 Inclined his ear, afar, and warily, 
 
 And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a buzz 
 
 At first, and then the sound grew soft and clear, 
 
 And then divided into what seem'd tune. 
 
 And there were words upon it, plaintive words. 
 
 He turn'd, and said, " Echion ! do not strike 
 
 That tree : it must be hollow ; for some god 
 
 Speaks from within. Come thyself near." Again 
 
 Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! there sat 
 
 Upon the moss below, with her two palms 
 
 Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form. 
 
 Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale 
 
 Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display'd 
 
 Berries of colour like her lip so pure. 
 
 Nor were the anemones about her hair 
 
 Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face beneath. 
 
 " What dost thou here?" Echion, half-afraid, 
 Half-angry cried. She lifted up her eyes. 
 But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one step 
 Backward, for fear came likewise over him, 
 But not such fear : he panted, gasp'd, drew in 
 His breath, and would have turn'd it into words, 
 But could not into one. 
 
 ' ' O send away 
 That sad old man ! " said she. The old man went 
 Without a warning from his master's son, 
 Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd. 
 And the axe shone behind him in their eyes. 
 
 Hajiiad. And wouldst thou too shed the most 
 innocent 
 Of blood ? No vow demands it ; no god wills 
 The oak to bleed. 
 
 Rhaicos. Who art thou ? whence ? why here ?
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. I 43 
 
 And whither wouldst thou go ? Among the robed 
 
 In white or saffron, or the hue that most 
 
 Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none 
 
 Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful 
 
 As that gray robe which clings about thee close, 
 
 Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to trees. 
 
 Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn, 
 
 As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the boughs 
 
 Of graceful platan by the river-side? 
 
 Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's hou'^e? 
 
 Rhaicos. Indeed 
 
 I love it, well I love it, yet would leave 
 For thine, where'er it be, my father's house. 
 With all the marks upon the door, that show 
 My growth at every birthday since the third, 
 And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes. 
 My mother nail'd for me against my bed. 
 And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt see) 
 Won in my race last spring from Eutychos. 
 
 Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave a home 
 Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day. 
 
 Rhaicos. No, 'tis not hard to leave it : 'tis not hard 
 To leave, O maiden, that paternal home 
 If there be one on earth whom we may love 
 First, last, for ever ; one who says that she 
 Will love for ever too. To say which word, 
 Only to say it, surely is enough. 
 It shows such kindness — if 'twere possible 
 We at the moment think she would indeed. 
 
 Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at thy age? 
 
 Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have learnt to love. 
 
 Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree ? 
 
 Rhaicos. My father wants 
 
 The bark ; the tree may hold its place awhile. 
 
 Hamad. Awhile? thy father numbers then my days?
 
 144 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Rhaicos. Are there no others where the moss beneath 
 Is quite as tufty ? Who would send thee forth 
 Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thy flock 
 Anywhere near ? 
 
 Hamad. I have no flock : I kill 
 
 Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels the air, 
 The sun, the dew. Why should the beautiful 
 (And thou art beautiful) disturb the source 
 Whence springs all beauty? Hast thou never heard 
 Of Hamadryads ? 
 
 Rhaicos. Heard of them I have : 
 
 Tell me some tale about them. May I sit 
 Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? The herbs 
 Are very soft ; I will not come too nigh ; 
 Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt. 
 Stay, stay an instant : let me first explore 
 If any acorn of last year be left 
 Within it ; thy thin robe too ill protects 
 Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small 
 Acorn may do. Here's none. Another day 
 Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite. 
 
 Hamad. I seat me ; be thou seated, and content. 
 
 Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men below ! adore 
 The Aphrodite. Is she there below ? 
 Or sits she here before me ? as she sate 
 Before the shepherd on those heights that shade 
 The Hellespont, and brought his kindred woe. 
 
 Hamad. Reverence the higher Powers ; nor deem 
 amiss 
 Of her who pleads to thee, and would repay — 
 Ask not how much— but very much. Rise not : 
 No, Rhaicos, no ! Without the nuptial vow 
 Love is unholy. Swear to me that none 
 Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss, 
 Then take thou mine ; then take it, not before.
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. I45 
 
 Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above ! O Aphrodite. 
 
 Here ! Let my vow be ratified ! 
 
 But wilt thou come into my father's house ? 
 
 Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot give thee part. 
 
 Rhaicos. Where is it ? 
 
 Hamad. In this oak. 
 
 Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins 
 
 The tale of Hamadryad : tell it through. 
 
 Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut down 
 My tree ; and promise him, as well thou mayst, 
 That every year he shall receive from me 
 More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep, 
 More wax than he will burn to all the gods. 
 Why fallest thou upon thy face? Some thorn 
 May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise up ; for shame ! 
 
 Rhaicos. Yor shame I cannot rise. O pity me ! 
 
 1 dare not sue for love — but do not hate ! 
 
 Let me once more behold thee — not once more, 
 But many days : let me love on — unloved ! 
 I aimed too high : on my own head the bolt 
 Falls back, and pierces to the veiy brain. 
 
 Hamad. Go — rather go, than make me say I love. 
 
 Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality, 
 (And whence enjoy it else the gods above?) 
 I am immortal too : my vow is heard — 
 Hark ! on the left — Nay, turn not from me now, 
 I claim my kiss. 
 
 Hamad. Do men take first, then claim? 
 
 Do thus the seasons run their course with them ? 
 
 Her lips were seal'd ; her head sank on his breast. 
 'Tis said that laughs were heard within the wood : 
 But who should hear them? and whose laughs? and why ? 
 
 Savoury was the smell and long past noon, 
 Thallinos ! in thy house ; for marjoram, 
 
 L
 
 1 46 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary, 
 
 Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted length, 
 
 Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at last, 
 
 Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen. 
 
 With head and eyes just o'er the maple plate. 
 
 "Thou seest but badly, coming from the sun. 
 
 Boy Rhaicos !" said the father. " That oak's bark 
 
 Must have been tough, with little sap between ; 
 
 It ought to run ; but it and I are old." 
 
 Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread 
 
 Increased by chewing, and the meat grew cold 
 
 And tasteless to his palate, took a draught 
 
 Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he was, 
 
 He thought not of, until his father fill'd 
 
 The cup, averring water was amiss, 
 
 But wine had been at all times pour'd on kid. 
 
 It was religion. 
 
 He thus fortified 
 Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash'd, 
 ' ' Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that oak 
 Year after year will bring thee wealth from wax 
 And honey. There is one who fears the gods 
 And the gods love — that one " 
 
 (He blush'd, nor said 
 What one) 
 
 " Has promised this, and may do more. 
 Thou hast not many moons to wait until 
 The bees have done their best ; if then there come 
 Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn." 
 
 " Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a prudent mind," 
 Said the glad sire : " but look thou often there, 
 And gather all the honey thou canst find 
 In every crevice, over and above 
 What has been promised ; would tliey reckon that ?" 
 
 Rhaicos went daily ; but the nymph as oft,
 
 THE HAMADRYAD. I 47 
 
 Invisible. To jilay at love, she knew, 
 
 Stopping its breathings when it breathes most soft, 
 
 Is sweeter than to play on any pipe. 
 
 She play'd on his : she fed upon his sighs ; 
 
 They pleased her when they gently waved her hair, 
 
 Cooling the pulses of her purple veins. 
 
 And when her absence brought them out, they pleased 
 
 Even among the fondest of them all, 
 
 What mortal or immortal maid is more 
 
 Content with giving happiness than pain ? 
 
 One day he was returning from the wood 
 
 Despondently. She pitied him, and said 
 
 "Come back !" and twined her fingers in the hem 
 
 Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps 
 
 To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand 
 
 Through lentisk and through oleander, there 
 
 Bathed she his feet, lifting them on her lap 
 
 When bathed, and drying them in both her hands. 
 
 He dared complain ; for those who most are loved 
 
 Most dare it ; but not harsh was his complaint. 
 
 "O thou inconstant !" said he, "if stern law 
 
 Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest law, 
 
 O, let me know henceforward when to hope 
 
 The fruit of love that grows for me but here. 
 
 He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant stem. 
 
 "Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus intercept 
 
 The answer I would give ? There is a bee 
 
 Whom I have led, a bee who knows my thoughts 
 
 And executes my wishes : I will send 
 
 That messenger. If ever thou art false, 
 
 Drawn by another, own it not, but drive 
 
 My bee away : then shall I know my fate. 
 
 And — for thou must be wretched — weep at thine. 
 
 But often as my heart persuades to lay 
 
 Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest,
 
 148 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Expect her with thee, whether it be mom 
 Or eve, at any time when woods are safe." 
 
 Day after day the Hours beheld them blest, 
 And season after season : years had past, 
 Blest were they still. He who asserts that Love 
 Ever is sated of sweet things, the same 
 Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days, 
 Never, by Zeus ! loved he a Hamadryad. 
 
 The nights had now grown longer, and perhaps 
 The Hamadryads find them lone and dull 
 Among their woods ; one did, alas ! She called 
 Her faithful bee : 'twas when all bees should sleep, 
 And all did sleep but hers. She was sent forth 
 To bring that light which never wdntry blast 
 Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes, 
 The light that shines from loving eyes upon 
 Eyes that love back, till they can see no more. 
 Rhaicos was sitting at his father's hearth : 
 Between them stood the table, not o'erspread 
 With fruits which autumn now profusely bore. 
 Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but there 
 The draft-board was expanded ; at which game 
 Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son 
 Was puzzled, vex'd, discomfited, distraught. 
 A buzz was at his ear : up went his hand 
 And it was heard no longer. The poor bee 
 Return'd (but not until the morn shone bright) 
 And found the Hamadryad with her head 
 Upon her aching wrist, and show'd one wing 
 Half-broken off, the other's meshes marr'd. 
 And there were bruises which no eye could see 
 Saving a Hamadryad's. 
 
 At this sight 
 Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell dowTi, 
 A shriek was carried to the ancient hall
 
 ACON AND RHODOpL I 49 
 
 Of Thallinos : he heard it not : his son 
 
 Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood. 
 
 No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green, 
 
 The trunk was riven through. From that day forth 
 
 Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor sound 
 
 Even of insect wing ; but loud laments 
 
 The woodmen and the shepherds one long year 
 
 Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would not quit 
 
 The solitary place, but moan'd and died. 
 
 Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest, 
 To find set duly on the hollow stone. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ACON AND RHODOPE ; OR, INCONSTANCY, 
 
 {A Sequel.') 
 
 The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by, 
 Of measured pace though varying mien all twelve. 
 Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd 
 For festival, some reckless of attire. 
 The snow had left the mountain-top ; fresh flowers 
 Had withered in the meadow ; fig and prune 
 Hung wrinkling ; the last apple glow'd amid 
 Its freckled leaves ; and weary oxen blink' d 
 Between the trodden corn and twisted vine. 
 Under whose bunches stood the empty crate. 
 To creak ere long beneath them carried home. 
 This was the season when twelve months before, 
 O gentle Hamadryad, true to love ! 
 Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood 
 Was blasted and laid desolate : but none
 
 1 50 NARRATIVE. 
 
 Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck 
 The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd 
 Of what was thine. 
 
 Old Thallinos sat mute 
 In solitary sadness. The strange tale 
 (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) 
 Echion had related, whom no force 
 Could ever make look back upon the oaks. 
 Th^ father said, " Echion ! thou must weigh, 
 Carefully, and with steady hand, enough 
 (Although no longer comes the store as once !) 
 Of wax to bum all day and night upon 
 That hollow stone where milk and honey lie : 
 So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd !" 
 Thallinos bore it thither in the morn. 
 And lighted it and left it. 
 
 First of those 
 Who visited upon this solemn day 
 The Hamadryad's oak, were Rhodope 
 And Aeon ; of one age, one hope, one trust. 
 Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate 
 She sorrowed for : he slender, pale, and first 
 Lapp'd by the flame of love : his father's lands 
 Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar. 
 Now stood the two aside the hollow stone 
 And look'd with stedfast eyes toward the oak 
 Shivered and black and bare. 
 
 "May never we 
 Love as they loved !" said Aeon. She at this 
 Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say, 
 And thought not of its bliss, but of its end. 
 He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, and vow'd 
 Nor time nor other power, whereto the might 
 Of love hath yielded and may yield again, 
 Should alter his.
 
 ACON AND RHODOPfe. I5I 
 
 The fatlier of the youth 
 Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not 
 Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart, 
 Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world, 
 Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven ; 
 Silver and gold and land, not green before 
 The ancestral gate, but purple under skies 
 Bending far off, he wanted for his heir. 
 
 Fathers have given life, but virgin heart 
 They never gave ; and dare they then control 
 Or check it harshly ? dare they break a bond 
 Girt round it by the holiest Power on high? 
 
 Aeon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly, 
 But Aeon had complied — 'twas dutiful ! 
 
 Crush thy own heart, Man ! Man ! but fear to wound 
 The gentler, that relies on thee alone, 
 By thee created, weak or strong by thee ; 
 Touch it not but for worship ; watch before 
 Its sanctuary ; nor leave it till are closed 
 The temple doors and the last lamp is spent. 
 
 Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude. 
 Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea, 
 Often not hearing it, and many tears 
 Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek. 
 
 Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks, 
 Nor sliunn'd to look upon the hollow stone 
 That held the milk and honey, nor to lay 
 His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid 
 Opposite hers, when finger playfully 
 Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. 
 He did not think of this, as she would do 
 If she were there alone. The day was hot ; 
 The moss invited him ; it cool'd his cheek. 
 It cool'd his liands ; he thrust them into it
 
 152 NARRATIVE. 
 
 And sank to slumber. Never was there dream 
 
 Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. 
 
 She took him by the arm and led him on 
 
 Along a valley, where profusely grew 
 
 The smaller lilies with their pendant bells, 
 
 And, hiding under mint, chill drosera. 
 
 The violet, shy of butting cyclamen. 
 
 The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks, 
 
 Her offspring round her, the soft strawbeny ; 
 
 The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk. 
 
 The oleander's light-hair'd progeny 
 
 Breathing bright freshness in each other's face, 
 
 And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup 
 
 Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for gods. 
 
 The fragrance fiU'd his breast with such delight 
 
 His senses were bewildered, and he thought 
 
 He saw again the face he most had loved. 
 
 He stopp'd : the Hamadryad at his side 
 
 Now stood between ; then drew him farther off: 
 
 He went, compliant as before : but soon 
 
 Verdure had ceased : although the ground was smooth, 
 
 Nothing was there delightful. At this change 
 
 He would have spoken, but his guide repress'd 
 
 All questioning, and said, 
 
 '• Weak youth ! what brought 
 Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt. 
 My life-long residence? this bank, where first 
 I sate with him — the faithful (now I know 
 Too late !) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home ; 
 Be happy, if thou canst ; but come no more 
 Where those whom death alone could sever, died." 
 
 He started up : the moss whereon he slept 
 Was dried and withered : deadlier paleness spread 
 Over his cheek ; he sickened : and the sire 
 Had land enough ; it held his only son.
 
 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA. I 53 
 
 XXX. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA. 
 
 "Artemidora! Gods invisible, 
 While thou art lying faint along the couch, 
 Have tied the sandal to thy veinM feet, 
 And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
 Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
 Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 
 Away, and voices like thine own come nigh, 
 Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace." 
 
 Artemidora sigh'd, and would have press'd 
 The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. 
 Iris stood over her dark hair unseen 
 While thus Elpenor spake. He look'd into 
 Eyes that had given light and life erewhile 
 To those above them, those now dim with tears 
 And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy 
 Eternal. At that word, that sad \vord,/o}', 
 Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more. 
 Her head fell back : and now a loud deep sob 
 Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber ; 'twas not hers.
 
 1 54 NARRATIVE. 
 
 XXXI, 
 
 THE CROWNING OF THELYMNIA. 
 
 Pofybius relates how in his youth he was present when 
 Critolaiis and sotne other young officers invited tin 
 philosopher Euthyincdes to a repast in the country near 
 Olympia, and how Thelymnia, the mistress oj" Critolaiis, 
 was cro7vncd before the arrival of tlie guest. 
 
 Behind us lay the forest of Pholoe, with its many glens 
 opening to the plain : before us the Temple of Olympian 
 Zeus, indistinctly discernible, leaned against the azure 
 heavens : and the rivulet of Selinus ran a few stadions 
 from us, seen only where it received a smaller streamlet, 
 originating at a fountain close by. 
 
 The cistus, the pomegranate, the myrtle, the serpolet, 
 bloomed over our heads and beside us ; for we had chosen 
 a platform where a projecting rock, formerly a stone- 
 quarry, shaded us, and where a little rill, of which the 
 spring was there, bedimmed our goblets with the purest 
 water. The awnings we had brought with us to protect 
 us from the sun, were unnecessary for that purpose : we 
 rolled them therefore into two long seats, filling them with 
 moss', which gre^v profusely a few paces below. " When 
 our guest arrives," said Critolaus, "every one of these 
 flowers will serve him for some moral illustration ; every 
 shrub will be the rod of Mercury in his hands." We 
 were impatient for the time of his coming. Thelymnia, 
 the beloved of Critolaus, had been instructed by him 
 in a stratagem, to subvert, or shake at least and stagger, 
 the philosophy of Euthymedes. * * * 
 
 Thelymnia wore a dress like ours, and acceded to every 
 advice of Critolaus, excepting that she would not consent 
 so readily to entwine her head with ivy. At first she
 
 THE CROWNING OF THELYMNIA. 1 5 5 
 
 objected that there was not enough of it for all. Instantly 
 two or three of us pulled down (for nothing is more 
 brittle) a vast quantity from the rock, which loosened 
 some stones, and brought down together with them a 
 bird's nest of the last year. Then she said, " I dare not 
 use this ivy : the omen is a bad one." 
 
 "Do you mean the nest, Thelymnia?" said Critolaus. 
 
 " No, not the nest so much as the stones," replied she, 
 faltering. 
 
 " Ah ! those signify the dogmas of Euthymedes, which 
 you, my lovely Thelymnia, are to loosen and throw down." 
 
 At this she smiled faintly and briefly, and began to 
 break off some of the more glossy leaves ; and we who 
 stood around her were ready to take them and place them 
 in her hair ; when suddenly she held them tighter, and 
 let her hand drop. On her lover's asking her why she 
 hesitated, she blushed deeply, and said, " Phoroneus told 
 me I look best in myrtle." 
 
 Innocent and simple and most sweet (I remember) was 
 her voice, and, when she had spoken, the traces of it were 
 remaining on her lips. Her beautiful throat itself changed 
 colour ; it seemed to undulate ; and the roseate predomi- 
 nated in its pearly hue. Phoroneus had been her admirer : 
 she gave the preference to Critolaus : yet the name ol 
 Phoroneus at that moment had greater effect upon him 
 than the recollection of his defeat. 
 
 Thelymnia recovered herself sooner. We ran wherever 
 we saw myrtles, and there were many about, and she took 
 a part of her coronal from every one of us, smiling on 
 each ; but it was only of Critolaus that she asked if he 
 thought that myrtle became her best. " Phoroneus," 
 answered he, not without melancholy, "is infallible as 
 Paris." There was something in the tint of the tender 
 sprays resembling that of the hair they encircled : the 
 blcssoms too were white as her forehead. She reminded
 
 1 56 NARRATIVE. 
 
 me of those ancient fables which represent the favourites 
 of the gods as turning into plants ; so accordant and 
 identified was her beauty with the flowers and foliage she 
 had chosen to adorn it. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE DREAM OF EUTHYMEDES. 
 
 Euikyjiiedes relates how there was revealed to him in a 
 dream an allegory of Love, Hope, and Fear. 
 
 Euthymedes. I was in a place not very unlike this, my 
 head lying back against a rock, where its crevices were 
 tufted with soft and odoriferous herbs, and where vine 
 leaves protected my face from the sun, and from the bees, 
 which however were less likely to molest me, being busy 
 in their first hours of honey-making among the blossoms. 
 Sleep soon fell upon me ; for of all philosophers I am 
 certainly the drowsiest, though perhaps there are many 
 quite of equal ability in communicating the gift of drowsi- 
 ness. Presently I saw three figures, two of which were 
 beautiful, veiy differently, but in the same degree : the 
 other was much less so. The least of the three, at the 
 first glance, I recognised to be Love, although I saw no 
 wings, nor arrows, nor quiver, nor torch, nor emblem of 
 any kind designating his attributes. The next was not 
 Venu.s, nor a grace, nor a nymph, nor goddess of 
 whom in worship or meditation I had ever conceived an 
 idea ; and yet my heart persuaded me she was a goddess, 
 and from the manner in which she spoke to Love, and he 
 again to her, I was convinced she must be. Quietly and 
 unmovedly as she was standing, her figure I perceived 
 was adapted to the perfection of activity. With all the 
 succulence and suppleness of early youth, scarcely beyond
 
 THE DKEAM OF EUTHVMEDES. 1 57 
 
 puberty, it however gave me the idea, from its graceful 
 and easy languor, of its being possessed by a fondness for 
 repose. Her eyes were large and serene, and of a quality 
 to exhibit the intensity of thought, or even the habitude 
 of reflection, but incapable of expressing the plenitude of 
 joy J and her countenance was tinged with so delicate a 
 colour, that it appeared an effluence from an irradiated 
 cloud, passing over it in the heavens. The third figure, 
 who sometimes stood in one place and sometimes in 
 another, and of whose countenance I could only dis- 
 tinguish that it was pale, anxious and mistrustful, inter- 
 rupted her perpetually. I listened attentively and with 
 curiosity to the conversation, and by degrees I caught the 
 appellations they interchanged. The one I found was 
 Hope ; and I wondered I did not find it out sooner : the 
 other was Fear ; which I should not have found out at 
 all ; for she did not look terrible nor aghast, but more 
 like Sorrow ©r Despondency. The first words I could 
 collect of Hope were these, spoken very mildly, and 
 rather with a look of appeal, than accusation. "Too 
 surely you have forgotten, for never was child more for- 
 getful or more ungrateful, how many times I have carried 
 you in my bosom, when even your mother drove you 
 from her, and when you could find no other resting-place 
 in heaven or earth." 
 
 "O unsteady unruly Love!" cried the pale goddess 
 with much energy, "it has often been by my intervention 
 that thy wavering authority was fixed. For this I have 
 thrown alarm after alarm into tlie heedless breast that 
 Hope had once beguiled, and that was growing insensible 
 and torpid under her feebler influence. I do not upbraid 
 thee ; and it never was my nature to caress thee ; but I 
 claim from thee my portion of the human heart, mine, 
 ever mine, abhorrent as it may be of me. Let Hope 
 stand on one side of thy altars, but let my place be on
 
 158 NARRATIVE. 
 
 the other ; or I swear by all the gods ! not any altars 
 shalt thou possess upon the globe. " 
 
 She ceased — and Love trembled. He turned his 
 eyes upon Hope, as if in his turn appealing to her. She 
 said, ' ' It must be so ; it was so from the beginning of 
 the world : only let me never lose you from my sight." 
 She clasped her hands upon her breast, as she said it, 
 and he looked on her with a smile, and was going 
 up (I thought) to kiss her, when he was recalled and 
 stopped. 
 
 " Where Love is, there will I be also, said Fear, 
 and even thou, O Hope ! never shalt be beyond my 
 power." 
 
 At these words I saw them both depart. I then 
 looked toward Love : I did not see him go ; but he was 
 gone. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A TUSCAN SABBATH. 
 
 Francesco Petrarca, staying tuith Giovanni Boccaccio in 
 his villa near Certaldo, during his sickness, rises he- 
 times on the Lord's Day and goes to hear tiiass in the 
 parish church. 
 
 It being now the Lord's Day, Messer Francesco thought it 
 meet that he should rise early in the morning and bestir 
 himself, to hear mass in the parish church at Certaldo. 
 Whereupon he went on tiptoe, if so weighty a man could 
 indeed go in such a fashion, and lifted softly the latch of 
 Ser Giovanni's chamber-door, that he might salute him 
 ere he departed, and occasion no wonder at the step he 
 was about to take. He found Ser Giovanni fast asleep, 
 with the missal wide open across his nose, and a plea- 
 sant smile on his genial joyous mouth. Ser Francesco
 
 A TUSCAN SABBATH. I 59 
 
 leaned over the couch, closed his hands together, and, 
 looking with even more than his usual benignity, said in 
 a low voice, 
 
 "God bless thee, gentle soul! the mother of purity 
 and innocence protect thee ! " 
 
 He then went into the kitchen, where he found the 
 girl Assunta, and mentioned his resolution. She informed 
 him that the horse had eaten his two beans,^ and was as 
 strong as a lion and as ready as a lover. Ser Francesco 
 patted her on the cheek, and called lier semplicetta ! She 
 was overjoyed at this honour from so great a man, the 
 bosom-friend of her good master, whom slie had always 
 thought the greatest man in the world, not excepting 
 Monsignore, until he told her he was only a dog confronted 
 with Ser P'rancesco. She tripped alertly across the paved 
 court into the stable, and took down the saddle and bridle 
 from the farther end of the rack. But Ser Francesco, 
 with his natural politeness, would not allow her to equip 
 his palfrey. 
 
 " This is not the work for maidens," said he ; "return 
 to the house, good girl ! " 
 
 She lingered a moment, then went away ; but, mis- 
 trusting the dexterity of Ser Francesco, she stopped and 
 turned back again, and peeped through the half-closed 
 door, and heard sundry sobs and wheezes round about 
 the girth. Ser Francesco's wind ill seconded his inten- 
 tion ; and, although he had thrown the saddle valiantly 
 and stoutly in its station, yet the girths brought him into 
 extremity. She entered again, and, dissembling the 
 reason, a.sked him whether he would not take a small 
 beaker of the sweet white wine before he set out, and 
 offered to girdle the horse while his Reverence bitted and 
 bridled him. Before any answer could be returned, she 
 
 1 Literally, due fave, the expression on such occasions to signify 
 a small quantity. — W. S. L.
 
 r6o NARRATIVE. 
 
 had begun. And having now satisfactorily executed hei 
 undertaking, she felt irrepressible delight and glee at 
 being able to do what Ser Francesco had failed in. He 
 was scarcely more successful with his allotment of the 
 labour ; found unlooked-for intricacies and complications 
 in the machinery, wondered that human wit could not 
 simplify it, and declared that the animal had never ex- 
 hibited such restiveness before. In fact, he never had 
 experienced the same grooming. At this conjuncture, a 
 green cap made its appearance, bound with straw-coloured 
 ribbon, and surmounted with two bushy sprigs of haw- 
 thorn, of which the globular buds were swelling, and 
 some bursting, but fewer yet open. It was young Simplizio 
 Nardi, who sometimes came on the Sunday morning to 
 sweep the court-yard for Assunta. 
 
 " O ! this time you are come just when you were 
 wanted," said the girl. 
 
 " Bridle, directly, Ser Francesco's horse, and then go 
 away about your business." 
 
 The youth blushed, and kissed Ser Francesco's hand, 
 begging his permission. It was soon done. He then 
 held the stirrup ; and Ser Francesco, with scarcely three 
 efforts, was seated and erect on the saddle. The horse 
 however had somewhat more inclination for the stable 
 than for the expedition ; and, as Assunta was handing to 
 the rider his long ebony staff, bearing an ivory caduceus, 
 the quadruped turned suddenly round, Simplizio called 
 him bestiaccia ! and then, softening it, poco garbato ! and 
 proposed to Ser Francesco that he should leave the bas- 
 tone behind, and take the crab-switch he presented to 
 him, giving at the same time a sample of his efficacy, 
 which covered the long grizzle hair of the worthy quadru- 
 ped with a profusion of pink blossoms, like embroidery. 
 The offer was declined ; but Assunta told Simplizio to 
 carry it himself, and to walk by the side of Ser Canonico
 
 A TUSCAN SABBATH. * l6l 
 
 quite up to the church-porch, having seen what a sad 
 dangerous beast his reverence had under him. 
 
 With perfect good will, partly in the pride of obedience 
 to Assunta, and partly to enjoy the renown of accom- 
 panying a canon of holy church, ^implizio did as she 
 enjoined. 
 
 And now the sound of village bells, in many hamlets 
 and convents and churches out of sight, was indistinctly 
 heard, and lost again ; and at last the five of Certaldo 
 seemed to crow over the faintness of them all. 
 
 The freshness of the morning was enough of itself to 
 excite the spirits of youth ; a portion of which never fails 
 to descend on years that are far removed from it, if the 
 mind has partaken in innocent mirth while it was its season 
 and its duty to enjoy it. Parties of young and old passed 
 the canonico and his attendant with mute respect, bowing 
 and bare-headed; for that ebony staff threw its spell 
 over the tongue, which the frank and hearty salutation of 
 the bearer was inadequate to break. Simplizio, once or 
 twice, attempted to call back an intimate of the same age 
 with himself; but the utmost he could obtain was a 
 riveritissimo I and a genuflexion to the rider. It is 
 reported that a heart-burning rose up from it in the 
 breast of a cousin, some days after, too distinctly ap- 
 parent in the long-drawn appellation of G^ior ' Simplizio. 
 
 Ser Francesco moved gradually forward, his steed pick- 
 ing his way along the lane, and looking fixedly on the 
 stones with all the sobriety of a mineralogist. He him- 
 self was well satisfied with the pace, and told Simplizio 
 to be sparing of the switch, unless In case of a hornet or 
 gadfly. Simplizio smiled, toward the hedge, and won- 
 dered at the condescension of so great a theologian and 
 astrologer, in joking with hiin about the gadflies and 
 hornets in the beginning of April. " Ah ! there are men 
 1 Contr.-iction of signor, customary in Tuscany.— W.S.L. 
 U
 
 1 62 * NARRATIVE. 
 
 in the world who can make wit out of anything ! " said 
 he to himself. As they approached the walls of the town, 
 the whole country was pervaded by a stirring and diversi- 
 fied air of gladness. Laughter and songs and flutes and 
 viols, inviting voices and complying responses, mingled 
 with merry bells and with processional hymns, along the 
 woodland paths and along the yellow meadows. It was 
 really the Lord's Day, for he made his creatures happy 
 in it, and their hearts were thankful. Even the cruel 
 had ceased from cruelty ; and the rich man alone exacted 
 from the animal his daily labour. Ser Francesco made 
 this remark, and told his youthful guide that he had never 
 been before where he could not walk to church on a 
 Sunday ; and that nothing should persuade him to urge 
 the speed of his beast, on the seventh day, beyond his 
 natural and vnlling fool's pace. He reached the gates of 
 Certaldo more than half an hour before the time of ser- 
 vice, and he found laurels suspended over them, and 
 being suspended ; and many pleasant and beautiful faces 
 were protruded between the ranks of gentry and clergy 
 who awaited him. Little did he expect such an attend- 
 ance ; but Fra Biagio of San Vivaldo, who himself had 
 offered no obsequiousness or respect, had scattered the 
 secret of his visit throughout the whole country. A 
 young poet, the most celebrated in the tovra, approached 
 the canonico with a long scroll of verses, which fell below 
 the knee, beginning, 
 
 ' How shall we welcome our illustrious guest?" 
 
 To which Ser Francesco immediately replied, " Take 
 your favourite maiden, lead the dance with her, and bid 
 all your friends follow ; you have a good half hour for it." 
 Universal applauses succeeded, the music stmck up, 
 couples were instantly formed. The gentry on this occa- 
 sion led out the cittadinanza, as they usually do in the
 
 A TUSCAN SABBATH. 1 63 
 
 villeggiatura, rarely in the carnival, and never at other 
 times. The elder of the priests stood round in their 
 sacred vestments, and looked with cordiality and appro- 
 bation on the youths, whose hands and arms could indeed 
 do much, and did it, but whose active eyes could rarely 
 move upward the modester of their partners. 
 
 While the elder of the clergy were thus gathering the 
 fruits of their liberal cares and paternal exhortations, some 
 of the younger looked on with a tenderer sentiment, not 
 unmingled with regret. Suddenly the bells ceased ; the 
 figure of the dance was broken ; all hastened into the 
 church ; and many hands that joined on the green, met 
 together at the font, and touched the brow reciprocally 
 with its lustral waters, in soul-devotion. 
 
 After the service, and after a sermon a good church- hour 
 in length to gratify him, enriched with compliments from 
 all authors, Christian and pagan, informing him at the 
 conclusion that, although he had been crowned in the 
 Capitol, he must die, being born mortal, Ser Francesco 
 rode homeward. The sermon seemed to have sunk deeply 
 into him, and even into the horse under him, for both of 
 them nodded, both snorted, and one stumbled. Simplizio 
 was twice fain to cry, 
 
 ' ' Ser Canonico ! Riverenza ! in this country if we sleep 
 before dinner it does us harm. There are stones in the 
 road, Ser Canonico, loose as eggs in a nest, and pretty 
 nigh as thick together, huge as mountains. " 
 
 "Good lad!" said Ser Francesco, rubbing his eyes, 
 " toss the biggest of them out of the way, and never mind 
 the rest." 
 
 The horse, although he walked, shuffled almost into 
 an amble as he approached the stable, and his master 
 looked up at it with nearly the same contentment. As- 
 sunta had been ordered to wait for his return, and cried, 
 
 " O Ser Francesco 1 you are looking at our long apri-
 
 1 64 NARRATIVE. 
 
 cot, that runs the whole length of the stable and barn 
 covered with blossoms as the old white hen is with 
 feathers. You must come in the summer, and eat this 
 fine fruit with Signor Padrone. You can not think how 
 ruddy and golden and sweet and mellow it is. There 
 are peaches in all the fields, and plums, and pears, and 
 apples, but there is not another apricot for miles and 
 miles. Ser Giovanni brought the stone from Naples 
 before I was born : a lady gave it to him when she had 
 eaten only half the fruit off it : but perhaps you may have 
 seen her, for you have ridden as far as Rome, or beyond. 
 Padrone looks often at the fruit, and eats it willingly ; 
 and I have seen him turn over the stones in his plate, and 
 choose one out from the rest, and put it into his pocket, 
 but never plant it." 
 
 "Where is the youth?" inquired Ser Francesco. 
 
 " Gone away," answered the maiden. 
 
 " I wanted to thank him," said the Canonico. 
 
 " May I tell him so ? " asked she. 
 
 "And give him," continued he, holding a piece of 
 
 silver 
 
 " I will give him something of my own, if he goes on 
 and behaves well," said she: "but Signore Padrone 
 would drive him away for ever, I am sure, if he were 
 tempted in an evil hour to accept a quattrino, for any 
 service he could render the friends of the house." 
 
 Ser Francesco was delighted with the graceful anima- 
 tion of this ingenuous girl, and asked her, with a little 
 curiosity, how she could afford to make him a present. 
 
 "I do not intend to make him a present," she replied : 
 "but it is better he should be rewarded by me," she 
 blushed and hesitated, "or by Signor Padrone," she 
 added, " than by your reverence. He has not done half 
 his duty yet ; not half. I will teach him : he is quite a 
 child ; four months younger than me. "
 
 THE DEATH OF ACCIAIOLI. 165 
 
 Ser Francesco went into the house, saying to himself 
 at the doorway, 
 
 "Truth, innocence, and gentle manners have not yet 
 left the earth. There are sermons that never make the 
 ears weary. I have heard but few of them, and come 
 from church for this." 
 
 Whether Simplizio had obeyed some private signal 
 from Assunta, or whether his own delicacy had prompted 
 him to disappear, he was now again in the stable, and the 
 manger was replenished with hay. A bucket was soon 
 after heard ascending from the well ; and then two words, 
 
 "Thanks, Simplizio." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 THK DEATH OF ACCIAIOLI. 
 
 Boccaccio, lying sick at Certaldo, recounts to Petrarca these 
 memories 0/ his /rieiid Acciaiolt, high seneschal of the 
 kingdom of Naples. 
 
 Boccaccio. Probably, so near as I am to Florence, and 
 so dear as Florence hath always been to me, I shall see 
 that city no more. The last time I saw it, 1 only passed 
 through. Four years ago, you remember, I lost my 
 friend Acciaioli. Early in the summer of the preceding, 
 his kindness had induced him to invite me again to 
 Naples, and I undertook a journey to the place where my 
 life had been too happy. There are many who pay dearly 
 for sunshine early in the season : many, for pleasure in 
 the prime of life. After one day lost in idleness at 
 Naples, if intense and incessant thoughts (however fruit- 
 less) may be called so, I proceeded by water to Sorrento, 
 and thence over the mountains to Amalfi. Here, amid 
 whatever is most beautiful and most wonderful in scenery.
 
 1 66 NARRATIVE. 
 
 I found the Seniscalco. His palace, his gardens, his 
 terraces, his woods, abstracted his mind entirely from the 
 solicitudes of state ; and I was gratified at finding in the 
 absolute ruler of a kingdom, the absolute master of his 
 time. Rare felicity ! and he enjoyed it the more after 
 the toils of business and the intricacies of policy His 
 reception of me was most cordial. He showed me his 
 long avenues of oranges and citrons : he helped me to 
 mount the banks of slippery short herbage, whence we 
 could look down on their dark masses, and their broad 
 irregular belts, gemmed with golden fruit and sparkling 
 flowers. We stood high above them, but not above their 
 fragrance, and sometimes we wished the breeze to bring 
 us it, and sometimes to carry a part of it away : and the 
 breeze came and went as if obedient to our volition. 
 Another day he conducted me farther from the palace, 
 and showed me, with greater pride than I had ever seen 
 in him before, the pale-green olives, on little smooth 
 plants, the first year of their bearing. " I will teach my 
 people here," said he, " to make as delicate oil as any of 
 our Tuscans." We had feasts among the caverns : we 
 had dances by day under the shade of the mulberries, by 
 night under the lamps of the arcade : we had music on 
 the shore and on the water. 
 
 When next I stood before him, it was afar from these. 
 Torches flamed through the pine-forest of Certosa : priests 
 and monks led the procession : the sound of the brook 
 alone filled up the intervals of the dirge : and other 
 plumes than the dancers' waved round what was 
 AcciaiolL
 
 THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 1 67 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 Boccaccio, recovering from his sickness, relates to Petrarca 
 how his old love Fiatninetta, daughter to the King oj 
 Naples, appeared to him in a dream. 
 
 Boccaccio. In vain had I determined not only to mend 
 in future, but to correct the past ; in vain had I prayed 
 most fervently for grace to accomplish it, with a final 
 aspiration to Fiamraetta that she would unite with your 
 beloved Laura, and that, gentle and beatified spirits as 
 they are, they would breathe together their purer prayers 
 on mine. See what follows. 
 
 Petrarca. Sigh not at it. Before we can see all that 
 follows from their intercession, we must join them again. 
 But let me hear anything in which they are concerned. 
 
 Boccaccio. I prayed ; and my breast, after some few tears, 
 grew calmer. Yet sleep did not ensue until the break of 
 morning, when the dropping of soft rain on the leaves of 
 the fig-tree at the window, and the chirping of a little 
 bird, to tell another there was shelter under them, brought 
 me repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed my eyes, 
 if indeed time can be reckoned any more in sleep than 
 in heaven, when my Fiammetta seemed to have led me 
 into the meadow. You will see it below you : turn away 
 that branch : gently ! gently ! do not break it ; for the 
 httle bird sat there. 
 
 Petrarca. I think, Giovanni, I can divine the place. 
 Although this fig-tree, growing out of the wall between 
 the cellar and us, is fantastic enough in its branches, yet 
 that other which I see yonder, bent down and forced to 
 crawl along the grass by the prepotency of the young
 
 l68 NARRATIVE. 
 
 shapely walnut-tree, is much more so. It forms a seat, 
 about a cubit above the ground, level and long enough 
 for several. 
 
 Boccaccio. Ha ! you fancy it must be a favourite spot 
 with me, because of the two strong forked stakes where- 
 with it is propped and supported ! 
 
 Petrarca. Poets know the haunts of poets at first sight ; 
 and he who loved Laura — O Laura ! did I say he who 
 loved thee ? — hath whisperings where those feet would 
 wander which have been restless after Fiammetta. 
 
 Boccaccio. It is true, my imagination has often con- 
 ducted her thither ; but here in this chamber she appeared 
 to me more visibly in a dream. 
 
 "Thy prayers have been heard, O Giovanni," said 
 she. I sprang to embrace her. 
 
 " Do not spill the water ! Ah ! you have spilt a part 
 of it." 
 
 I then observed in her hand a crystal vase. A few 
 drops were sparkling on the sides and running down the 
 rim : a few were trickling from the vase and from the 
 hand that held it. 
 
 " I must go down to the brook," said she, " and fill it 
 again as it was filled before." 
 
 What a moment of agony was this to me ! Could I 
 be certain how long might be her absence ? She went : 
 I was following : she made a sign for me to turn back : I 
 disobeyed her only an instant : yet my sense of disobed- 
 ience, increasing my feebleness and confusion, made me 
 lose sight of her. In the next moment she was again at 
 my side, with the cup quite full. I stood motionless : I 
 feared my breath might shake the water over. I looked 
 her in the face for her commands — and to see it — to see 
 it so calm, so beneficent, so beautiful. I was forgetting 
 what I had prayed for, when she lowered her head, tasted 
 of the cup, and gave it me. I drank ; and suddenly
 
 THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 1 69 
 
 sprang forth before me, many groves and palaces and 
 gardens, and their statues and their avenues, and their 
 labyrinths of alaternus and bay, and alcoves of citron, and 
 watchful loopholes in the retirements of impenetrable 
 pomegranate. Farther off, just below where the fountain 
 shpt away from its marble hall and guardian gods, arose, 
 from their beds of moss and drosera and darkest grass, 
 the sisterhood of oleanders, fond of tantalising with their 
 bosomed flowers and their moist and pouting blossoms 
 the little shy rivulet, and of covering its face with all the 
 colours of the dawn. My dream expanded and moved 
 forward. I trod again the dust of Posilippo, soft as the 
 feathers in the wings of Sleep. I emerged on Baia ; I 
 crossed her innumerable arches ; I loitered in the breezy 
 sunshine of her mole ; I trusted the faithful seclusion of 
 her caverns, the keepers of so many secrets ; and 1 
 reposed on the buoyancy of her tepid sea. Then Naples, 
 and her theatres and her churches, and grottoes and dells 
 and forts and promontories, rushed forward in confusion, 
 now among soft whispers, now among sweetest sounds, 
 and subsided, and sank, and disappeared. Yet a memory 
 seemed to come fresh from every one : each had time 
 enough for its tale, for its pleasure, for its reflection, for 
 its pang. As I mounted with silent steps the narrow 
 staircase of the old palace, how distinctly did I feel against 
 the palm of my hand the coldness of that smooth stone- 
 work, and the greater of the cramps of iron in it ! 
 
 "Ah me! is this forgetting?" cried I anxiously to 
 Fiammetta. 
 
 " We must recall these scenes before us," she replied ; 
 "such is the punishment of them. Let us hope and 
 believe that the apparition, and the compunction which 
 must follow it, will be accepted as the full penalty, and 
 that both will pass away almost together." 
 
 I feared to lose anything attendant on her presence ; I
 
 1 70 NARRATIVE. 
 
 feared to approach her forehead with my lips : I feared 
 to touch the hly on its long wavy leaf in her hair, which 
 filled my whole heart with fragrance. Venerating, ador- 
 ing, I bowed my head at last to kiss her snow-white robe, 
 and trembled at my presumption. And yet the effulgence 
 of her countenance vivified while it chastened me. I 
 loved her — I must not say tnore than es&x— better than 
 ever ; it was Fiammetta who had inhabited the skies. As 
 my hand opened toward her, 
 
 "Beware!" said she, faintly smiling; "beware, Gio- 
 vanni. Take only the ciystal ; take it, and drink again." 
 
 "Must all be then forgotten?" said I sorrowfully. 
 
 " Remember your prayer and mine, Giovanni! Shall 
 both have been granted — O how much worse than in 
 vain!" 
 
 I drank instantly ; I drank largely. How cool my 
 bosom grew ; how could it grow so cool before her ! But 
 it was not to remain in its quiescency ; its trials were not 
 yet over. I will not, Francesco ! no, I may not com- 
 memorate the incidents she related me, nor which of us 
 said, "I blush for having XovtA first ;" nor which of us 
 replied, " Say least, say least, and blush again." 
 
 The charm of the words (for I felt not the encumbrance 
 of the body nor the acuteness of the spirit) seemed to 
 possess me wholly. Although the water gave me strength 
 and comfort, and somewhat of celestial pleasure, many 
 tears fell around the border of the vase as she held it up 
 before me, exhorting me to take courage, and inviting me 
 with more than exhortation to accomplish my deliverance. 
 She came nearer, more tenderly, more earnestly ; she held 
 the dewy globe with both hands, leaning forward, and 
 sighed and shook her head, drooping at my pusillanimity. 
 It was only when a ringlet had touched the rim, and per- 
 haps the water (for a sunbeam on the surface could never 
 have given it such a golden hue), that I took courage.
 
 THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 17I 
 
 clasped it, and exhausted it. Sweet as was the water, 
 sweet as was the serenity it gave me — alas ! that also 
 which it moved away from me was sweet ! 
 
 " This time you can trust me alone," said she, and 
 parted my hair, and kissed my brow. Again she went 
 toward the brook : again my agitation, my weakness, my 
 doubt, came over me : nor could I see her while she 
 raised the water, nor knew I whence she drew it. When 
 she returned, she was close to me at once : she smiled : 
 her smile pierced me to the bones : it seemed an angel's. 
 She sprinkled the pure water on me ; she looked most 
 fondly ; she took my hand ; she suffered me to press hers 
 to my bosom ; but, whether by design I cannot tell, she 
 let fall a few drops of the chilly element between. 
 
 "And now, O my beloved !" said she, "we have con- 
 signed to the bosom of God our earthly joys and sorrows. 
 The joys cannot return, let not the sorrows. These alone 
 would trouble my repose among the blessed." 
 
 "Trouble thy repose! Fiammetta ! Give me the 
 chalice !" cried I — "not a drop will I leave in it, not a 
 drop." 
 
 "Take it !" said that soft voice. "O now most dear 
 Giovanni ! I know thou hast strength enough ; and there 
 is but little — at the bottom lies our first kiss." 
 
 "Mine ! didst thou say, beloved one? and is that left 
 thee still?" 
 
 '■^ Mine" said she, pensively; and as she abased her 
 head, the broad leaf of the lily hid her brow and her 
 eyes ; the light of heaven shone through the flower. 
 
 "O Fiammetta! Fiammetta!" cried I in agony, 
 " God is the God oj mercy, God is the God of love — can 
 I, can I ever?" I struck the chalice against my head, 
 unmindful that I held it ; the water covered my face and 
 my feet. I started up, not yet awake, and I heard the 
 name of Fiammetta in the curtains.
 
 172 NARRATIVE. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 THE DREAM OF PETRARCA, 
 
 Petrarca relates to Boccaccio how there was revealed to him 
 in a dream ait allegory of Love, Sleep, and Death. 
 
 Pelrarca. I have had as many dreams as most men. 
 We are all made up of them, as the webs of the spider 
 are particles of her own vitality. But how infinitely less 
 do we profit by them ! I will relate to you, before we 
 separate, one among the multitude of mine, as coming 
 the nearest to the poetry of yours, and as having been not 
 totally useless to me. Often have I reflected on it ; 
 sometimes with pensiveness, with sadness never. 
 
 Boccaccio. Then, Francesco, if you had with you as 
 copious a choice of dreams as clustered on the elm-trees 
 where the Sibyl led iEneas, this, in preference to the 
 whole swarm of them, is the queen dream for me. 
 
 Petrarca. When I was younger I was fond of wander- 
 ing in solitary places, and never was afraid of slumbering 
 in woods and grottoes. Among the chief pleasures of my 
 life, and among the commonest of my occupations, was 
 the bringing before me such heroes and heroines of anti- 
 quity, such poets and sages, such of the prosperous and 
 the unfortunate as most interested me by their courage, 
 their wisdom, their eloquence, or their adventures. En- 
 gaging them in the conversations best suited to their 
 characters, I knew perfectly their manners, their steps, 
 their voices, and often did I moisten with my tears the 
 models I had been forming of the less happy. * * * Allegory 
 had few attractions for me, believing it to be the delight 
 in general of idle, frivolous, inexcursive minds, in whose 
 mansions there is neither hall nor portal to receive the
 
 THE DREAM OF PETRARCA. 1 73 
 
 loftier of the Passions. A stranger to the Affections, she 
 holds a low station among the handmaidens of Poetry, 
 being fit for little but an apparition in a mask. I had 
 reflected for some time on this subject, when, wearied 
 with the length of my walk over the mountains, and 
 finding a soft old molehill, covered with grey grass, by 
 the way-side, I laid my head upon it and slept. I 
 can not tell how long it was before a species of dream or 
 vision came over me. 
 
 Two beautiful youths appeared beside me ; each was 
 winged ; but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill 
 adapted to flight. One of them, whose voice was the 
 softest I ever heard, looking at me frequently, said to 
 to the other, " He is under my guardianship for the 
 present : do not awaken him with that feather." Me- 
 thought, on hearing the whisper, I saw something like 
 the feather on an arrow ; and then the arrow itself ; the 
 whole of it, even to the point ; although he carried it in 
 such a manner that it was difficult at first to discover more 
 than a palm's length of it ; the rest of the shaft (and the 
 whole of the barb) was behind his ankles. 
 
 "This feather never awakens any one," replied he, 
 rather petulantly ; "but it brings more of confident security, 
 and more of cherished dreams, than you, without me, are 
 capable of imparting." 
 
 "Be it so !" answered the gentler; "none is less in- 
 clined to quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom 
 you have wounded grievously call upon me for succour ; 
 but so little am I disposed to thwart you, it is seldom I 
 venture to do more for them than to whisper a few words 
 of comfort in passing. How many reproaches on these 
 occasions have been cast upon me for indifference and 
 infidelity ! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same 
 terms, as upon you ! " 
 
 " Odd enough that we, O Sleep ! should be thought so
 
 174 NARRATIVE. 
 
 alike!" said Love, contemptuously. " Yonder is he whc 
 bears a nearer resemblance to you : the dullest have 
 observed it." I fancied I turned my eyes to where he 
 vk'as pointing, and saw at a distance the figure he desig- 
 nated. Meanwhile the contention went on uninterruptedly. 
 Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his benefits. 
 Love recapitulated them ; but only that he might assert 
 his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to 
 decide, and to choose my patron. Under the influence, 
 first of the one, then of the other, I sprang from repose 
 to rapture, I alighted from rapture on repose, and 
 knew not which was sweetest. Love was very angry 
 with me, and declared he would cross me throughout the 
 whole of my existence. Whatever I might on other 
 occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too 
 surely the conviction that he would keep his word. At 
 last, before the close of the altercation, the third Genius 
 had advanced, and stood near us. I can not tell how I 
 knew him, but I knew him to be the Genius of Death. 
 Breathless as I was at beholding him, I soon became 
 familiar with his features. First they seemed only calm ; 
 presently they grew contemplative ; and lastly beautiful : 
 those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less har- 
 monious, less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, 
 with a countenance in which there was somewhat of 
 anxiety, somewhat of disdain ; and cried, " Go away ! go 
 away ! nothing that thou touchest, lives ! " 
 
 " Say rather, child ! " replied the advancing form, and 
 advancing grew loftier and statelier, "say rather that 
 nothing of beautiful or of glorious lives its own true life 
 until my wing hath passed over it." 
 
 Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his fore- 
 finger the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head ; but replied 
 not. Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, J 
 dreaded him less and less and scarcely looked toward him.
 
 THE DREAM OF PETRARCA. 1 75 
 
 The milder and calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I 
 took courage to contemplate him, regarded me with more 
 and more complacency. He held neither flower nor 
 arrow as the others did ; but throwing back the clusters 
 of dark curls that overshadowed liis countenance, he pre- 
 sented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank 
 on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. 
 He smiled, not without an expression of pity, at perceiving 
 my diffidence, my timidity : for I remembered how soft 
 was the hand of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was 
 Love's. By degrees I became ashamed of my ingratitude ; 
 and turning my face away, I held out my arms, and I 
 felt my neck within his. Composure strewed and allayed 
 all the throbbings of my bosom ; the coolness of freshest 
 morning breathed around, the heavens seemed to open 
 above me ; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer 
 rested on my head. I would now have looked for those 
 others ; but knowing my intention by my gesture, he said 
 consolatorily, 
 
 "Sleep is on his way to the Earth, where many are 
 calling him ; but it is not to these he hastens ; for every 
 call only makes him fly farther off Sedately and gravely 
 as he looks, he is nearly as capricious and volatile as the 
 more arrogant and ferocious one." 
 
 "And Love!" said I, "whither is he departed? If 
 not too late, I would propitiate and appease him." 
 
 " He who can not follow me, he who can not overtake 
 and pass me," said the Genius, " is unworthy of the name, 
 the most glorious in earth or heaven. Look up ! Love 
 is yonder, and ready to receive thee. " 
 
 I looked : the earth was under me : I saw only the 
 clear blue sky, and something brighter above it.
 
 176 NARRATIVE. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 THE FATE OF A YOUNG POET. 
 
 Dr. Glaston, an Oxford preacher, tells the story of young 
 Wellcrby to one of his pupils aspiring to becotne a poet. 
 
 Ethelbekt ! I think thou walkest but little ; otherwise 
 I should take thee with me, some fine fresh morning, 
 as far as unto the first hamlet on the Cherwell. There 
 lies young Wellerby, who, the year before, was wont to 
 pass many hours of the day poetising amidst the ruins of 
 Godstow nunnery. It is said that he bore a fondness 
 toward a young maiden in that place, formerly a village, 
 now containing but two old farmhouses. In my memory 
 there were still extant several dormitories. Some love- 
 sick girl had recollected an ancient name, and had engraven 
 on a stone with a garden-nail, which lay in rust near it, 
 Poore Rosamund. 
 
 I entered these precincts, and beheld a youth of manly 
 form and countenance, washing and wiping a stone with 
 a handful of wet grass ; and on my going up to him, and 
 asking what he had found, he showed it to me. 
 
 The next time I saw him was near the banks of the 
 Cherwell. He had tried, it appears, to forget or overcome 
 his foolish passion, and had applied his whole mind unto 
 study. He was foiled by his competitor ; and now he 
 sought consolation in poetry. Whether this opened the 
 wounds that had closed in his youthful breast, and malig- 
 nant Love, in his revenge, poisoned it ; or whether the 
 disappointment he had experienced in finding others pre- 
 ferred to him, first in the paths of fortune, then in those of 
 the muses ; — he was thouglit to have died broken-hearted. 
 
 About half a mile from St. John's College is the 
 termination of a natural terrace, with the Cherwell close
 
 THE FATE OF A YOUNG POET. Xfj 
 
 under it, in some places bright with yellow and red 
 flowers glancing and glowing through the stream, and 
 suddenly in others dark with the shadows of many different 
 trees, in broad overbending thickets, and with rushes 
 spear-high, and party-coloured flags. After a walk in 
 midsummer, the immersion of our hands into the cool 
 and closing grass is surely not the least among our animal 
 delights. I was just seated, and the first sensation of 
 rest vibrated in me gently, as though it were music to the 
 limbs, when I discovered by a hollow in the herbage that 
 another was near. The long meadow-sweet and bloom- 
 ing burnet half concealed from me him whom the earth 
 was about to hide totally and for ever. 
 
 "Master Bachelor !" said I, "it is ill-sleeping by the 
 water-side." No answer was returned. I arose, went to 
 the place, and recognised poor Wellerby. His brow was 
 moist, his cheek was warm. A few moments earlier, and 
 that dismal lake whereunto and wherefrom the waters 
 of life, the buoyant blood, ran no longer, might have re- 
 ceived one vivifying ray reflected from my poor casement. 
 I might not indeed have comforted — I have often failed : 
 but there is one who never has ; and the strengthener of 
 the bruised reed should have been with us. 
 
 Remembering that his mother did abide one mile 
 further on, I walked forward to the mansion, and asked 
 her what tidings she lately had received of her son. She 
 replied, that having given up his mind to light studies, 
 the fellows of the college would not elect him. The 
 master had warned him beforehand to abandon his selfish 
 poetry, take up manfully the quarter staff of logic, and 
 wield it for St. John's, come who would into the ring. 
 " ' We want our man,' said he to me, 'and your son hath 
 /ailed us in the hour of need. Madam, he hath been 
 foully beaten in the schools by one he might have 
 swallowed, with due exercise.' 
 
 N
 
 178 NARRATIVE. 
 
 " I rated him, told him I was poor, and he knew it. 
 He was stung, and threw himself upon my neck, and 
 wept. Twelve days have passed since, and only three' 
 rainy ones. I hear he has been seen upon the knoll 
 yonder, but hither he hath not come. I trust he knows 
 at last the value of time, and I shall be heartily glad to 
 see him after this accession of knowledge. Twelve days, 
 it is tnie, are rather a chink than a gap in time ; yet, O 
 gentle sir ! they are that chink which makes the vase 
 quite valueless. There are light words which may never 
 be shaken off the mind they fall on. My child, who was 
 hurt by me, will not let me see the marks." 
 
 "Lady !" said I, "none are left upon him. Be com- 
 forted ! thou shalt see him this hour. All that thy God 
 hath not taken is yet thine." 
 
 She looked at me earnestly, and would have then 
 asked something, but her voice failed her. There was 
 no agony, no motion, save in the lips and cheeks. Being 
 the widow of one who fought under Hawkins, she remem- 
 bered his courage and sustained the shock, saying calmly, 
 " God's will be done ! I pray that he find me as worthy 
 as he findeth me vidlling to join them." 
 
 Now, in her unearthly thoughts, she had led her only 
 son to the bosom of her husband ; and in her spirit (which 
 often is permitted to pass the gates of death with holy 
 love) she left them both with their Creator. 
 
 The curate of the village sent those who should bring 
 home the body ; and some days afterwards he came unto 
 me, beseeching me to write the epitaph. Being no friend 
 to stone-cutter's charges, I entered not into biography, 
 but wrote these few words : 
 
 Joannes Wellerby, 
 
 LiTERARUM Qu^SIVIT GlORIAM, 
 
 ViDET Dei.
 
 II. 
 
 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 XXXVIII.— THE ORIGIN OF IDOLATRY. 
 
 Dr. Glaston discourses. 
 
 In the earlier ages of mankind, your Greelc and Latin 
 authors inform you, there went forth sundry worthies, 
 men of might, to deliver, not wandering damsels, albeit 
 for those likewise they had stowage, but low-conditioned 
 men, who fell under the displeasure of the higher, and 
 groaned in thraldom and captivity. And these mighty 
 ones were believed to have done such services to poor 
 humanity, that their memoiy grew greater than they, as 
 shadows do than substances at day-fall. And the sons 
 and grandsons of the delivered did laud and magnify 
 those glorious names ; and some in gratitude, and some 
 in tribulation, did ascend the hills, which appeared unto 
 them as altars bestrown with flowers and herbage for 
 heaven's acceptance. And many did go far into the 
 quiet groves, under lofty trees, looking for whatever was 
 mightiest and most protecting. And in such places did 
 they cry aloud unto the mighty, who had left them. 
 
 Return! return! help us! help us! be blessed! for 
 ever blessed ! 
 
 Vain men ! but, had they stayed there, not evil. Out 
 of gratitude, purest gratitude, rose idolatry. For the 
 devil sees the fairest, and soils it. 
 
 In these our days, methinks, whatever other sins we 
 may fall into, such idolatry is the least do.ngerous. For,
 
 l82 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 neither on the one side is there much disposition for 
 gratitude, nor on the other much zeal to deliver the 
 innocent and oppressed. Even this deliverance, although 
 a merit, and a high one, is not the highest. Forgiveness 
 is beyond it. Forgive, or ye shall not be forgiven. 
 This ye may do every day ; for if ye find not offences, 
 ye feign them ; and surely ye may remove your own 
 work, if ye may remove another's. To rescue requires 
 more thought and wariness : learn then the easier lesson 
 first. Afterwards, when ye rescue any from another's 
 violence, or from his own (which oftentimes is more 
 dangerous, as the enemies are within not only the pene- 
 trals of his house but of his heart), bind up his wounds 
 before ye send him on his way. Should ye at any time 
 overtake the erring, and resolve to deliver him up, I will 
 tell you whither to conduct him. Conduct him to his 
 Lord and Master, whose household he hath left. It is 
 better to consign him to Christ his Saviour than to man 
 his murderer : it is better to bid him live than to bid him 
 die. The one word our Teacher and Preserver said, 
 the other our enemy and destroyer. Bring him back 
 again, the stray, the lost one ! bring him back, not with 
 clubs and cudgels, not with halberts and halters, but 
 generously and gently, and with the linking of the arm. 
 In this posture shall God above smile upon ye : in this 
 posture of yours he shall recognise again his beloved 
 Son upon earth. Do ye likewise, and depart in peace. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Melanchlhon. I'he wickedness of idolatry does not 
 consist in any inadequate representation of the Deity, 
 for whether our hands or our hearts represent him, the 
 representation is almost alike inadequate. Eveiy man 
 does what he hopes and believes will be most pleasing
 
 RELIGION 183 
 
 to his God ; and God, in his wisdom and mercy, will 
 not punish gratitude in its error. 
 
 Calvin. How do you know that ? 
 
 Melanchlhon. Because I know his loving -kindness, 
 and experience it daily. 
 
 Calvin. If men blindly and wilfully run into error 
 when God hath shown the right way, he will visit it on 
 their souls. 
 
 Melanchlhon. He will observe from the serenity of 
 heaven, a serenity emanating from his presence, that 
 there is scarcely any work of his creation on earth which 
 hath not excited, in some people or other, a remem- 
 brance, an admiration, a symbol of his power. The 
 evil of idolatry is this. Rival nations have raised up 
 rival deities ; war hath been denounced in the name of 
 heaven ; men have murdered for the love of God : and 
 such impiety hath darkened all the regions of the world, 
 that the Lord of all things hath been invoked by all 
 simultaneously as the Lord of Hosts. 
 
 XL. — DIFFERENCES OF OPINION IN RELIGION. 
 
 Melanchlhon. I remember no discussion on religion in 
 which religion was not a sufferer by it, if mutual forbear- 
 ance, and belief in another's good motives and intentions, 
 are (as 1 must always think they are) its proper anS neces- 
 sary appurtenances. 
 
 Calvin. Would you never make inquiries ? 
 
 Melanchlhon. Yes ; and as deep as possible ; but into 
 my own heart ; for that belongs to me ; and God hath 
 entrusted it most especially to my own superintendence. 
 
 Calvin. We must also keep others from going astray, 
 by showing them the right road, and, if they are obsti- 
 nate in resistance, then by coercing and chastising tliein 
 through the magistrate.
 
 I 84 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Melanchthon. It is sorrowful to dream that we are 
 scourges in God's hand, and that he appoints for us no 
 better worit than lacerating one another. I am no enemy 
 to inquiry, where I see abuses, and where I suspect false- 
 hood. The Romanists, our great oppressors, think it 
 presumptuous to search into things abstruse ; and let us 
 do them the justice to acknowledge that, if it is a fault, 
 it is one which they never commit. But surely we are 
 kept sufficiently in the dark by the infirmity of our 
 nature : no need to creep into a corner and put our 
 hands before our eyes. To throw away or turn aside 
 from God's best gifts is verily a curious sign of obedience 
 and submission. He not only hath given us a garden to 
 walk in, but he hath planted it also for us, and he wills 
 as to know the nature and properties of eveiything that 
 grows up within it. Unless we look into them and 
 handle them and register them, how shall we discover 
 this to be salutary, that to be poisonous ; this annual, 
 that perennial ? 
 
 Calvin. Here we coincide ; and I am pleased to find 
 in you less apathy than I expected. It becomes us, more- 
 over, to denounce God's vengeance on a sinful world. 
 
 Melancfithon. Is it not better and pleasanter to show 
 the wanderer by what course of life it may be avoided ? 
 is it not better and pleasanter to enlarge on God's pro- 
 mises of salvation, than to insist on his denunciations of 
 wrath ? is it not better and pleasanter to lead the wretched 
 up to his mercy, than to hurl them by thousands under 
 his fiery chariot ? 
 
 Calvin. We have no option. By our heavenly Father 
 many are called, but few are chosen. 
 
 Melanchthon. There is scarcely a text in the Holy 
 Scriptures to wliich there is not an opposite text written 
 m characters equally large and legible ; and there has 
 usually been a sword laid upon each. Even the weakest
 
 RELIGION. 185 
 
 disputant is made so conceited by what he calls religion, 
 as to think himself wiser than the wisest who thinks 
 differently from him ; and he becomes so ferocious by 
 what he calls holding it fast, that he appears to me as ii 
 he held it fast much in the same manner as a terrier 
 holds a rat, and you have about as much trouble in 
 getting it from between his incisors. When at last it 
 does come out, it is mangled, distorted, and extinct. 
 
 Calvin. M. Melanchthon ! you have taken a very per- 
 verse view of the subject. Such language as yours would 
 extinguish that zeal which is to enlighten the nations, and 
 to consume the tares by which they are overrun. 
 
 Melanchthon. The tares and the corn are so intermingled 
 throughout the wide plain which our God hath given us 
 to cultivate, that I would rather turn the patient and 
 humble into it to weed it carefully, than a thresher who 
 would thresh wheat and tare together before the grain is 
 ripened, or who would carry fire into the furrows when 
 it is. 
 
 Calvin. Yet even the most gentle, and of the gentler 
 sex, are inflamed with a holy zeal in the propagation of 
 the faith. 
 
 Melanchthon. I do not censure them for their earnest- 
 ness in maintaining truth. We not only owe our birth 
 to them, but also the better part of our education ; and 
 if w^e were not divided after their first lesson, we should 
 continue to live in a widening circle of brothers and 
 sisters all our lives. After our infancy and removal from 
 home, the use of the rod is the principal thing we learn 
 of our alien preceptors ; and, catching their dictatorial 
 language, we soon begin to exercise their instrument of 
 enforcing it, and swing it right and left, even after we 
 are paralysed by age, and until Death's hand strikes it 
 out of ours. I am sorry you have cited the gentler part 
 of the creation to appear before you, obliged as I am to
 
 I 86 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 bear witness that I myself have known a few specimens 
 of the fair sex become a shade less fair, among the per- 
 plexities of religion. Indeed I am credibly informed that 
 certain of them have lost their patience, running up and 
 down in the dust where many roads diverge. This surely 
 is not walking humbly with their God, nor walking with 
 him at all ; for those who walk with him are always 
 readier to hear his voice than their own, and to admit 
 that it is more persuasive. But at last the zealot is so 
 infatuated by the serious mockeries he imitates and 
 repeats, that he really takes his own voice for God's. Is 
 it not wonderful that the words of eternal life should 
 have hitherto produced only eternal litigation ; and that, 
 in our progress heavenward, we should think it expedient 
 to plant unthrifty thorns over bitter wells of blood in the 
 wilderness we leave behind us i 
 
 XLI, 
 
 Melanckthon. Calvin ! I beseech you, do you who guide 
 and govern so many, do you (whatever others may) spare 
 your brethren. Doubtful as I am of lighter texts, blown 
 backward and forward at the opening of opposite win- 
 dows, I am convinced and certain of one grand immove- 
 able verity. It sounds strange ; it sounds contradictoiy. 
 
 Calvin. I am curious to hear it. 
 
 Melanckthon, You shall. This is the tenet. There 
 is nothing on earth divine beside humanity. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Romilly. The worst of unbelief is that which regrets 
 the goodness of our heavenly Father, and from which 
 there springs in us a desire of breaking what we cannot 
 bend, and of twisting wire after wire, and tying knot
 
 RELIGION. 187 
 
 after knot, in his scourge. Christianity, as I understand 
 it, lies not in belief but in action. That servant is a 
 good servant who obeys the just orders of his master ; 
 not he who repeats his words, measures his stature, or 
 traces his pedigree ! On all occasions, it is well to be 
 a little more than tolerant ; especially when a wiser and 
 better man than ourselves thinks differently from us. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Washington. Religion is too pure for corporations : it 
 is best meditated on in our privacy, and best acted on 
 in our ordinaiy intercourse with mankind. If we believe 
 in revelation, we must believe that God wishes us to 
 converse with him but little, since the only form of 
 address he has prescribed to us is an extremely short 
 one. He has placed us where our time may be more 
 beneficially employed in mutually kind offices, and he does 
 not desire us to tell him, hour after hour, how dearly we 
 love him, or how much we want from him : he knows 
 these things exactly. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Milton. Methinks thou knowest more about the poets 
 than about the divines. Curious name ! as if the study 
 and profession of what relates to divinity made the man 
 himself divine, as the study and profession of physic 
 entitles one, and justly, to be called a physician. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Mai-vel. Never do I take the liberty to question or 
 examine any man on his religion, or to look over his 
 shoulder on his account-book with God. But I know 
 that Milton and every other great poet must be reli-
 
 l88 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 gious : for there is nothing so godlike as a love of order, 
 with a power of bringing great things into it. This 
 power, unHmited in the one, limited (but incalculably 
 and inconceivably great), in the other, belongs to the 
 Deity and the poet. 
 
 Bishop Parker. I shudder. 
 
 Marvel. Wherefore ? at seeing a man, what he was 
 designed to be by his Maker, his Maker's image? But 
 pardon me, my lord ! the surprise of such a novelty is 
 enough to shock you. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Parker. Let us piously hope, Mr. Marvel, that God 
 in his good time may turn Mr. Milton from the error of 
 his ways, and incline his heart to repentance, and that 
 so he may finally be prepared for death. 
 
 Marvel. The wicked can never be prepared for it, the 
 good always are. What is the preparation which so 
 many ruffled wrists point out ? To gabble over prayer 
 and praise and confession and contrition. My lord ! 
 heaven is not to be won by short hard work at the last, 
 as some of us take a degree at the university, after much 
 irregularity and negligence. I prefer a steady pace 
 from the outset to the end, coming in cool, and dis- 
 mounting quietly. Instead of which I have known 
 many old playfellows of the devil spring up suddenly 
 from their beds and strike at him treacherously ; while 
 he, without a cuff, laughed and made grimaces in the 
 corner of the room. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Lord Brooke. A forced match between a man and his 
 religion sours his temper, and leaves a barren bed.
 
 RELIGION. 1 89 
 
 XLVIII. THE EFFICACY OF PRAYER. 
 
 Magliabecchi. Among your other works I find a manu- 
 script on the inefficacy of prayer. I defended you to my 
 superiors by showing that Cicero had asserted things 
 incredible to himself, merely for the sake of argument, 
 and had probably written them before he had fixed in his 
 mind the personages to whom they should be attributed 
 in his dialogues ; that, in short, they were brought for- 
 ward for no other purpose than discussion and explo- 
 sion. This impiety was forgiven. But every man in 
 Italy has a favourite saint, for whose honour he deems 
 it meritorious to draw (I had almost said the sword) the 
 stiletto. 
 
 Middletojt. It would be safer to attempt dragging God 
 from his throne than to split a spangle on their petti- 
 coats, or to puff a grain of powder from their wigs. 
 This I know. Nothing in my writings is intended to 
 wound the jealousy of the Italians. Truth, like the 
 juice of the poppy, in small quantities calms men, in 
 larger heats and irritates them, and is attended by fatal 
 consequences in its excess. For which reason, with 
 plain ground before me, I would not expatiate largely, 
 and often made an argument, that offered itself, give way 
 altogether and leave room for inferences. My treatise 
 on prayer was not to be published in my lifetime. 
 
 Magliabecchi. And why at any time ? Supposing 
 prayer to be totally inefficacious in the object, is not the 
 mind exalted, the heart purified, are not our affections 
 chastened, our desires moderated, our enjoyments en- 
 larged, by this intercourse with the Deity .? and are not 
 men the better, as certainly they are the happier, for a 
 belief that he interferes in their concerns. They are 
 persuaded that there is something conditional between 
 them, and that, if they labour under the commission ol
 
 I go REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 crimes, their voice will be inaudible as the voice of one 
 under the nightmare. 
 
 Middletou. I wished to demonstrate, that we often 
 treat God in the same manner as we should treat some 
 doting or some passionate old man : we feign, we flatter, 
 we sing, we cry, we gesticulate. 
 
 Magliabecchi. Worship him in your own manner, 
 according to the sense he has given you ; and let those 
 who cannot exercise that sense, rely upon those v/ho can. 
 Be convinced, Mr. Middleton, that you never will sup- 
 plant the received ideas of God : be no less convinced 
 that the sum of your labours in this field, will be, to 
 leave the ground loose beneath you, and that he who 
 comes after you will sink. » * ♦ Suppose a belief in the 
 efficacy of prayer to be a belief altogether irrational — 
 you may : I never can — suppose it to be insanity itself, 
 would you, meeting a young man who had wandered 
 over many countries in search of a father, until his 
 intellects are deranged, and who, in the fulness of his 
 heart, addresses an utter stranger as the lost parent, 
 clings to him, kisses him, sobs upon his breast, and 
 finds comfort only by repeating "Father! father!" — 
 would you, Mr. Middleton, say to this affectionate fond 
 creature, "Go home, sit quiet, be silent!" and per- 
 suade him that his father is lost to him ? 
 
 Middleton. God forbid. 
 
 Magliabecchi. You have done it : do it no more : the 
 madman has not heard you ; and the father will pardon 
 you when you meet
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Dante. Greatness is to goodness what gravel is to pro- 
 phyry ; tlie one is a moveable accumulation, swept along 
 the surface of the earth ; the other stands fixed, and solid, 
 and alone, above the violence of war and of the tempest ; 
 above all that is residuous of a wasted world. Little 
 men build up great ones ; but the snow colossus soon 
 melts : the good stand under the eye of God ; and there- 
 fore stand. 
 
 Diogenes. The great man is he who hath nothing to 
 fear and nothing to hope from another. It is he who, 
 while he demonstrates the iniquity of the laws, and is 
 able to correct them, obeys them peaceably. It is he 
 who looks on the ambitious both as weak and fraudulent. 
 It is he who hath no disposition or occasion for any kind 
 of deceit, no reason for being or for appearing different 
 from what he is. It is he who can call together the most 
 select company when it pleases him. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Plato. There are great men of various kinds. 
 Diogenes. No, by my beard, are there not. 
 Plato. What ! are there not great captains, great 
 geometricians, great dialectians?
 
 192 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Diogenes. Who denied it? A great man was the 
 postulate. Try thy hand now at the powerful one. 
 
 Platp. On seeing the exercise of power, a child cannot 
 doubt who is powerful, more or less ; for power is rela- 
 tive. All men are weak, not only if compared to the 
 Demiurges, but if compared to the sea or the earth, or 
 certain things upon each of them, such as elephants and 
 whales. So placid and tranquil is the scene around us, 
 we can hardly bring to mind the images of strength and 
 force, the precipices, the abysses 
 
 Diogenes. Prythee hold thy loose tongue, twinkling 
 and glittering like a serpent's in the midst of luxuriance 
 and rankness. Did never this reflection of thine warn 
 thee that, in human life, the precipices and abysses would 
 be much further from our admiration, if we were less in- 
 considerate, selfish, and vile? I will not however stop 
 thee long, for thou wert going on quite consistently. As 
 thy great men are fighters and wranglers, so thy mightj 
 things upon the earth and sea are troublesome and in- 
 tractable incumbrances. Thou perceivedst not what was 
 greater in the former case, neither art thou aware what 
 is greater in this. Didst thou feel the gentle air that 
 passed us ? 
 
 Plalo. I did not just then. 
 
 Diogenes. That air, so gentle, so imperceptible to thee, 
 is more powerful not only than all the creatures that 
 breathe and live by it ; not only than all the oaks of the 
 forest, which it rears in an age and shatters in a moment ; 
 not only than all the monsters of the sea, but than the 
 sea itself, which it tosses up into foam and breaks against 
 every rock in its vast circumference ; for it carries in its 
 bosom, with perfect calm and composure, the incontrollable 
 ocean and the peopled earth, like an atom of a feather. 
 
 To the world's turmoils and pageantries is attracted, 
 not only the admiration of the populace, but the zeal ol
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 193 
 
 the orator, the enthusiasm of the poet, the investigation 
 of the historian, and the contemplation of the philosopher : 
 yet how silent and invisible are they in the depths of air ! 
 Do I say in those depths and deserts ? No ; I say at the 
 distance of a swallow's flight ; at the distance she rises 
 above us, ere a sentence brief as this could be uttered. 
 
 What are its mines and mountains? Fragments welded 
 up and dislocated by the expansion of water from below ; 
 the most part reduced to mud, the rest to splinters. 
 Afterwards sprang up fire in many places, and again tore 
 and mangled the mutilated carcase, and still growls over 
 it. What are its cities and ramparts, and moles and 
 monuments ? Segments of a fragment, which one man 
 puts together and another throws down. Here we 
 stumble upon thy great ones at their work. Show me 
 now, if thou canst, in history, three great warriors, or 
 three great statesmen, who have acted otherwise than 
 spiteful children. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Anaxagoras. It will appear wonderful and perhaps 
 incredible to future generations, that what are now con- 
 sidered the two highest gifts of man, oratory and poetry, 
 should be employed, the one chiefly in exciting, the other 
 in emblazoning, deeds of slaughter and devastation. If 
 we could see, in the nature of things, a child capable of 
 forming a live tiger, and found him exercising his power 
 of doing it, I think we should say to him, 
 
 "You might employ your time better, child 1" 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Lord Brooke. Merciful heaven ! and for the fruition of 
 an hour's drunkenness, from which they must awaken 
 

 
 194 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 with heaviness, pain, and teiTor, men consume a whole 
 crop of their kind at one harvest-home. Shame upon 
 those light ones who carol at the feast of blood ! and 
 worse upon those graver ones who nail upon their 
 escutcheon the name of great. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Viitoria Colonna. There are various kinds of greatness, 
 as we all know ; however, the most part of those who pro- 
 fess one species is ready to acknowledge no other. The 
 first and chief is intellectual. But surely those also are to 
 be admitted into the number of the eminently great, who 
 move large masses by action, by throwing their own 
 ardent minds into the midst of popular assemblies or 
 conflicting armies, compelling, directing, and subjecting. 
 This greatness is indeed far from so desirable as that 
 which shines serenely from above, to be our hope, com- 
 fort, and guidance ; to lead us in spirit from a world of 
 sad realities into one fresh from the poet's hand, and 
 blooming with all the variety of his creation. Hence the 
 most successful generals, and the most powerful kings, 
 will always be considered by the judicious and dispas- 
 sionate as invested with less dignity, less extensive and 
 enduring authority, than great philosophers and great 
 poets. 
 
 Michelangelo. By the wise indeed ; but little men, 
 like little birds, are attracted and caught by false lights. 
 
 T.v. 
 
 Epicunts. External reverence should be paid imspar- 
 ingly to the higher magistrates of every country who 
 perform their offices exemplarily : yet they are not on this 
 account to be placed in the same degree with men of
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. I 95 
 
 primary genius. They never exalt the human race, and 
 rarely benefit it ; and their benefits are local and transi- 
 tory, while those of a great writer are universal and 
 eternal. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Sidney. Poets are in general prone to melancholy ; yet 
 the most plaintive ditty hath imparted a fuller joy, and 
 of longer duration, to its composer, than the conquest of 
 Persia to the Macedonian. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Many can rule and more can fight, 
 But few give myriad hearts delight. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Marvel. With the greatest rulers upon earth, head and 
 crown drop together, and are overlooked. It is true, we 
 read of them in history ; but we also read in history of 
 crocodiles and hyaenas. With great writers, whether in 
 poetry or prose, what falls away is scarcely more or other 
 than a vesture. The features of the man are imprinted on 
 his works ; and more lamps burn over them, and more 
 religiously, than are lighted in temples or churches. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Sidney. How many, who have abandoned for public 
 life the studies of philosophy and poetry, may be com- 
 pared to brooks and rivers, which in the beginning of 
 their course have assuaged our thirst, and have invited 
 us to tranquillity by their bright resemblance of it, and
 
 ig6 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 which afterward partake the nature of that vast body 
 whereinto they run, its dreariness, its bitterness, its foam, 
 its storms, its everlasting noise and commotion. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Cicero. How much greater would the greatest man 
 appear, if any one about him could perceive those innumer- 
 able filaments of thought, which break as they arise from 
 the brain, and the slenderest of which is worth all the 
 wisdom of many at v/hose discretion lies the felicity of 
 nations ! 
 
 LXl. 
 
 Lord Peterborough. It is something to have an influ- 
 ence on the fortunes of mankind : it is greatly more to 
 have an influence on their intellects. Such is the differ- 
 ence between men of office and men of genius, between 
 computed and uncomputed rank. 
 
 LXII. — THE FAME OF MILTON, 
 
 Bishop Parker. Most happy am I to encounter you, Mr. 
 Marvel. It is some time, I think, since we met. May 
 I take the liberty of inquiring what brought you into 
 such a lonely quarter as Bunhill-fields ? 
 
 Marvel. My lord, I return at this instant from visiting 
 an old friend of ours, hard by, in Artillery Walk, who, 
 you will be happy to hear, bears his blindness and 
 asthma with truly Christian courage. 
 
 Parker. And pray, who may that old friend be, Mr. 
 Marvel ? 
 
 Marvel. Honest John Milton. 
 
 Parker. The same gentleman whose ingenious poem,
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 1 97 
 
 on our first parents, you praised in some elegant verses 
 prefixed to it ? 
 
 Marvel. The same who likewise, on many occasions, 
 merited and obtained your lordship's approbation. 
 
 Parker. I am happy to understand that no harsh 
 measures were taken against him, on the return of our 
 most gracious Sovereign. And it occurs to me that you, 
 Mr. Marvel, were earnest in his behalf. Indeed I my- 
 self might have stirred upon it, had Mr. Milton solicited 
 me in the hour of need. 
 
 Marvel. He is grateful to the friends who consulted 
 at the same time his dignity and his safety : but gratitude 
 can never be expected to grow on a soil hardened by 
 solicitation. Those who are the most ambitious of power 
 are often the least ambitious of glory. It requires but 
 little sagacity to foresee that a name will become invested 
 with eternal brightness by belonging to a benefactor of 
 Milton. / might have served him I is not always the 
 soliloquy of late compassion or of virtuous repentance : it 
 is frequently the cry of blind and impotent and wounded 
 pride, angry at itself for having neglected a good bargain, 
 a rich reversion. Believe me, my lord bishop, there are 
 few whom God has promoted to serve the truly great. 
 They are never to be superseded, nor are their names to 
 be obliterated in earth or heaven 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Parker. After all, I doubt whether much of his doc- 
 trine is remaining in the public mind. 
 
 Maj-vel. Others are not inclined to remember all that 
 we remember, and will not attend to us if we propose to 
 tell them half. Water will take up but a certain quantity 
 of salt, even of the finest and purest. If the short 
 memories of men are to be quoted against the excellence
 
 198 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 of instruction, your lordship would never have censured 
 them from the pulpit for forgetting what was delivered by 
 their Saviour * * * I am confident that Milton is heedless 
 of how little weight he is held by those who are of none ; 
 and that he never looks towards those somewhat more 
 eminent, between whom and himself there have crept 
 the waters of oblivion. As the pearl ripens in the ob- 
 scurity of its shell, so ripens in the tomb all the fame 
 that is truly precious. In fame he will be happier than 
 in friendship. Were it possible that one among the 
 faithful of the angels could have suffered wounds and 
 dissolution in his conflict with the false, I should scarcely 
 feel greater awe at discovering on some bleak mountain 
 the bones of this our mighty defender, once shining in 
 celestial panoply, once glowing at the trumpet-blast of 
 God, but not proof against the desperate and the damned, 
 than I have felt at entering the humble abode of Milton, 
 whose spirit already reaches heaven, yet whose corporeal 
 frame hath no quiet or safe resting-place here below. 
 And shall not I, who loved him early, have the lonely 
 and sad privilege to love him still? or shall fidelity to 
 power be a virtue, and fidelity to tribulation an offence ? 
 
 I.XIV. 
 
 Southey. Great men will always pay deference to 
 greater : little men will not ; because the little are 
 fractious : and the weaker they are, the more obstinate 
 and crooked. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Euhnlides (to Demosthenes). In proportion as men 
 approach you, they applaud you. To those far distant 
 and far below, you seem as little as they seem to you. 
 Fellows who cannot come near enough to reverence you,
 
 FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 1 99 
 
 think they are only a stone's throw distant ; and they 
 throw it. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 EubuUdes. It appears to be among the laws of Nature 
 that the mighty of intellect should be pursued and carped 
 at by the little, as the solitary flight of one great bird is 
 followed by the twittering petulance of many smaller. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Marvel. Usually men, in distributing fame, do as old 
 maids and old misers do : they give everything to those 
 who want nothing. In literature, often a man's solitude, 
 and oftener his magnitude, disinclines us from helping 
 him if we find him down. We are fonder of wanning 
 our hands at a fire already in a blaze than of blowing one. 
 
 Lxvin. 
 
 Barroio. Very wise men, and very wary and inquisi- 
 tive, walk over the earth, and are ignorant not only what 
 minerals lie beneath, but what herbs and foliage they are 
 treading. Some time afterward, and probably some dis- 
 tant time, a specimen of ore is extracted and exhibited ; 
 then another ; lastly the bearing and diameter of the 
 vein are observed and measured. Thus it is with writers 
 who are to have a currency through ages. In the begin- 
 ning they are confounded with most others ; soon they 
 fall into some secondary class ; next, into one rather less 
 obscure and humble ; by degrees they are liberated from 
 the dross and lumber that hamper them ; and, being 
 once above the heads of contemporaries, rise slowly and 
 waverlngly, then regularly and erectly, then rapidly and 
 majestically, till the vision strains and aches as it pursues 
 them in their ethereal elevation.
 
 200 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Barrow. No very great man ever reached the standard 
 of his greatness in the crowd of his contemporaries. 
 This hath always been reserved for the secondary. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Leontion. The voice comes deepest from the sepulchre, 
 and a great name hath its root in the dead body. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Diogenes. The sun colours the sky most deeply and 
 most diffusely when he hath sunk below the horizon ; and 
 they who never said " How beneficently he shines !" say 
 at last, " How brightly he set !" 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Boccaccio. Not only the fame of Marcellus, but every 
 other, Crcscit ocailto velut arbor cevo ; and that which 
 makes the greatest vernal shoot is apt to make the 
 least autumnal. Authors in general who have met cele- 
 brity at starting, have already had their reward ; always 
 their utmost due, and often much beyond it. We cannot 
 hope for both celebrity and fame : supremely fortunate 
 are the few who are allowed the liberty of choice between 
 them. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Cicero. Everything has its use ; life to teach us the 
 contempt of death, and death the contempt of life. 
 Glory, which among all things between stands eminently 
 the principal, although it has been considered by some 
 philosophers as mere vanity and deception, moves those 
 great intellects which nothing else could have stirred, and 
 places them where they can best and most advantageously 
 serve the commonwealth. Glory can be safely despised 
 by those only who have fairly won it.
 
 DEATH AND MORTALITY. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 ^sop. Breathe, Rhodope, breathe again those painless 
 sighs : they belong to thy vernal season. May thy sum- 
 mer of life be calm, thy autumn calmer, and thy winter 
 never come. 
 
 Rhodope. I must die then earlier. 
 
 ALsop. Laodameia died ; Helen died ; Leda, the 
 beloved of Jupiter, went before. It is better to repose 
 in the earth betimes than to sit up late ; better, than to 
 cling pertinaciously to what we feel crumbling under us, 
 and to protract an inevitable fall. We may enjoy the 
 present while we are insensible of infirmity and decay : 
 but the present, like a note in music, is nothing but as it 
 appertains to what is past and what is to come. There 
 are no fields of amaranth on this side of the grave : there 
 are no voices, O Rhodope, that are not soon mute, how- 
 ever tuneful : there is no name, with whatever emphasis 
 of passionate love repeated, of which the echo is not 
 faint at last. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Epicurus converses -with his girl pii/ils Leontion and Teniissa. 
 
 LeorJion. It is as wise to moderate our belief as our 
 desires. 
 
 Epicurus. Some minds require much belief, some
 
 202 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 thrive on little. Rather an exuberance of it is feminine 
 and beautiful. It acts differently on different hearts : it 
 troubles some, it consoles others : in the generous it is 
 the nurse of tenderness and kindness, of heroism and 
 self-devotion : in the ungenerous it fosters pride, im- 
 patience of contradiction and appeal, and, like some 
 waters, what it finds a dry stick or hollow straw, it 
 leaves a stone. 
 
 Ternissa. We want it chiefly to make the way of 
 death an easy one. 
 
 Epicurus. There is no easy path leading out of life, 
 and few are the easy ones that lie within it. I would 
 adorn and smoothen the declivity, and make my residence 
 as commodious as its situation and dimensions may allow : 
 but principally I would cast underfoot the empty fear of 
 death. 
 
 Ternissa. O ! how can you ? 
 
 Epiacrus. By many arguments already laid down : 
 then by thinking that some perhaps, m almost every age, 
 have been timid and delicate as Ternissa ; and yet have 
 slept soundly, have felt no parent's or friend's tear upon 
 their faces, no throb against their breasts : in short, have 
 been in the calmest of all possible conditions, while those 
 around were in the most deplorable and desperate. 
 
 Ternissa. It would pain me to die, if it were only at 
 the idea that any one I love would grieve too much 
 for me. 
 
 Epicurus. Let the loss of our friends be our only grief, 
 and the apprehension of displeasing them our only fear. 
 
 Leontion. No apostrophes ! no interjections ! your 
 argument was unsound ; your means futile. 
 
 Epicurus. Tell me then, whether the horse of a rider 
 on the road should not be spurred forward if he started 
 at a shadow. 
 
 Leoniion. Yes.
 
 DEATH AND MORTALITY. 203 
 
 Epicurus. I thought so : it would however be better 
 to guide him quietly up to it, and to show him that it 
 was one. Death is less than a shadow : it represents 
 nothing, even imperfectly. 
 
 Leontion. Then at the best what is it ? why care about 
 it, think about it, or remind us that it must befall us ? 
 Would you take the same trouble, when you see my hair 
 entwined with ivy, to make me remember that, although 
 the leaves are green and pliable, the stem is fragile and 
 rough, and that before I go to bed I shall have many 
 knots and entanglements to extricate ? Let me have 
 them ; but let me not hear of them until the time is come. 
 
 Epicurus, I would never think of death as an embar- 
 rassment, but as a blessing. 
 
 Ternissa. How ! a blessing ? 
 
 Epictirtis. What, if it makes our enemies cease to hate 
 us? What, if it makes our friends love us the more? 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Marcus Tnllius Cicero converses with his brother Qiiinctus. 
 
 Quinctus. Within how few minutes has the night 
 closed in upon us ! Nothing is left discernible of the 
 promontories, or the long irregular breakers under them. 
 We have before us only a faint glimmering from the shells 
 in our path, and from the blossoms of the arbutus. 
 
 Marcus. The little solitary Circean hill, and even the 
 nearer, loftier, and whiter rocks of Anxur, are become 
 indistinguishable. We leave our Cato and our Lucullus, 
 we leave Cornelia and her children, the scenes of friend- 
 ship and the recollections of greatness, for Lepidus and 
 Octavius and Antonius ; and who knows whether this 
 birthday, between which and us so few days intervene,
 
 204 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 may not be, as it certainly will be the least pleasurable, 
 the last ! 
 
 Qiihutus. Do not despond, my brother ! 
 Marcus. I am as far from despondency and dejection 
 as from joy and cheerfulness. Death has two aspects : 
 dreary and sorrowful to those of prosperous, mild and 
 almost genial to those of adverse, fortune. Her counte- 
 nance is old to the young, and youthful to the aged : to 
 the former her voice is importunate, her gait terrific ; the 
 latter she approaches like a bedside friend, and calls in 
 a whisper that invites to rest. To us, my Quinctus, 
 advanced as we are on our way, weary from its per- 
 plexities and dizzy from its precipices, she gives a calm 
 welcome ; let her receive a cordial one. 
 
 If life is a present which any one foreknowing its con- 
 tents would have willingly declined, does it not follow 
 that any one would as willingly give it up, having well 
 tried what they are ? I speak of the reasonable, the finn, 
 the virtuous ; not of those who, like bad governors, are 
 afraid of laying down the powers and privileges they have 
 been proved unworthy of holding. Were it certain that 
 the longer we live the wiser we become and the happier, 
 then indeed a long life would be desirable : but since on 
 the contrary our mental strength decays, and our enjoy- 
 ments of every kind not only sink and cease, but diseases 
 and sorrows come in place of them, if any wish is rational, 
 it is surely the wish that we should go away unshaken by 
 years, undepressed by griefs, and undespoiled of our better 
 faculties. Life and death appear more certainly ours 
 than whatsoever else : and yet hardly can that be called 
 curs, which comes without our knowledge, and goes with- 
 out it ; or that which we cannot put aside if we would, 
 and indeed can anticipate but little. There are few who 
 can regulate life to any extent ; none who can order the 
 things it shall receive or exclude. What value then
 
 DEATH AND MORTALITY. 205 
 
 should be placed upon it by the prudent man when duty 
 or necessity calls him away ? Or what reluctance should 
 he feel on passing into a state where at least he must be 
 conscious of fewer checks and inabilities ? Such, my 
 brother, as the brave commander, when from the secret 
 and dark passages of some fortress wherein implacable 
 enemies besieged him, having performed all his duties, 
 and exhausted all his munition, he issues at a distance 
 into open day. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Ccesar. To stand upon one's guard against Death 
 exasperates her malice, and protracts our sufferings. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 CtEsar. Life may concern us, death not ; for in death 
 we neither can act nor reason, we neither can persuade 
 nor command ; and our statues are worth more than we 
 are, let them be but wax. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Milton. We are all of the earth, earthly. They who 
 are proud of family antiquity ought to be ashamed ol 
 beating a dog, who, we are certified, is of older creation. 
 Probably the worms are of older still. Happily they are 
 deaf and dumb ; if they had ears and tongues they would 
 never so misapply them as we often do. We shall soon 
 lie in the midst of them as quiet and mute as they are. 
 We cause the bloodshed one of another, and often go far 
 afield to chase the unoffending. The greediest worms 
 are guiltless of the like ; they only exact what is their
 
 2o6 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 inheritance ; we must pay them the debt we owe them ; 
 let it be unieluctantly. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna. Before we go into another state of 
 existence, a thousand things occur to detach us imper- 
 ceptibly from this. To some (who knows to how many ?) 
 the images of early love return with an inviting yet a 
 saddening glance, and the breast that was laid out for 
 the sepulchre bleeds afresh. Such are ready to follow 
 where they are beckoned, and look keenly into the dark- 
 ness they are about to penetrate.
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Barrow. We must not indulge in unfavourable views 
 of mankind, since by doing it we make bad men believe 
 that they are no worse than others, and we teach the 
 good that they are good in vain. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Sidney. Goodness does not more certainly make men 
 happy than happiness makes them good. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna. The beautiful in itself is useful by 
 awakening our finer sensibilities, which it must be our 
 own fault if we do not often carry with us into action. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Barrffiv. Those who are quite satisfied, sit still and 
 do nothing ; those who are not quite satisfied, are the 
 sole benefactors of the world. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Epicurus. Abstinence from low pleasures is the only 
 means of meriting or of obtaining the higher.
 
 2o8 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Bossiief. There is no funeral so sad to follow as the 
 funeral of our own youth, which we have been pampering 
 with fond desires, ambitious hopes, and all the bright 
 berries that hang in poisonous clusters over the path of 
 life. 
 
 LXXXVII. — LOVE OF POWER. 
 
 La Fontaine. When I think, as you make me do, how 
 ambitious men are, even those whose teeth are too loose 
 (one would fancy) for a bite at so hard an apple as the 
 devil of ambition offers them, I am inclined to believe 
 that we are actuated not so much by selfishness as you 
 represent it, but under another form, the love of power. 
 Not to speak of territorial dominion or political office, 
 and such other things as we usually class under its ap 
 purtenances, do we not desire an exclusive control ovei 
 what is beautiful and lovely ? the possession of pleasant 
 fields, of well-situated houses, of cabinets, of images, of 
 pictures, and indeed of many things pleasant to see but 
 useless to possess ; even of rocks, of streams, and of foun- 
 tains ? These things, you will tell me, have their utility. 
 True, but not to the wisher, nor does the idea of it enter 
 his mind. Do not we wish that the object of our love 
 should be devoted to us only ; and that our children 
 should love us better than their brothers and sisters, or 
 even than the mother who bore them ? Love would be 
 arrayed in the purple robe of sovereignty, mildly as he 
 may resolve to exercise his power. 
 
 Lxxxvni. 
 
 Aspasia. We may be introduced to Power by Human- 
 ity, and at first may love her less for her own sake than
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 209 
 
 for Humanity's, but by degrees we become so accustomed 
 to her as to be quite uneasy without her. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Aspasja. Three affections of the soul predominate ; 
 Love, Religion, and Power. The first two are often 
 united ; the other stands widely apart from them, and 
 neither is admitted nor seeks admittance to their society. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Galileo. When Satan would have led our .Saviour into 
 temptation, he did not conduct him where the looser 
 passions were wandering ; he did not conduct him amid 
 flowers and herbage, where a fall would have only been 
 a soilure to our frail human nature ; no, he led him up 
 to an exceeding high mountain, and showed him palaces, 
 and towers, and treasuries, knowing that it was by those 
 alone that he himself could have been so utterly lost to 
 rectitude and beatitude. Our Saviour spurned the temp- 
 tation, and the greatest of his miracles was accomplished. 
 
 xci. 
 
 Diogenes. Great men too often have greater faults than 
 little men can find room for. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Marvel. Your conscientious men are oftener conscien- 
 tious in withholding than in bestowing. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Weak minds return men hatred for contempt, 
 Strong ones contempt for hatred. Which is best ? 
 
 P
 
 2IO REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Pmdes. Ridicule often parries resentment, but resent- 
 ment never yet parried ridicule. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Lucian. He who brings ridicule to bear against truth, 
 finds in his hand a blade without a hilt. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Rochefoucauld. You may call every creature under 
 heaven fool and rogue, and your auditor will join with 
 you heartily : hint to him the slightest of his own defects 
 or foibles, and he draws Ws rapier. You and he are the 
 judges of the world, but not its denizens. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Granduke Peter Leopold. A man's vanity tells him 
 what is honour, a man's conscience what is justice : the 
 one is busy and importunate in all times and places : the 
 other Init touches the sleeve when men are alone, and, if 
 they do not mind it, leaves them. 
 
 XCVIII. — VANITY IN WOMEN. 
 
 Vittoria. Vanity in women is not invariably, though 
 it is too often, the sign of a cold and selfish heart; in 
 men it always is : therefore we ridicule it in society, and 
 in private hate it. 
 
 xcix. 
 
 In general, it may be apprehended, we like women 
 little the better for excelling us even moderately in oui
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 21] 
 
 own acquirements and capacities. But what energy 
 springs from her weaknesses ! what poetry is the fruit 
 of her passions ! 
 
 CleonL Take care, then, Aspasia ! do not leave off 
 entirely all dissimulation. It is as feminine a virtue, and 
 as necessary to a woman, as religion. If you are with- 
 out it, you will have a grace the less, and (what you 
 could worse spare) a sigh the more. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Epiairus. Kindness in ourselves is the honey that 
 blunts the sting of unkindness in another. 
 
 Leontion. Explain to me then, O Epicurus, why we 
 suffer so much from ingratitude. 
 
 Epicurus. We fancy we suffer from ingratitude, while 
 in reality we suffer from self-love. Passion weeps while 
 she says, " I did not deserve this from him :" Reason, 
 while she says it, smoothens her brow at the clear foun- 
 tain of the heart. 
 
 cn. 
 
 Bossuet. An ingenuous mind feels in unmerited praise 
 the bitterest reproof. If you reject it you are unhappy, 
 if you accept it you are undone. 
 
 cm. 
 
 Vittoria Colovna. Wishes are by-paths on the declivity 
 to unhappiness ; the weaker terminate in the sterile sand, 
 the stronger in the vale of tears.
 
 2 12 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Wishes are by-paths to unhappiness, 
 And in the vale of tears they terminate. 
 
 cv, 
 
 Cleoni. Tears, O Aspasia, do not dwell long upon the 
 cheeks of youth. Rain drops easily from the bud, rests 
 on the bosom of the maturer flower, and breaks down 
 that one only wliich hath lived its day. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 There are sweet flowers that only blow by night, 
 And sweet tears are there that avoid the light ; 
 No mortal sees them ; after day is born 
 They, like the dew, drop trembling from their thorn. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 We often hear that such or such a thing " is not worth 
 an old song." Alas ! how very few things are ! What 
 precious recollections do some of them awaken ! What 
 pleasurable tears do they excite ! They purify the stream 
 of life ; they can delay it on its shelves and rapids ; they 
 can turn it back again to the soft moss amidst which its 
 sources issue. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Dr. Johnson {to Home Tooke). Your former conversa- 
 tion has made me think repeatedly what a number of 
 beautiful words there are of which we never think of 
 estimating the value, as there are of blessings. How 
 carelessly, for example, do we (not we, but people) say, 
 " I am delighted to hear from you." No other language
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 2x3 
 
 has this beautiful expression, which, like some of the 
 most lovely flowers, loses its charm for want of close 
 inspection. When I consider the deep sense of these 
 very simple and very common words, I seem to hear a 
 voice coming from afar through the air, breathed forth, 
 and intrusted to the care of the elements, for the nurture 
 of my sympathy. 
 
 cix. 
 
 Milton. The sigh that rises at the thought of a friend 
 may be almost as genial as his voice. 'Tis a breath that 
 seems rather to come from him than from ourselves. 
 
 ex. — FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Pericles. The man who is determined to keep others 
 fast and firm, must have one end of the bond about his 
 own breast, sleeping and waking. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Sidney. Friendship is a vase, which, when it is flawed 
 by heat, or violence, or accident, may as well be broken 
 at once ; it never can be trusted after. The more grace- 
 ful and ornamental it was, the more clearly do we dis- 
 cern the hopelessness of restoring it to its former state. 
 Coarse stones, if they are fractured, may be cemented 
 again ; precious ones never. 
 
 CXII. 
 Michelangelo, We may make a large hole in a brick
 
 214 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 wall and easily fill it up ; but the slightest flaw in a ruby 
 or a chrysolite is irreparable. Thus it is in minds. The 
 ordinary soon take offence and (as they call it) make it 
 up again ; the sensitive and delicate are long-suffering, 
 but their wounds heal imperfectly, if at all. 
 
 CXIII. — TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 La Fontaine. The sweetest souls, like the sweetest 
 flowers, soon canker in cities, and no purity is rarer 
 there than the purity of delight. 
 
 cxiv. 
 
 Epicurus. To me there is this advantage in a place 
 at some distance from the city. Having by no means 
 the full possession of my faculties where I hear unwel- 
 come and intrasive voices, or unexpected and irregular 
 sounds that excite me involuntarily to listen, I assemble 
 and arrange my thoughts with freedom and with pleasure 
 in the fresh air, under the open sky : and they are more 
 lively and vigorous and exuberant when I catch them 
 as I walk about, and commune with them in silence and 
 seclusion. 
 
 Leon/ion. It always has appeared to me that conver- 
 sation brings them forth more readily and plenteously ; 
 and that the ideas of one person no sooner come out 
 than another's follow them, whether from the same side 
 or from the opposite. 
 
 Epicurus, They do : but these are not the thoughts 
 we keep for seed : they come up weak by coming up 
 close together. In the country the mind is soothed and 
 satisfied : here is no restraint of motion or of posture.
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 21 5 
 
 These things, little and indifferent as they may seem, 
 are not so : for the best tempers have need of case and 
 liberty, to keep them in right order long enough for the 
 purposes of composition : and many a frovvard axiom, 
 many an inhumane thought, hath arisen from sitting 
 inconveniently, from hearing a few unpleasant sounds, 
 from the confinement of a gloomy chamber, or from the 
 want of symmetry in it. We are not aware of this, until 
 we find an exemption from it in groves, on promontories, 
 or along the sea-shore, or wherever else we meet Nature 
 face to face, undisturbed and solitary. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Epicurus. Hither, to these banks of serpolet ; to 
 these strawberries, whose dying leaves breathe a most 
 refreshing fragrance ; to this ivy, from which Bacchus 
 may have crowned himself ; let us retire at the voice of 
 Discord. Whom should we contend with ? the less ? it 
 were inglorious : the greater ? it were vain. Do we look 
 for Truth? she is not the inhabitant of cities nor delights 
 in clamour : she steals upon the calm and meditative as 
 Diana upon Endymion, indulgent in her chastity, en- 
 couraging a modest, and requiting a faithful love. 
 
 Leontion. How Ternissa sighs after Tmtii ! 
 
 Epicurus, If Truth appeared in daylight among 
 mortals, she would surely resemble Ternissa. Those 
 white and lucid cheeks, that youth which appears more 
 youthful (for unless we are near her we think her yet a 
 child), and that calm open forehead. 
 
 Leontiou. Malicious girl ! she conceals it ! 
 
 Epicurus. Ingenuous girl ! the resemblance was, until 
 now, imperfect. We must remove the veil ourselves ; 
 for Truth, whatever the poets may tell us, never come?
 
 2l6 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 without one, diaphanous or opaque. If those who differ 
 on speculative points, would walk together now and then 
 in the country, they might find many objects that must 
 unite them. The same bodily feeling is productive in 
 some degree of the same mental one. Enjoyment from 
 sun and air, from exercise and odours, bring hearts 
 together that schools and council-chambers and popular 
 assemblies have stood between for years. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Epicurus. O sweet sea-air ! how bland art thou and 
 refreshing ! Breathe upon Leontion ! breathe upon Ter- 
 nissa ! bring them health and spirits and serenity, many 
 springs and many summers, and when the vine-leaves have 
 reddened and rustle under their feet. 
 
 These, my beloved girls, are the children of Eternity : 
 they played around Theseus and the beauteous Amazon, 
 they gave to Pallas the bloom of Venus, and to Venus 
 the animation of Pallas. Is it not better to enjoy by 
 the hour their soft salubrious influence, than to catch by 
 fits the rancid breath of demagogues ; than to swell and 
 move under it without or against our will ; than to 
 acquire the semblance of eloquence by the bitterness of 
 passion, the tone of philosophy by disappointment, or 
 the credit of prudence by distrust ? Can fortune, can 
 industry, can desert itself, bestow on us anything we 
 have not here ? 
 
 Leontion. And when shall those three meet ? The 
 gods have never united them, knowing that men would 
 put them asunder at their first appearance. 
 
 Epicurus. I am glad to leave the city as often as pos- 
 sible, full as it is of high and glorious reminiscences, and 
 am inclined much rather to indulge in quieter scenes,
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 217 
 
 whither the graces and friendship lead me. I would 
 not contend even with men able to contend with me. 
 You, Leontion, I see, think differently, and have com- 
 posed at last your long-meditated work against the philo- 
 sophy of Theophrastus. 
 
 Leontion. Why not ? he has been praised above his 
 merits. 
 
 Epicurus. My Leontion ! you have inadvertently 
 given me the reason and origin of all controversial writ- 
 ings. They flow not from a love of truth or a regard for 
 science, but from envy and ill-will. Setting aside the 
 evil of malignity, always hurtful to ourselves, not always 
 to others, there is weakness in the argument you have 
 adduced. When a writer is praised above his merits in 
 his own times, he is certain of being estimated below 
 them in the times succeeding. Paradox is dear to most 
 people : it bears the appearance of originality, but is 
 usually the talent of the superficial, the perverse, and 
 the obstinate. 
 
 CXVII. — LOVE OF TRUTH. 
 
 Epicurus. Man is a hater of truth, a lover of fiction. 
 
 Leontion. How then happens it that children, when 
 you have related to them any story which has greatly in- 
 terested them, ask immediately and impatiently, is it 
 trtie ? 
 
 Epicurus. Children are not men nor women : they 
 are almost as different creatures, in many respects, as if 
 they never were to be the one or the other : they are as 
 unlike as buds are unlike flowers, and almost as blossoms 
 are unlike fruits. Greatly are they better than they are 
 about to be, unless Philosophy raises her hand above 
 them when the noon is coming on, and shelters them at
 
 2l8 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 one season from the heats that would scorch and wither, 
 and at another from the storms that would shatter and 
 subvert them. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Demosthenes. Who has ever wished to be persuaded 
 against the grain in any matter of importance or utility ? 
 A child, if you tell him a horrible or a pathetic story, is 
 anxious to be persuaded it is true ; men and women, if 
 you tell them one injurious to the respectability of a 
 neighbour. Desire of persuasion rests and dies here. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Pollio. In one way or other (if not to you, to them- 
 selves) most men delight in lying ; all in being lied to, 
 provided the lie be soft and gentle, and imperceptible in 
 its approaches. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Lord Brooke. Hardly anything which we receive for 
 truth, is really and entirely so, let it appear as plain as it 
 may, and let its appeal be not only to the understanding, 
 but to the senses ; for our words do not follow them ex- 
 actly; and it is by words we receive truth and express it. 
 
 cxx I. 
 
 Thought fights with thought : out springs a spark of 
 
 truth 
 From the collision of the sword and shield.
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 219 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 Rochefoucauld. Many, indeed most people, will differ 
 from me. Nothing is quite the same to the intellect of 
 any two men, much less of all. When one says to 
 another, " I am entirely of your opinion," he uses in 
 general an easy and indifferent phrase, believing in its 
 accuracy, without examination, without thought. The 
 nearest resemblance in opinions, if we could trace every 
 line of it, would be found greatly more divergent than 
 the nearest in the human form or countenance, and in 
 the same proportion as the varieties of mental qualities 
 are more numerous and fine than of the bodily. 
 
 CXXIII. — QUICKNESS. 
 
 Barrow. Quickness is among the least of the mind's 
 properties, and belongs to her in almost her lowest state : 
 nay, it doth not abandon her when she is driven from 
 her home, when she is wandering and insane. The 
 mad often retain it : the liar has it, the cheat has it : we 
 find it on the race-course and at the card-table : educa- 
 tion does not give it, and reflection takes away from it. 
 
 cxxiv. 
 
 Demosthenes. It is easier to make an impression upon 
 sand than upon marble : but it is easier to make a just 
 one upon marble than upon sand. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Barrow. That lesson which a dunce can learn at a 
 glance, and likes mightily, must contain little, and not 
 good. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 CleonL The young mind should be nourished with simple
 
 220 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 and grateful food, and not too copious. It should be little 
 exercised until its nerves and muscles show themselves, 
 and even then rather for air than anything else. Study is 
 the bane of boyhood, the aliment of youth, the indulg- 
 ence of manhood, and the restorative of age. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 Barrow. Do not fear to be less rich in the produc- 
 tions of your mind at one season than at another. 
 Marshes are always marshes, and pools are pools ; but 
 the sea, in those places where we admire it most, is 
 sometimes sea and sometimes dry land ; sometimes it 
 brings ships into port, and sometimes it leaves them 
 where they can be refitted and equipt. The capa- 
 cious mind neither rises nor sinks, neither labours nor 
 rests, in vain. Even in those intervals when it loses the 
 consciousness of its powers, when it swims as it were in 
 vacuity, and feels not what is external nor internal, it 
 acquires or recovers strength, as the body does by sleep. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 Cleoni. I do believe, Aspasia, that studious men, who 
 look so quiet, are the most restless men in existence. 
 
 CXXIX. — IDLENESS. 
 
 Ternissa. Leontion said that even bad writers may 
 amuse our idle hours. Alas ! even good ones do not 
 much amuse mine, unless they record an action of love 
 or generosity. As for the graver, why cannot they come 
 among us and teach us, just as you do ?
 
 LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 22 1 
 
 Epicurus. Would you wish it ? 
 
 Ternissa. No, no ; I do not want them : only I was 
 imagining how pleasant it is to converse as we are doing, 
 and how sorry I should be to pore over a book instead 
 of it. Books always make me sigh and think about 
 other things. Why do you laugh, Leontion ? 
 
 Epicurus. She was mistaken in saying bad authors 
 may amuse our idleness. Leontion knows not then how 
 sweet and sacred idleness is. 
 
 Leontion. To render it sweet and sacred, the heart 
 must have a little garden of its own, with its umbrage 
 and fountains and perennial flowers ; a careless com- 
 pany ! Sleep is called sacred as well as sweet by 
 Homer : and idleness is but a step from it. The idle- 
 ness of the wise and virtuous should be both, it being 
 the repose and refreshment necessary for past exertions 
 and for future : it punishes the bad man, it rewards the 
 good : the deities enjoy it, and Epicurus praises it.
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, AND FAMILY 
 AFFECTION. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Anaxagoras, Is it not in philosophy as in love ? the 
 more we have of it, and the less we talk about it, the 
 better. 
 
 cxxxi. 
 
 Messala. From the mysteries of religion the veil is 
 seldom to be drawn, from the mysteries of love never. 
 For this offence the gods take away from us our freshness 
 of heart and our susceptibility of pure delight. The well 
 loses the spring that fed it, and what is exposed in the 
 shallow basin soon evaporates. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 Panatius. Where Love finds the soul he neglects the 
 body, and only turns to it in his idleness as to an after- 
 thought. Its best allurements are but the nuts and figs 
 of the divine repast. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Aspasia. The happiest of pillows is not that which 
 Love first presses ; it is that which Death has frowned 
 on and passed over.
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 223 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 Cleoni. The very beaiUiful rarely love at all. Those 
 precious images are placed above the reach of the Passions. 
 Time alone is permitted to efface them ; Time, the father 
 of the gods, and even their consumer. 
 
 cxxxv. — love's timidity. 
 
 Cleofii. Could Sappho be ignorant how infantinely 
 inarticulate is early love? Could she be ignorant that 
 shame and fear seize it unrelentingly by the throat, while 
 hard-hearted impudence stands at ease, prompt at oppor- 
 tunity, and profuse in declarations ! 
 
 There is a gloom in deep love, as in deep water : there 
 is a silence in it which suspends the foot, and the folded 
 arms and the dejected head are the images it reflects. 
 No voice shakes its surface : the Muses themselves 
 approach it with a tardy and a timid step, and with a 
 low and tremulous and melancholy song. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 Lord Brooke. Women have no favour or mercy for the 
 silence their charms impose on us. Little are they aware 
 of the devotion we are offering to them, in that state 
 whereinto the true lover is ever prone to fall, and which 
 appears to them inattention, indifference, or moroseness. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 Lord Brooke. When a woman hath ceased to be quite 
 the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes.
 
 224 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Sidney. Hush ! I will hear from you no sentiment but 
 your own, and this can never be yours. Variations there 
 are of temperature in the finest season ; and the truest 
 heart has not always the same pulsations. If we had 
 nothing to pardon or to be pardoned, we might appear 
 to be more perfect than we are, but we should in fact be 
 less so. Self-love is ungenerous and unforgiving; love 
 grieves and forgives. 
 
 CXXXVIII. — LOVE AND GENIUS. 
 
 Michelangelo. Ah ! there is love too, even here below, 
 more precious than immortality ; but it is not the love of 
 a Circe or a Calypso. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna. Nor were they happy themselves ; 
 and yet perhaps they were not altogether undeserving of 
 it, they who could select for the object of their affections 
 the courageous, the enduring, and the intelligent. There 
 are few men at any time whom moral dignity and eleva- 
 tion of genius have made conspicuous above the mass of 
 society ; and fewer still are the women who can dis- 
 tinguish them from persons of ordinary capacity, endowed 
 with qualities merely agreeable. But if it happens that 
 a man of highest worth has been read attentively and 
 thoroughly by those eyes which he has taught the art 
 of divination, let another object intervene and occupy 
 their attention, let the beloved be induced to think it a 
 merit and a duty to forget him, yet memory is not an 
 outcast nor an alien when the company of the day is 
 gone, but says many things and asks many questions 
 which she would not turn away from if she could. 
 
 CXXXIX. — MARRIAGE. 
 
 Mr. Tallboys. Death itself to the reflecting mind is less
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 225 
 
 serious than marriage. The older plant is cut down that 
 the younger may have room to flourish : a few tears drop 
 into the loosened soil, and buds and blossoms spring over 
 it. Death is not even a blow ; is not even a pulsation ; 
 it is a pause. But marriage unrolls the awful lot of 
 numberless generations. Health, Genius, Honour, are 
 the words inscribed on some ; on others are Disease, 
 Fatuity, and Infamy. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 Diogenes. There are many who marry from utter indi- 
 gence of thought, captivated by the playfulness of youth, 
 as if a kitten were never to be a cat 1 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 Marvel. Men who have been unsparing of their wis- 
 dom, like ladies who have been unfrugal of their favours, 
 are abandoned by those who owe most to them, and 
 hated or slighted by the rest. I wish beauty in her lost 
 estate had consolations like genius. 
 
 Parker. Fie, fie ! Mr. Marvel ! Consolations for 
 frailty ! 
 
 Marvel. What wants them more? The reed is cut 
 down, and seldom does the sickle wound the hand that 
 cuts it. There it lies ; trampled on, withered, and soon 
 to be blown away. 
 
 Parker. We should be careful and circumspect in our 
 pity, and see that it falls on clean ground. Such a laxity 
 of morals can only be taught in Mr. Milton's school. 
 He composed, I remember, a Treatise on Divorce, and 
 would have given it great facilities. 
 

 
 2 26 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Marvel. He proved by many arguments what requires 
 but few : that happiness is better than unhappiness ; that, 
 when two persons cannot agree, it is wiser and more 
 Chrislian-Hke that they should not disagree ; that, when 
 they cease to love each other, it is something if they be 
 hindered by the gentlest of checks, from running to the 
 extremity of hatred ; and lastly, how it conduces to cir- 
 cumspection and forbearance to be aware that the bond 
 of matrimony is not indissoluble, and that the bleeding 
 heart may be saved from bursting. 
 
 Parker. Monstrous sophistry ! abominable doctrines ! 
 What more, sir ? what more ? 
 
 Marvel. » » « Milton has, I am afraid, imitated too 
 closely the authoritative voice of the patriarchs, and 
 been somewhat too Oriental (I forbear to say Scrip- 
 tural) in his relations as a husband. But who, whether 
 among the graver or less grave, is just to woman ? 
 There may be moments when the beloved tells us, 
 and tells us truly, that we are dearer to her than life. 
 Is not this enough ? is it not above all merit ? yet, if 
 ever the ardour of her enthusiasm subsides ; if her love 
 ever loses later in the day, the spirit and vivacity of its 
 early dawn ; if between the sigh and the blush an interval 
 is perceptible ; if the arm mistakes the chair for the 
 shoulder ; what an outcry is there ! what a proclamation 
 of her injustice and her inconstancy ! what an alternation 
 of shrinking and spurning at the coldness of her heart ! 
 Do we ask within if our own has retained all its ancient 
 loyalty, all its own warmth, and all that was poured into 
 it ? Often the true lover has little of true love compared 
 with what he has undeservedly received and unreasonably 
 exacts. But let it also be remembered that marriage is 
 the metempsychosis of women ; that it turns them into 
 different creatures from what they were before. Liveli- 
 ness in the girl may have been mistaken for good-temper ;
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 2 27 
 
 the lillle pervicacity which at first is attractively provok- 
 ing, at last provokes without its attractiveness : negligence 
 of order and propriety, of duties and civilities, long 
 endured, often deprecated, ceases to be tolerable, when 
 children grow up and are in danger of following the 
 example. It often happens that, if a man unhappy in 
 the married state were to disclose the manifold causes of 
 his uneasiness, they would be found, by those who were 
 beyond their influence, to be of such a nature as rather to 
 excite derision than sympathy. The waters of bitterness 
 do not fall on his head in a cataract, but through a colan- 
 der ; one, however, like the vases of the Danaides, per- 
 forated only for replenishment. We know scarcely the 
 vestibule of a house of which we fancy we have penetrated 
 into all the corners. We know not how grievously a 
 man may have suffered, long before the calumnies of the 
 world befell him as he reluctantly left his house-door. 
 There are women from whom incessant tears of anger 
 swell forth at imaginary wrongs ; but of contrition for 
 their own delinquencies, not one. 
 
 Milton, in writing his treatise, of which probably the 
 first idea was suggested from his own residence, was 
 aware that the laws should provide, not only against our 
 violence and injustice, but against our levity and incon- 
 stancy ; and that a man's capriciousness or satiety should 
 not burst asunder the ties by which families are united. 
 Do you believe that the crime of adultery has never been 
 committed to the end of obtaining a divorce ? Do you 
 believe that murder, that suicide, never has been com- 
 mitted because a divorce was unattainable ? Thus the 
 most cruel tortures are terminated by the most frightful 
 crimes. Milton has made his appeal to the authority of 
 religion : we lower our eyes from him, and point to the 
 miseries and guilt on every side before us, caused by the 
 corrosion or the violent disruption of bonds which human-
 
 228 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 ity would have loosened. He would have tried with a 
 patient ear and with a delicate hand the chord that 
 offended by its harshness ; and, when he could not reduce 
 it to the proper tone, he would remove it for another. 
 
 CXLII. — LOVE OF CHILDREN. 
 
 Princess Dashkof. Even the worst husband must have 
 surely the recollection of some sweet moments. The stern- 
 est must have trembled, both with apprehension and with 
 hope, at the first alteration in the health of his consort ; 
 at the first promise of true union, imperfect without 
 progeny. Then there are thanks rendered together to 
 heaven, and satisfactions communicated, and infant words 
 interpreted : and when the one has failed to pacify the 
 sharp cries of babyhood, pettish and impatient as sovranty 
 itself, the success of the other in calming it, and the un- 
 envied triumph of this exquisite ambition, and the calm 
 gazes that it wins upon it. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 Milton. Will there never be a time when every mother 
 will be the priestess of her children and family ? Our 
 duties are simple and learnt easily. No sunrise but 
 awakens one or other of them into activity and growth. 
 Boys are educated, girls are not ; yet girls should be 
 educated first, and taught the most impressively. These 
 slender and graceful columns are not only the ornament, 
 but also the support, of society. Men are the braver for 
 the reverence they bear toward them, and in them do 
 they find their reward.
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 229 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 Aspasia. We are told by Herodotus that a boy in 
 Persia is kept in the apartments of the women, and pro- 
 hibited from seeing his father, until the fifth year. The 
 reason is, he informs us, that if he dies before this age, 
 his loss may give the parent no uneasiness. And such 
 a custom he thinks commendable. Herodotus has no 
 child, Cleone ! If he had, far other would be his feelings 
 and his judgment. Before that age, how many seeds are 
 sown, which future years, and distant ones, mature 
 successively ! How much fondness, how much gener- 
 osity, what hosts of other virtues, courage, constancy, 
 patriotism, spring into the father's heart from the cradle 
 of his child ! And does never the fear come over him, 
 that what is most precious to him upon earth is left in 
 careless or perfidious, in unsafe or unworthy hands? 
 Does it never occur to him that he loses a son in every 
 one of these five years ? What is there so affecting to 
 the brave and virtuous man, as that which perpetually 
 wants his help and cannot call for it ? What is so differ- 
 ent as the speaking and the mute ? And hardly less so 
 are inarticulate sounds, and sounds which he receives 
 half- formed, and which he delights to modulate, and 
 which he lays with infinite care and patience, not only on 
 the tender attentive ear, but on the half-open lips, and on 
 the eyes, and on the cheeks ; as if they all were listeners. 
 In every child there are many children ; but coming forth 
 year after year, each somewhat like and somewhat vary- 
 ing. When they are grown much older, the leaves (as it 
 were) lose their pellucid green, the branches their grace- 
 ful pliancy. 
 
 Is there any man so rich in happiness that he can afford 
 to throw aside these first five years ? is there any man who 
 can hope for another five so exuberant in unsating joy ?
 
 230 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 Aspasia. Where on earth is there so much society as 
 in a beloved child ? He accompanies me in my walks, 
 gazes into my eyes for what I am gathering from books, 
 tells me more and better things than they do, and asks 
 me often what neither I nor they can answer. When 
 he is absent I am filled with reflections : when he is 
 present I have room for none beside what I receive 
 from him. The charms of his childhood bring me back 
 to the delights of mine, and I fancy I hear my own 
 words in a sweeter voice. Will he (O how I tremble at 
 the mute oracle of futurity !) will he ever be as happy as 
 I have been? Alas ! and must he ever be as subject 
 to fears and apprehensions ? No ; thanks to the gods ! 
 never, never. He carries his father's heart within his 
 breast ; I see him already an orator and a leader, I try 
 to teach him daily some of his father's looks and gestures, 
 and I never smile but at his docility and gravity. 
 
 How his father will love him ! the little thunderer ! the 
 winner of cities ! the vanquisher of Cleones ! 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Cicero. The pleasure a man receives from his children 
 resembles that which, with more propriety than any other, 
 we may attribute to the Divinity. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 Marcus TuUitis Cicero converses ivith his brother Quinctus. 
 
 Quinctus. Proceed, my brother ! for in every depres- 
 sion of mind, in every excitement of feeling, my spirits 
 are equalised by your discourse ; and that which you
 
 LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 23 1 
 
 said with too much brevity of our children, soothes me 
 greatly. 
 
 Marcus. I am persuaded of the truth in what I have 
 spoken ; and yet — ah, Quinctus ! there is a tear that 
 philosophy cannot dry, and a pang that will rise as we 
 approach the gods. 
 
 Two things tend beyond all others, after philosophy, to 
 inhibit and check our ruder passions as they grow and 
 swell in us, and to keep our gentler in their proper play : 
 and these two things are, seasonable sorrow and inoffen- 
 sive pleasure, each moderately indulged. Nay, there is 
 also a pleasure, humble, it is true, but graceful and 
 insinuating, which follows close upon our very sorrows, 
 reconciles us to them gradually, and sometimes renders 
 us at last undesirous altogether of abandoning them. If 
 ever you have remembered the anniversary of some day 
 whereon a dear friend was lost to you, tell me whether 
 that anniversary was not purer and even calmer than the 
 day before. The sorrow, if there should be any left, is 
 soon absorbed, and full satisfaction takes the place of it, 
 while you perform a pious office to friendship, required 
 and appointed by the ordinances of Nature. When my 
 TuUiola was torn away from me, a thousand plans were in 
 readiness for immortalising her memory, and raising a 
 monument up to the magnitude of my grief. The grief 
 itself has done it : the tears I then shed over her assuaged 
 it in me, and did everything that could be done for her, 
 or hoped, or wished. I called upon Tulliola ; Rome and 
 the whole world heard me : her glory was a part of mine, 
 and mine of hers ; and when Eternity had received her at 
 my hands, I wept no longer. The tenderness wherewith 
 I mentioned and now mention her, though it suspends 
 my voice, brings what consoles and comforts me : it is the 
 milk and honey left at the sepulchre, and equally sweet 
 (I hope) to the departed.
 
 232 REFLECTIVE ANB DISCURSIVE. 
 
 The gods who have given us our affections, permit us 
 surely the uses and the signs of them. Immoderate grief, 
 like everything else immoderate, is useless and pernicious ; 
 but if we did not tolerate and endure it, if we did not 
 prepare for it, meet it, commune with it, if we did not 
 even cherish it in its season, much of what is best in our 
 faculties, much of our tenderness, much of our generosity, 
 much of our patriotism, much also of our genius, would 
 be stifled and extinguished. 
 
 When I hear any one call upon another to be manly 
 and to restrain his tears, if they flow from the social and 
 kind affections I doubt the humanity and distrust the 
 wisdom of the counsellor. Were he humane, he would 
 be more inclined to pity and to sympathise than to lecture 
 and reprove ; and were he wise, he would consider that 
 tears are given us by nature as a remedy to affliction, 
 although, like other remedies, they should come to our 
 relief in private. 
 
 CXLVIII, 
 
 Boccaccio. The noble mansion is most distinguished by 
 the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away ; 
 and so is the noble mind.
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, AND NATIONAL 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 cxLix. — women's dress. 
 
 Cko7il {writing to Aspasia at Athens). Epimedea, 
 it appears, lias not corrupted very grossly your purity 
 and simplicity in dress. Yet, remembering your ob- 
 servation on armlets, I cannot but commend your kind- 
 ness and sufferance in wearing her emeralds. Your 
 opinion was formerly that we should be careful not to 
 subdivide our persons. The arm is composed of three 
 parts ; no one of them is too long. Now the armlet 
 intersects that portion of it which must be considered as 
 the most beautiful. In my idea of the matter, the sandal 
 alone is susceptible of gems, after the zone has received 
 the richest. The zone is necessary to our vesture, and 
 encompasses the person, in every quarter of the humanised 
 world, in one invariable manner. The hair, too, is 
 divided by nature in the middle of the head. There is a 
 cousinship between the hair and the flowers ; and from 
 this relation the poets have called by the same name the 
 leaves and it. They appear on the head as if they had 
 been seeking one another. Our national dress, very dif- 
 ferent from the dresses of barbarous nations, is not the 
 invention of the ignorant or the slave ; but the sculptor, 
 the painter, and the poet, have studied how best to 
 adorn the most beautiful object of their fancies and con- 
 templations. The Indians, who believe that human pains
 
 2 34 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 and sufferings are pleasing to the deity, make incisions 
 in their bodies, and insert into them imperishable colours. 
 They also adorn the ears and noses and foreheads of theii 
 gods. These were the ancestors of the Egyptian ; we 
 chose handsomer and better-tempered ones for our wor- 
 ship, but retained the same decorations in our sculpture, 
 and to a degree which the sobriety of the Egyptian had 
 reduced and chastened. Hence we retain the only mark 
 of barbarism which dishonours our national dress, the use 
 of earrings. If our statues should all be broken by some 
 convulsion of the earth, would it be believed by future 
 ages that, in the country and age of Sophocles, the 
 women tore holes in their ears to let rings into, as the 
 more brutal of peasants do with the snouts of sows ! 
 
 CL.— SCENTS AND THEIR ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 Aspasia {writing to Cleone at Miletus). Thanks for the 
 verses ! I hope Leuconoe was as grateful as I am, and 
 as sensible to their power of soothing. Thanks too for 
 the perfumes ! Pericles is ashamed of acknowledging he 
 is fond of them ; but I am resolved to betray one secret 
 of his : I have caught him several times trying them as 
 he called it. 
 
 How many things are there that people pretend to 
 dislike, without any reason, as far as we know, for the 
 dislike or the pretence ! I love sweet odours. Surely 
 my Cleone herself must have breathed her very soul into 
 these ! Let me smell them again : let me inhale them 
 into the sanctuary of my breast, lighted up by her love 
 for their reception. 
 
 But, ah, Cleone ! what an importunate and exacting 
 creature is Aspasia ! Have you no willows fresh peeled ? 
 None lying upon the bank, for baskets, white, rounded,
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 235 
 
 and delicate, as your fingers ! How fragrant they were 
 formerly ! I have seen none lately. Do you remember 
 the cross old Hermesianax ? how he ran to beat us for 
 breaking his twigs ? and how, after looking in our faces, 
 he seated himself down again, finished his basket, dis- 
 bursed from a goat-skin a corroded clod of rancid cheese, 
 put it in, pushed it to us, forced it under my arm, told 
 us to carry it home ivith the gods 1 and lifted up both 
 hands and blest us. I do not wish that one exactly ; 
 cheese is the cruellest of deaths to me ; and Pericles 
 abhors it. 
 
 I am running over trifling occurrences which you must 
 have forgotten. You are upon the spot, and have no 
 occasion to call to memory how the munificent old basket- 
 maker looked after us not seeing his dog at our heels ; 
 how we coaxed the lean, shaggy, suspicious animal ; how 
 many devices we contrived to throw down, or let slip, so 
 that the good man might not observe it, the pestilence 
 you insisted on carrying ; how many names we called the 
 dog by ere we found the true one, Cyrus ; how when 
 we had drawn him behind the lentisk, we rewarded him 
 for his assiduities, holding each an ear nevertheless, that 
 he might not carry back the gift to his master ; and how 
 we laughed at our fears, when a single jerk of the head 
 served at once to engulf the treasure and to disengage 
 him. 
 
 I shall always love the smell of the peeled willow. 
 Have you none for me ? Is there no young poplar then, 
 with a tear in his eye on bursting into bud ? I am not 
 speaking by metaphor and Asiatically. I want the pop- 
 lars, the willows, the water-lilies, and the soft green 
 herbage. How we enjoyed it on the Masander ! what 
 liberties we took with it ! robbing it of the flowers it had 
 educated, of those it was rearing, of those that came 
 confidently out to meet us, and of those that hid them-
 
 236 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 selves. None escaped us. For these remembrances, 
 green is the colour I love best. It brings me to the 
 Fortunate Island of my Cleone ; it brings me back to 
 childhood, the proud little nurse of Youth, brighter of 
 eye and lighter of heart than Youth herself. 
 
 These are not regrets, Cleone ; they are respirations 
 necessary to existence. You may call them half-wishes 
 if you will. We are poor indeed when we have no half- 
 wishes left us. The heart and the imagination close the 
 shutters the instant they are gone. 
 
 Do not chide me then for coming to you after the 
 blossoms and buds and herbage ; do not keep to your- 
 self all the grass on the Maeander. We used to share it ; 
 we will now. I love it wherever I can get a glimpse of 
 it. It is the home of the eyes, ever ready to receive 
 them, and spreading its cool couch for their repose. 
 
 CLI.— SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 
 
 Epicurus. To be wise indeed and happy and self- 
 possessed, we must often be alone : we must mix as little 
 as we can with what is called society, and abstain rather 
 more than seems desirable even from the better few. 
 
 Ternissa. You have commanded us at all times to ask 
 you anything we do not understand : why then use the 
 phrase "what is called society"? as if there could be a 
 doubt whether we are in society when we converse with 
 many. 
 
 Epicurus. We may meet and converse with thousands : 
 you and Leontion and myself could associate with few. 
 Society, in the philosophical sense of the word, is almost 
 the contrary of what it is in the common acceptation.
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 237 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Epicurus. Dinner is a less gratification to me than to 
 many : I dine alone. 
 
 Teniissa. Why? 
 
 Epicurus. To avoid the noise, the heat, and the inter- 
 mixture both of odours and of occupations. I cannot 
 bear the indecency of speaking with a mouth in which 
 there is food. I careen my body (since it is always in 
 want oF repair) in as unobstructed a space as I can, and 
 I lie down and sleep awhile when the work is over. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 LucuUus. To dine in company with more than two is 
 a Gaulish and a German thing. I can hardly bring myself 
 to believe that I have eaten in concert with twenty ; so 
 barbarous and herdlike a practice does it now appear to 
 me : such' an incentive to drink much and talk loosely ; 
 not to add, such a necessity to speak loud, which is 
 clownish and odious in the extreme. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 Pericles. Politeness is in itself a power, and takes away 
 the weight and galling from every other that we may 
 exercise. --.v..<->-^ 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Pericles. Every time we pronounce a word differently 
 from another, we show our disapprobation of his manner, 
 and accuse him of rusticity. In all common things we 
 must do as others do. It is more barbarous to under- 
 mine the stability of a language than of an edifice that 
 hath stood as long. This is done by the introduction of 
 changes. Write as others do, but only as the best of
 
 238 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE, 
 
 others : and if one eloquent man, forty or fifty years ago, 
 spoke and wrote differently from the generality of the 
 present, follow him, though alone, rather than the many. 
 But in pronunciation we are not indulged in this latitude 
 of choice ; we must pronounce as those do who favour 
 us with their audience. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Petrarca. Nobody ever quite forgave, unless in the low 
 and ignorant, a wrong pronunciation of his name ; the 
 humblest being of opinion that they have one of their 
 own, and one both worth having and worth knowing. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 Aspasia. Men may be negligent in their handwriting, 
 for men may be in a hurry about the business of life ; but 
 I never knew either a sensible woman or an estimable 
 one whose writing was disorderly. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Johnson. And pray, now, what language do you like ? 
 
 Home Tooke. The best in all countries is that which 
 is spoken by intelligent women, of loo high rank for petty 
 affectation, and of too much request in society for deep 
 study. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Cleoni. There is nothing in poetry, or indeed in society, 
 so unpleasant as affectation. In poetry it arises from a 
 deficiency of power and a restlessness of pretension : in 
 conversation, from insensibility to the graces, from an
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 239 
 
 intercourse with bad company, and a misinterpretation 
 of better. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Metastasio. False delicacy is real indelicacy. Half- 
 educated men employ the most frequently circumlocutions 
 and ambiguities. The plain vulgar are not the most 
 vulgar. 
 
 CLXI. — MEN AND DOGS. 
 M. La Fontaine apologises to M. de La Rochefoucauld. 
 
 La Fontame. You have been standing a long time, my 
 lord duke : I must entreat you to be seated. 
 
 Rochefoticaitld. Excuse me, my dear M. La Fontaine ; 
 I would much rather stand. 
 
 La Fontaine. Mercy on us ! have you been upon your 
 legs ever since you rose to leave me ? 
 
 Rochefoucauld. A change of position is agreeable : a 
 friend always permits it. 
 
 La Fontaine. Sad doings ! sad oversight ! The other 
 two chairs were sent yesterday evening to be scoured and 
 mended. But that dog is the best -tempered dog ! an 
 angel of a dog, I do assure you ; he would have gone 
 down in a moment, at a word. I am quite ashamed of 
 myself for such ina'ttention. With your sentiments of 
 friendship for me, why could you not have taken the 
 liberty to shove him gently off, rather than give me this 
 uneasiness ? 
 
 Rochefoucauld. My true and kind friend ! we authors 
 are too sedentary ; we are heartily glad of standing to 
 converse, whenever we can do it without any restraint 
 on our acquaintance. 
 
 La Fontaine. 1 must reprove that animal when he un
 
 240 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 curls his body. He seems to be dreaming of Paradise 
 and Houris. Ay, twitch thy ear, my child ! I wish at 
 my heart there were as troublesome a fly about the other : 
 God forgive me ! The rogue covers all my clean linen ! 
 shirt and cravat ! what cares he .' 
 
 Rochefojicatild. Dogs are not very modest. 
 
 La Fontaine. Never say that, M. de la Rochefoucauld ! 
 The most modest people upon earth ! Look at a dog's 
 eyes ; and he half- closes them, or gently turns them 
 away, with a motion of the lips, which he licks languidly, 
 and of the tail, which he stirs tremulously, begging your 
 forbearance. I am neither blind nor indifferent to the 
 defects of these good and generous creatures. They are 
 subject to many such as men are subject to : among the 
 rest, they disturb the neighbourhood in the discussion of 
 their private causes ; they quarrel and fight on small 
 motives, such as a little bad food, or a little vain-glory, 
 or the sex. But it must be something present or near 
 that excites them ; and they calculate not the extent of 
 evil they may do or suffer. 
 
 Rochefoucauld. Certainly not : how should dogs calcu- 
 late? 
 
 La Fontaine. I know nothing of the process. I am 
 unable to inform you how they leap over hedges and 
 brooks, with exertion just sufficient, and no more. In 
 regard to honour and a sense of dignity, let me tell you, 
 a dog accepts the subsidies of his friends, but never claims 
 them : a dog would not take the field to obtain power for 
 a son, but leave the son to obtain it by his own activity 
 and prowess. He conducts his visitor or inmate out a- 
 hunting, and makes a present of the game to him as freely 
 as an emperor to an elector. Fond as he is of slumber, 
 which is indeed one of the pleasantest and best things in 
 the universe, particularly after dinner, he shakes it ofi" as 
 willingly as he would a gadfly, in order to defend his
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 24 I 
 
 master from theft and violence. Let the robber or assail- 
 ant speak as courteously as he may, he waives your diplo- 
 matical terms, gives his reasons in plain language, and 
 makes war. I could say many other things to his advan- 
 tage ; but I never was malicious, and would rather let 
 both parties plead for themselves : give me the dog, 
 however. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 Marvel. I look to a person of very old family as I do 
 to anything else that is very old, and I thank him for bring- 
 ing to me a page of romance which probably he himself 
 never knew or heard about. Usually, with all his pride 
 and pretensions, he is much less conscious of the services 
 his ancestor performed, than my spaniel is of his own 
 when he carries my glove or cane to me. I would pat 
 them both on the head for it ; and the civiler and more 
 reasonable of the two would think himself well rewarded. 
 
 CLXIII. — ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 The Portngttese prince Dom Miguel describes to his 7nother 
 his treatment as a guest in the house of Lord Dudley. 
 
 Mother. Did he treat you handsomely, my child ? 
 
 Miguel. Handsomely, for a heretic. He gave me 
 plenty of fish and eggs both Fridays and Saturdays. 
 People say he has in his service one of the best cooks in 
 England : yet you will laugh when you hear how he 
 cooked things. 
 
 The eggs in England are not unlike ours. They have 
 escaped the effects of what is miscalled the Reformation. 
 Fish, I just now told you, they have in that country : but 
 they are somewhat deficient in the noisier species — no 
 bonita, no dolphin ; and porpoises and seals tnust be ex- 
 
 R
 
 242 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 cessively dear, and the fishermen very inexpert in catching 
 them, not a single slice having ever been offered to me at 
 the best covered and most delicate table. They seem 
 really to prefer the coarser kinds. The Mayor of London 
 sent, as a present to Conde Dudeli, a prodigious fish he 
 called sturgeon, a sort of dog-fish, but of the mastiff breed, 
 and uncontrollable by cookery. Perhaps much of the 
 deal timber, which bears a heavy duty in the port of 
 London, is smuggled under the name of sturgeon. 
 
 Mother. Never hint it to them : let the knaves be 
 cheated in the customs. Poor Miguel ! so they reduced 
 thee to eat chips and shavings and splinters and blocks ! 
 What ! nothing more delicate ? 
 
 Miguel. I once was served with what I flattered myself 
 were surely snails, but I found they were only oysters. 
 Another time, when I fancied I had a fine cuttle-fish 
 before me, they put me off with a sole. 
 
 Mother. Heretics ! heretics ! poor blind creatures ! 
 little better than Moors, Jews, and Freemasons ! 
 
 Miguel. I have tasted in England eight or nine different 
 kinds of soup ; and vainly have I sounded the most promis- 
 ing of them for a single morsel of fat bacon or fresh pork. 
 
 Mother. Have they no chestnuts and acorns, then ? or 
 are all the pigs kept to clean the streets ? 
 
 Miguel. I do not know : but neither fat bacon nor 
 lean ever enters their soup ; nor does pork, nor sausage, 
 nor heart, nor liver, nor caviar, nor vetch, nor gourd, 
 nor oil, nor cheese. 
 
 Mother. Ha ! ha ! I see how it is. They must trade 
 with some nations where cheese, and oil, and caviar, and 
 gourd, and vetch are always in great demand ; and these 
 they export for lucre. And perhaps their animals have 
 no heart or liver within them. But sausage, and pork, 
 and bacon — Son Miguel ! don't you smell something 
 there ? The English are Jews in disguise : I often thought
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 243 
 
 as much. They won't have Virgin, they won't have 
 Child, they won't have bacon. 
 
 Migttel. I did not say quite that. They eat swine-flesh : 
 bacon has been brought to me at table: 1 have seen 
 them eat it, though strangely. 
 
 Mother. With what forms and ceremonies ? 
 
 Miguel. Little of those ; for in the mere act of eating, 
 they really are adepts, and very explicit. 
 
 Alother. How then ? how then ? I crack to hear. 
 
 Miguel. Boiled, actually boiled ! hot, smoking hot ! 
 and served up whole ! 
 
 Mother. Smoking a little, but put into ice, no doubt, 
 to render it eatable, with the radishes, ligs, shalots, chives, 
 bean-pods, green almond-shells, liquorice, and stewed 
 prunes. 
 
 Miguel. I never saw those with it all the while I was 
 in England ; but I once observed it eaten with half-grown 
 peas ; and another time a Minister of State was so pre- 
 occupied by stress of business, that he forgot there was 
 chicken on his plate, and (as I live) ate both together. 
 
 Alother. And they gave you neither stewed prunes nor 
 figs with it ! My son, they slighted you out of hatred 
 to me, who always had an eye upon them, which they 
 never could bear. Ham before a queen's son in this naked 
 fa.shion ! And forsooth they talk about alliance ! 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 Miguel. It was Friday, and there were several kinds of 
 fish at table ; and knowing that I could eat little else, and 
 observing that I had been helped to a shce of turbot, and 
 had requested a trifle of assafoetida, and a few lumps of 
 sugar and a pinch of saffron, and a radish and a dande 
 lion, a servant brought me a lobster, well enough cut into 
 pieces, but swimming, or bemired rather, in a semi-liquid
 
 244 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 paste of flour and butter : and though he saw I had turbot 
 before me, and had heard me call for oil and vinegar and 
 grated goat -cheese, which a civiler valet had already 
 brought, he bowed with the gravest face in the world, 
 and offered me the two fish together, to say nothing of 
 the butter. I took it ill, but sate silent. To appease 
 my just resentment, the rest of the company did actually 
 eat both at once, and some of them so heartily, it was 
 evident they wished me to believe it is the custom of the 
 country. 
 
 Mother. Fit punishment ! though imposed by them- 
 selves. Strange uncivilised people ! It may be, how- 
 ever, that this is their way of fasting : for they have some 
 notions of religion, though erroneous and foolish. 
 
 Miguel. Mother, nothing can escape your sagacity and 
 penetration : you are perfectly right. And now I re- 
 member another fast of theirs, kept in perverseness on 
 Monday. Count Dudeli had partridges at table ; and I 
 observed that he took a piece of bread poultice, brought 
 hot to him from a hospital, and ate it with the breast of 
 the bird. The others thought to get offices under him 
 by doing the same ; and, although several did it, there 
 was not one that was forced to leave the company : such 
 strong stomachs have the English. 
 
 CLXV. 
 Alfieri. The Spaniards have no palate, the Italians no 
 scent, the French no ear. Garlic and grease and the 
 most nauseous of pulse are the favourite cheer of the 
 Spaniard ; the olfactory nerves of the Italian endure any- 
 thing but odoriferous flowers and essences ; and no sounds 
 but soft ones offend the Frenchman. 
 
 CLXVl, 
 
 Boccaccio. The Frenchman is ready to truss you on his
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 245 
 
 rapier, unless you acknowledge the perfection of his 
 humanity, and to spit in your face, if you doubt for a 
 moment the delicacy of his politeness. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Alfieri. It is easier to get twenty oaths and curses from 
 an Englishman than one tear ; but there are hot springs 
 at the centre of his heart which bring forth perpetual 
 fertility. He puts unhappiness down despotically, and 
 will labour at doing good if you abstain from looking at 
 him while he does it. 
 
 CLXVIII. — ITALIAN TASTE AND THE LOVE OF TREES. 
 
 Landor, being at Genoa, converses with his landlord, the 
 Marchese Pallavicini. 
 
 Landor. I am pleased by the palace opposite, not hav- 
 ing seen in Italy, until now, a house of any kind with 
 a span of turf before it. Like yours and your neighbour's, 
 they generally encroach on some lane, following its wind- 
 ings and angles, lest a single inch of ground should be 
 lost ; and the roofs fight for the centre of the road. I 
 am inclined to believe that the number of houses 
 of which the fronts are uneven, is greater than of 
 the even, and that there are more cramped with iron 
 than uncramped. These deformities are always left 
 visible, though the house be plastered, that the sum 
 expended on the iron and labour may be evident. If an 
 Italian spends a livre, he must be seen to spend it : his 
 stables, his laundry, his domestics, his peasants, must 
 strike the eye together : his pigstye must have witnesses 
 like his will. F>ery tree is accursed, as that of which 
 the holy cross was fabricated, and must be swept away. 
 
 When I resided on the Lake of Como, I visited the
 
 246 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 palace of Marchese Odescalchi. Before it swelled in 
 majesty that sovran of inland waters ; behind it was a 
 pond surrounded with brickwork, in which about twenty 
 young goldfish jostled and gaped for room. The Larius 
 had sapped the foundations of his palace, and the Mar- 
 chese had exerted all his genius to avenge himself: he 
 composed this bitter parody. I inquired of his cousin 
 Don Pepino, who conducted me, when the roof would 
 be put on. He looked at me, doubting if he understood 
 me, and answered in a gentle tone, " It was finished last 
 summer." My error originated from observing red pan- 
 tiles, kept in their places by heavy stones, loose, and laid 
 upon them irregularly. 
 
 "What a beautiful swell, Don Pepino, is this upon the 
 right," exclaimed I. "The little hill seems sensible of 
 pleasure as he dips his foot into the Larius." 
 
 "There will be the offices." 
 
 "What ! and hide the Grumello? Let me enjoy the 
 sight while I can. He appears instinct with life, nodding 
 the network of vines upon his head, and beckoning and 
 inviting us, while the fig-trees and mulberries and chest- 
 nuts and walnuts, and those lofty and eternal cypresses, 
 stand motionless around. His joyous mates, all different 
 in form and features, push forward ; and if there is 
 not something in the air, or something in my eyesight, 
 illusory, they are running a race along the borders. — Stop 
 a moment : how shall we climb over these two enormous 
 pines ? Ah ! Don Pepino, old trees in their living state 
 are the only things that money cannot command. Rivers 
 leave their beds, run into cities, and traverse mountains 
 for it ; obelisks and arches, palaces and temples, amphi- 
 theatres and pyramids, rise up like exhalations at its 
 bidding ; even the free spirit of man, the only thing great 
 on earth, crouches and cowers in its presence — it passes 
 away and vanishes before venerable trees. What a sweet
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 247 
 
 odour is there ? Whence comes it ? Sweeter it appears 
 to me and stronger than of the pine itself." 
 
 " I imagine," said he, " from the linden ; yes, certainly." 
 
 "Is that a linden? It is the largest, and, I should 
 imagine, the oldest upon earth, if I could perceive that it 
 had lost any of its branches." 
 
 " Pity that it hides half the row of yon houses from 
 the palace ! It will be carried off with the two pines in 
 the autumn." 
 
 " O Don Pepino," cried I ; " the French, who abhor 
 whatever is old and whatever is great, have spared it ; 
 the Austrians, who sell Jheir fortresses and their armies, 
 nay, sometimes their daughters, have not sold it — must 
 it fall?" » » » How many fond and how many lively 
 thoughts have been nurtured under this tree ! hovvf many 
 kind hearts have beaten here ! Its branches are not so 
 numerous as the couples they have invited to sit beside it, 
 nor its blossoms and leaves together as the expressions of 
 tenderness it has witnessed. What appeals to the pure 
 all-seeing heavens ! what similitudes to the everlasting 
 mountains ! what protestations of eternal truth and con- 
 stancy ! — from those who are now earth; they, and 
 their shrouds, and their coffins. The caper and fig-tree 
 have split their monuments, and boys have broken the 
 hazel-nut with the fragments. Emblems of past loves and 
 future hopes, severed names which the holiest rites united, 
 broken letters of brief happiness, bestrew the road, and 
 speak to the passer-by in vain." 
 
 CLXIX. — ASPECT OF TOWNS IN FRANCE AND ITALY. 
 
 Marchese PaUavicini. Our towns are in much better 
 style than our villas. 
 
 Landor. They indeed are magnificent, and appear the
 
 248 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 more so after the wretched streets of France. In that 
 country almost everything animated is noisy, and ahnost 
 everything inanimate is misshapen. All seems reversed : 
 the inhabitants of the north are darker than those of the 
 south : indeed the women of Calais are much browner 
 than any I have seen in Italy : the children, the dogs, the 
 frogs, are more clamorous than ours ; the cocks are shriller. 
 But at worst we are shocked by no contrast, the very 
 language seeming to be constructed upon stinks ; while in 
 Italy we cannot walk ten paces without deserving the 
 union of stateliness and filth, of gorgeous finery and 
 squalid meanness ; and the expressions of vice and slavery 
 are uttered in the accents of angels. The churches are 
 fairly divided between piety and prostitution, leaving the 
 entrance and a few broken chairs to beggary and vermin. 
 
 CLXX. — RESPECT FOR THE DEAD IN ITALY. 
 
 Landor. No people but the English can endure a long 
 continuation of gravity and sadness : none pay the same 
 respect to the dead. 
 
 English Visitor. Here the common people, and not 
 only the poorer, but householders and fathers of families, 
 are thrown together into a covered cart ; and when enough 
 of them are collected, they are carried off by night, and 
 cast naked into the ditch in the burial-ground. No sheet 
 about them, no shroud externally, no coffin, no bier, no 
 emblem of mortality ; none of sorrow, none of affection, 
 none of hope. Corpses are gathered like rotten gourds and 
 cracked cucumbers, and cast aside where none could find if 
 any looked for them. Among people in easy circumstances, 
 wife, children, relatives, friends, all leave the house when 
 one of the family is dying : the priest alone remains with 
 him : the last sacrament solves every human tie. The 
 eyes, after wandering over the altered scenes of domestic
 
 MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 249 
 
 love, over the silent wastes of friendship, are reconciled 
 to v.'hatever is most lugubrious in death, and are closed 
 at last by mercenaries and strangers. 
 
 Landor. My children were playing on the truly English 
 turf before the Campo Santo in Pisa, when he to whom 
 is committed the business of carrying ofi' the dead, and 
 whose house is in one corner, came up to them, and bade 
 them come along with him, telling them he would show 
 them two more such pretty children. He opened the 
 doors of a cart-house, in which were two covered carts : 
 the larger contained (I hear) several dead bodies, stark 
 naked : in the smaller were two infants, with not even a 
 flower shed over them. They had died in the foundling 
 hospital the night before. Such was their posture, they 
 appeared to hide their faces one from the other, in play. 
 As my children had not been playing with them, this 
 appearance struck neither : but the elder said, "Teresa ! 
 who shut up these mimmi ? I will tell papa — Why do 
 they not come out and play till bedtime?" 
 
 The ' ' mimmi " had been out, poor little souls ! and 
 had played — till bedtime.
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Demosthetif.s. There is one truth above all the rest ; 
 above all promulgated by the wisdom of legislators, the 
 zeal of orators, the enthusiasm of poets, or the revelation 
 of gods : a truth whose brightness and magnitude are 
 almost lost to view by its stupendous height. If I never 
 have pointed it out, knowing it as I do, let the forbear- 
 ance be assigned not to timidity but to prudence. 
 
 EuhuUdes. May I hope at last to hear it ? 
 
 Demosthenes. I must conduct you circuitously, and in- 
 terrogate you beforehand, as those do who lead us to the 
 mysteries. 
 
 You have many sheep and goats upon the mountain, 
 which were lately bequeathed to you by your nephew 
 Timocles. Do you think it the most advantageous to let 
 some mastiff, with nobody's chain or collar about his 
 neck, run among them and devour them one after another, 
 or to prepare a halter and lay poison and a trap for him ? 
 
 Etibulides. Certainly here, O Demosthenes, you are 
 not leading me into any mysteries. The answer is plain : 
 the poison, trap, and halter are ready. 
 
 Demosthenes. Well spoken. You have several children 
 and grandchildren : you study economy on their behalf: 
 would you rather spend twenty drachmas for fuel, than 
 three for the same quantity of the same material ? 
 
 Eiibiilides. Nay, nay, Demosthenes, if this is not mys- 
 teiy, it is worse. You are like a teacher to whom a
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 25I 
 
 Studious man goes to learn the meaning of a sentence, 
 and who, instead of opening the volume that contains it, 
 asks him gravely whether he has learnt his alphabet. 
 Prythee do not banter me. 
 
 Demosthenes. Tell me, then, which you would rather ; 
 make one drunken man sober for ever, or ten thousand 
 men drunk for many years ? 
 
 Ettbulides. By all the gods ! abstain from such idle 
 questions. 
 
 Demosthenes. The solution of this, idle as you call it, 
 may save you much more than twenty drachmas. O 
 Eubulides ! we have seen, to our sorrow and ignominy, 
 the plain of Cheronsea bestrewn with the bodies of our 
 bravest citizens ; had one barbarian fallen, they had not. 
 Rapine and licentiousness are the precursors and the 
 followers of even the most righteous war. A single blow 
 against the worst of mortals may prevent them. Many 
 years and much treasure are usually required for an un- 
 certain issue, beside the stagnation of traffic, the prostra- 
 tion of industry, and innumerable maladies arising from 
 towns besieged and regions depopulated. A moment is 
 sufficient to avert all these calamities. No usurper, no 
 invader, should be permitted to exist on earth. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 Demosthenes. Eveiy man in the world would be a 
 republican, if he did~not hope from fortune and favour 
 more than from industry and desert ; In short, if he did 
 not expect to carry off soorTer or later, from under another 
 system, what never could belong to him rightfully, and 
 what cannot (he thinks) accrue to him from this. To 
 suppose the contrary, would be the same as to suppose 
 that he would rather have a master in his house, than 
 friend, brother, or son ; and that he has both more con-
 
 2 52 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 fidence and more pleasure in an alien's management of 
 it, than in his own, or in any persons selected by liis 
 experience and deputed by his choice. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Demosthenes. Royalty is fed incessantly by the fuel of 
 slavish desires, blown by fulsome breath and fanned by 
 cringing follies. It melts mankind into one inert mass, 
 can"ying ofif and confounding all beneath it, like a torrent 
 of vEtnean lava, bright amid the darkness, and dark 
 again amid the light. 
 
 CLXXIV. — THE FATE OF DESPOTISMS. 
 
 Demosthenes. Pythagoras adapted his institutions to 
 the people he would enlighten and direct. What portion 
 of the world was ever so happy, so peaceable, so well- 
 governed, as the cities of Southern Italy ? While they 
 retained his manners they were free and powerful : some 
 have since declined, others are declining, and perhaps at 
 a future and not a distant time they may yield themselves 
 up to despotism. In a few ages more, those flourishing 
 towns, those inexpugnable citadels, those temples which 
 you might deem eternal, will be hunted for in their 
 wildernesses like the boars and stags. 
 
 CLXXV. — DEMOC RACY. 
 
 Alachiavelli. Republican as I have lived, and shall die, 
 I would rather any other stq^te of social life, than naked 
 and rude democracy ; because I have always found it 
 more jealous of merit, more suspicious of wisdom, more 
 proud of riding on great minds, more pleased at raising
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 2 53 
 
 ap little ones above them, more fond of loud talking, 
 more impatient of calm reasoning, more unsteady, more 
 ungrateful, and more ferocious ; above all, because it 
 leads to despotism through fraudulence, intemperance, 
 and corruption. Let Democracy live among the moun- 
 tains, and regulate her village, and enjoy her chalet ; let 
 her live peacefully and contentedly amid her flocks and 
 herds ; never lay her rough hand on the balustrade of the 
 council-chamber ; never raise her boisterous voice among 
 the images of liberators and legislators, of philosophers 
 and poets. 
 
 CLXXVI. — NAPOLEON AND PERICLES. 
 
 Two pow^erful nations have been vitally affected by 
 natural calamities. The former of these calamities was 
 inevitable by human prudence, and uncontrollable by 
 human skill : the latter was to be foreseen at any distance 
 by the most ignorant, and to be avoided by the most 
 unwary. I mean in the first the Plague of the Athenians ; 
 in the second the starvation of the French. The first 
 happened under the administration of a man transcend- 
 ently brave ; a man cautious, temperate, eloquent, 
 prompt, sagacious, above all that ever guided the coun- 
 cils and animated the energies of a state : the second 
 under a soldier of fortune, expert and enthusiastic ; but 
 often deficient in moral courage, not seldom in personal ; 
 rude, insolent, rash, rapacious; valuing but one human 
 life among the myriads at his disposal, and that one far 
 from the worthiest, in the estimation of an honester and 
 a saner mind. It is with reluctant shame I enter on a 
 comparison of such a person and Pericles. On one hand 
 we behold the richest cultivation of the most varied and 
 extensive genius ; the confidence of courage, tlie sedate- 
 ness of wisdom, the stateliness of integrity ; on the other,
 
 2 54 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 coarse manners, rude language, violent passions continu- 
 ally exploding, a bottomless void on the side of tmth, and 
 a rueful waste on that of common honesty » » « So many 
 pernicious faults were not committed by Xerxes or Darius, 
 whom ancient historians call feeble princes, as were com- 
 mitted by Napoleon, whom the modern do not call feeble, 
 because he felt nothing for others, coerced pertinaciously, 
 promised rashly, gave indiscriminately, looked tranquilly, 
 and spoke mysteriously. Even in his flight, signalised by 
 nothing but despondency, Segur, his panegyrist, hath 
 clearly shown that, had he retained any presence of mind, 
 any sympathy, or any shame, he might have checked and 
 crippled his adversary. One glory he shares with Trojan 
 and with Pericles, and neither time nor malice can diminish 
 it. He raised up and rewarded all kinds of merit, even 
 in those arts to which he was a stranger. In this indeed 
 he is more remarkable, perhaps more admirable, than 
 Pericles himself, for Pericles was a stranger to none of 
 them. 
 
 CLXXVII. — THE DEATH OF HOFER. 
 
 I passed two entire months in Germany, and like the 
 people. On my way I saw Waterloo, an ugly table for 
 an ugly game. At Innspruck I entered the church in 
 which Andreas Hofer is buried. He lies under a plain 
 slab, on the left, near the door. I admired the magnifi- 
 cent tomb of bronze, in the centre, surrounded by heroes, 
 real and imaginary. They did not fight, tens against 
 thousands ; they did not fight for wives and children, but 
 for lands and plunder : therefore they are heroes ! My 
 admiration for these works of art was soon satisfied, which 
 perhaps it would not have been in any other place. Snow, 
 mixed with rain, was falling, and was blown by the wind 
 upon the tomb of Hofer. I thought how often he had
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 255 
 
 taken advantage of such weather for his attacks against 
 the enemies of his country, and I seemed to hear his 
 whistle in the wind. At the httle village of Landro (I 
 feel a whimsical satisfaction in the likeness of the name 
 to mine), the innkeeper was the friend of this truly great 
 man — the greatest man that Europe has produced in our 
 days, excepting his true compeer, Kosciusko. Andreas 
 Hofer gave him the chain and crucifix he wore three days 
 before his death. You may imagine this man's enthusiasm, 
 who, because I had said that Hofer v/as greater than 
 king or emperor, and had made him a present of small 
 value, as the companion and friend of that harmless and 
 irreproachable hero, took this precious relic from his neck 
 and offered it to me. By the order of Buonaparte, the 
 companions of Hofer, eighty in number, were chained, 
 thumbscrewed, and taken out of prison in couples, to see 
 him shot. He had about him one thousand florins, in 
 paper currency, which he delivered to his confessor, re- 
 questing him to divide it impartially among his unfortun- 
 ate countrymen. The confessor, an Italian who spoke 
 German, kept it, and never gave relief from it to any of 
 them, most of whom were suffering, not only from priva- 
 tion of wholesome air, to which, among other privations, 
 they never had been accustomed, but also from scantiness 
 of nourishment and clothing. Even in Mantua, where, 
 as in the rest of Italy, sympathy is both weak and silent, 
 the lowest of the people were indignant at the sight of 
 so brave a defender of his country, led into the public 
 square to expiate a crime unheard of for many centuries 
 in their nation. When they saw him walk forth, with 
 unaltered countenance and firm step before them ; when, 
 stopping on the ground which was about to receive his 
 blood, they heard him with unfaltering voice commend 
 his soul ami his country to the Creator ; and, as if still 
 under his own roof (a custom with him after the evening
 
 256 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 prayer), implore a blessing for his boys and his little 
 daughter, and for the mother who had reared them up 
 carefully and tenderly thus far through the perils of child- 
 hood ; finally, when in a lower tone, but earnestly and 
 emphatically, he besought pardon from the Fount of Mercy 
 for her brother, his betrayer, many smote their breasts 
 aloud ; many, thinking that sorrow was shameful, lowered 
 their heads and wept ; many, knowing that it was dan- 
 gerous, yet wept too. The people remained upon the 
 spot an unusual time, and the French, fearing some com- 
 motion, pretended to have received an order from Buona- 
 parte for the mitigation of the sentence, and publicly 
 announced it. Among his many falsehoods, any one of 
 which would have excluded him for ever from the society 
 of men of honour, this is perhaps the basest ; as indeed 
 of all his atrocities the death of Hofer, which he had 
 ordered long before, and appointed the time and circum- 
 stances, is that which the brave and virtuous will reprobate 
 the most severely. He was urged by no necessity, he was 
 prompted by no policy ; his impatience of courage in an 
 enemy, his hatred of patriotism and integrity in all, of 
 which he had no idea himself, and saw no image in those 
 about him, outstripped his blind passion for fame, and 
 left him nothing but power and celebrity. 
 
 The name of Andreas Hofer will be honoured by pos- 
 terity far above any of the present age, and together with 
 the most glorious of the last, Washington and Kosciusko. 
 For it rests on the same foundation, and indeed on a higher 
 basis. In virtue and wisdom their co-equal, he van- 
 quished on several occasions a force greatly superior to 
 his own in numbers and in discipline, by the courage and 
 confidence he inspired, and by his brotherly care and 
 anxiety for those who were fighting at his side. Differ- 
 ently, far differently, ought we to estimate the squanderers 
 of human blood, and the scorners of human tears. H^e
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 257 
 
 also may boast of our great men in a cause as great : for 
 without it they could not be so. We may look back 
 upon our Blake ; whom the prodigies of a Nelson do not 
 eclipse, nor would he have wished (such was his gener- 
 osity) to obscure it. Blake was among the founders of 
 freedom ; Nelson was the vanquisher of its destroyers. 
 Washington was both ; Kosciusko was neither ; neither 
 was Hofer. But the aim of all three was alike ; and in 
 the armoury of God are suspended the arms the two last 
 of them bore ; suspended for success more signal and for 
 vengeance more complete. 
 
 I am writing this from Venice, which is among cities 
 what Shakespeare is among men. He will give her im- 
 mortality by his works, which neither her patron saint 
 could do nor her surrounding sea. 
 
 CLXXVIII. — THE TROUBLES OF IRELAND. 
 
 Archbishop Boulter, Prhnaie of Ireland and one 0/ the 
 Lords Justices, converses with Philip Savage, Chancel- 
 lor of the Exchequer. 
 
 Boulter. I trust it will ever be found convenient to 
 appoint men of clemency to the first station, and that I 
 shall never be forced to exercise on them the powers en- 
 trusted to me of coercion and control. 
 
 It is well when people can believe that their misfortunes 
 are temporary. How can we apply such a term to pest- 
 ilence and famine ? 
 
 Philip Savage. Surely the violence of the evil eats 
 away the substance of it speedily. Pestilence and famine 
 are, and always have been, temporary and brief. 
 
 Boulter. Temporary they are, indeed : brief are they, 
 very brief. But why? because life is so under them. 
 To the world they are extremely short : but can we say 
 they are short to him who bears them ? And of such 
 there are thousands, tens of thousands, in this most 
 
 s
 
 258 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 afflicted, most neglected country. The whole of a life, 
 be it what it may be, is not inconsiderable to him who 
 leaves it ; any more than the whole of a property, be it 
 but an acre, is inconsiderable to him who possesses it. 
 Whether want and wretchedness last for a month or for 
 half a century, if they last as long as the sufferer they are 
 to him of very long duration. Let us try then rather to 
 remove the evils of Ireland, than to persuade those who 
 undergo them that there are none. For, if they could be 
 thus persuaded, we should have brutalised them first to 
 such a degree as would render them more dangerous than 
 . they were in the reigns of Elizabeth or Charles. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Boulter. There will never be a want of money, or a 
 want of confidence, in any well-governed state that has 
 been long at peace, and without the danger of its inter- 
 ruption. But a want of the necessaries of life, in pea- 
 sants or artisans, when the seasons have been favourable, 
 is a certain sign of defect in the constitution, or of 
 criminality in the administration. It may not be advis- 
 able or safe to tell every one this truth : yet it is needful 
 to inculcate it on the minds of governors, and to repeat it 
 until they find the remedy : else the people, one day or 
 other, will send those out to look for it who may trample 
 down more in the search than suits good husbandry. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Washitigton. Look at the nations of Europe, and point 
 out one, despotic or free, of which so large a portion is 
 so barbarous and wretched as the Irish. The country is 
 more fertile than Britain ; the inhabitants are healthy, 
 strong, courageous, faithful, patriotic, and quick of appre-
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT 259 
 
 hension. No quality is wanting which constitutes the 
 respectability of a state ; yet from centuries of misrule, 
 they are in a condition more hopeless than any other 
 nation or tribe upon the globe, civilised or savage. 
 
 Franklin. There is only one direct way to bring them 
 into order, and that appears so rough it never will be 
 trodden. The chief misery arises from the rapacity of 
 the gentry, as they are styled, and the nobility who, to 
 avoid the trouble of collecting their rents from many poor 
 tenants, and the greater of hearing their complaints, have 
 leased their properties to what are called middle-tnen. 
 These harass their inferiors in the exact ratio of their 
 industry, and drive them into desperation. Hence sloven- 
 liness and drunkenness ; for the appearance of ease and 
 comfort is an allurement to avarice. To pacify and re- 
 claim the people, leases to middle-men must be annulled ; 
 every cultivator must have a lease for life, and (at the 
 option of his successor) valid for as many years afterwards 
 as will amount in the whole to twenty-one. The extent 
 of ground should be proportionate to his family and his 
 means. To underlet land should be punished by law 
 as regrating. 
 
 Washington. Authority would here be strongly exer- 
 cised, not tyrannically, which never can be asserted of 
 plans sanctioned by the representatives of a people, for 
 the great and perpetual benefit of the many, to the small 
 and transient inconvenience of the few. 
 
 CLXXXI. — THE GREEK WAR OF LIBERATION. 
 
 What those amongst us who are affected by a sense of 
 national honour most lament, is, that England, whose 
 generosity would cost her nothing and whose courage 
 would be unexposed to fatality, stands aloof. Ad 
 alliance, offensive and defensive, with Greece would
 
 26o REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 render us invulnerable in the only part of the world 
 where we have lately shown our feebleness. We should 
 unite to us a maritime power, which within half a 
 century would of itself be equipollent on the sea with 
 France ; and we should attract to our merchants those 
 advantages of commerce in the Levant which at present 
 lean toward her. The great Chatham, if he had lived 
 in our days, would have cast on every side around him 
 the seeds of small maritime and small constitutional 
 states. We may extend our dominions in many ways ; 
 we can extend our power in this only. None of our late 
 ministers have had clear views or steady aims. We have 
 been hovering on the shores of Greece, until the season is 
 going by for aiding her ; and another Power will soon 
 have acquired the glory and the benefit of becoming her 
 first protectress. If a new world were to burst forth 
 suddenly in the midst of the heavens, and we were in- 
 structed by angelic voices, or whatever kind of revelation 
 the Creator might appoint, that its inhabitants were 
 brave, generous, happy, and warm with all our sym- 
 pathies, would not pious men fall prostrate before Him, 
 for such a manifestation of His power and goodness } 
 What then ! shall these very people, these religious, be 
 the first to stifle the expression of our praise and wonder, 
 at a marvel far more astonishing, at a manifestation of 
 power and goodness far more glorious and magnificent ? 
 The weak vanquish the strong ; the oppressed stand over 
 the oppressor : we see happy, not them who never were 
 otherwise, not them who have made no effort, no movement 
 of their own to earn their happiness, like the creatures of 
 our imaginary new world, but those who were the most 
 wretched, and the most undeservedly, and who now, 
 arising as from the tomb, move the incumbrances of ages 
 and of nations from before them, and, although at present 
 but half-erect, lower the stature of the greatest heroes.
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 26 1 
 
 We appear to be afraid of the Russians : we tremble 
 lest they should take possession of Constantinople, and 
 march to India. The glory of Russia may be increased 
 by conquest, which cannot be said of other state in 
 Europe ; but her power of doing injury to the nations of 
 the West would rather be deferred and diminished by it 
 than promoted and increased. She would not be able in 
 half a century to send an army into India, even if she 
 possessed the dominions of the Turk : they would be far 
 from affording her any great facility. In less than half a 
 century it is probable we shall lose that empire ; but we 
 shall lose it, like every other we have lost and are about 
 to lose, by alienating the affections of the people. God 
 grant that Russia may invade and conquer Turkey ! not 
 that the Russians, or any other people on the Continent, 
 are a better, a braver, an honester race than the Turks, 
 but because the policy of the government is adverse to 
 the progress of civilisation, and bears with brutal heavi- 
 ness on its cradle. God grant that Russia may possess 
 her ! not because it will increase her strength, but because 
 it will enable, and perhaps induce her, to liberate from 
 bondage more than one brave nation. She cannot hold 
 Turkey at the extremity of such a lever ; and those who 
 now run to help her, will slip from under her. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 We are zealous in protecting from slavery the remotest 
 nations of Africa, who have always for thousands of years 
 been subject to that dreadful visitation, and who never have 
 expected, or even heard tidings of, our generous interfer- 
 ence. We take them away by righteous force from under the 
 proudest flag ; we convey them to our own settlements ; 
 we give them food, clothing, ground, instruction, morals, 
 religion. Humanity cries out, tell them they are men !
 
 2 62 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 and we hear her. Is she silent for the Greeks ? have 
 their voices no echo in her breast? do we treat them 
 cruelly because they have not the advantage of being 
 barbarous ? do we spurn them because they cling to us ? 
 is it because they trust only in us, that we reject and re- 
 pulse them only of all mankind ? The ships of Ismael 
 Bey repass the Mediterranean and Archipelago, laden 
 with the sons and daughters of a half-extinguished race : 
 half-extinguished under our eyes. Their terrors are not 
 at death ; their tears are not for captivity ; their loss, 
 though their country is Greece, is not of country. God 
 alone can avenge it : God alone must hear it. Some- 
 thing may surely be done, to alleviate the sufferings of 
 the few survivors, wandering among naked rocks, or 
 lifting up their heads from the rushes in the pestilential 
 marsh. They require of us no land to cultivate, no sustC' 
 nance, no raiment : they implore of us permission to live 
 under the safeguard of our laws, and to partake with the 
 most ignorant and ferocious tribes, with murderers and 
 cannibals, a spare moment of our attention and concern. 
 
 Surely, surely this is not too much ; if you consider 
 that the finest eloquence ever heard within your walls, 
 was admirable only in proportion as it resembled the 
 eloquence of their ancestors ; and that gods were bowed 
 down to and worshipped, by the wisest and most power- 
 ful nations, for being in form and dignity like them. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 General Lacy, The strength of England lies not in arma- 
 ments and invasions : it lies in the omnipresence of her in- 
 dustry, and in the vivifying energies of her high civilisation. 
 There are provinces she cannot grasp ; there are islands 
 she cannot hold fast : but there is neither island nor 
 province, there is neither kingdom nor continent, which
 
 POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 263 
 
 she could not draw to her side and fix there everlastingly, 
 by saying the magic words Be Free. Every land wherein 
 she favours the sentiments of freedom, every land wherein 
 she but forbids them to be stifled, is her own ; a true ally, 
 a willing tributary, an inseparable friend. 
 
 CLXXXIV.— ON THE ACCESSION OK A LIBERAL POPE. 
 
 Dedication of the first edition of the Hellenics (1847) to thi 
 newly-elected Pope Pins IX. 
 
 Never until now, most Holy Father ! did I hope or 
 desire to offer my homage to any potentate on earth ; 
 and now I offer it only to the highest of them all. 
 
 There was a time when the cultivators of literature 
 were permitted and expected to bring the fruit of their 
 labour to the Vatican. Not only was incense welcome 
 there, but even the humblest produce of the poorest soil. 
 
 Verbenam, piieri, ponite Thtiraque. 
 If those better days are returning without what was bad 
 or exceptionable in them, the glory is due entirely to 
 your Holiness. You have restored to Italy hope and 
 happiness ; to the rest of the world hope only. But a 
 single word from your prophetic lips, a single motion of 
 your earth-embracing arm, will overturn the firmest seats 
 of iniquity and oppression. The word must be spoken ; 
 the arm must wave. What do we see before us ? If we 
 take the best of rulers under our survey, we find selfish- 
 ness and frivolity : if we extend the view, ingratitude, 
 disregard of honour, contempt of honesty, breach of 
 promises : one step yet beyond, and there is cold-blooded 
 idiocy, stabbing the nobles at home, spurning the people 
 everywhere, and voiding its corrosive slaver in the fair 
 face of Italy. It is better to look no farther, else our 
 eyes must be riveted on frozen seas of blood superfused 
 with blood fresh flowing. The same ferocious animal
 
 264 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 leaves the impression of its broad and heavy foot on the 
 snow of the Arctic Circle and of the Caucasus. And is 
 this indeed all that Europe has brought forth, after such 
 long and painful throes ? Has she endured her Marats, 
 her Robespierres, her Buonapartes, for this? God in- 
 flicted on the latter of these wretches his tw^o greatest 
 curses — uncontrolled power and perverted intellect ; and 
 they were twisted together to make a scourge for a nation 
 which revelled in every crime, but above all in cruelty. 
 It was insufficient. She is now undergoing from a weaker 
 hand a more ignominious punishment, pursued by the 
 derision of Europe. To save her honour, she pretended 
 to admire the courage that decimated her children : to 
 save her honour, she now pretends to admire the wisdom 
 that imprisons them. Cunning is not wisdom ; prevari- 
 cation is not policy ; and (novel as the notion is, it is 
 equally true) armies are not strength : Acre and Waterloo 
 show it, and the flames of the Kremlin and the solitudes 
 of Fontainebleau. One honest man, one wise man, one 
 peaceful man, commands a hundred millions, without a 
 baton and without a charger. He wants no fortress to 
 protect him : he stands higher than any citadel can raise 
 him, brightly conspicuous to the most distant nations, 
 God's servant by election, God's image by beneficence. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 Parson. Clear writers, like clear fountains, do not 
 seem so deep as they are : the turbid look most profound. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Aspasia. The business of philosophy is to examine and 
 estimate all those things which come within the cognis- 
 ance of the understanding. Speculations on any that lie 
 beyond are only pleasant dreams, leaving the mind to the 
 lassitude of disappointment. They are easier than geo- 
 metry and dialectics ; they are easier than the efforts of a 
 well-regulated imagination in the structure of a poem. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 Diogenes. I meddle not at present with infinity or 
 eternity : when I can comprehend them I will talk about 
 them. You metaphysicians kill the flower-bearing and 
 fruit - bearing glebe with delving and turning over and 
 sifting, and never bring up any solid and malleable mass 
 from the dark profundity in which you labour. The in- 
 tellectual world, like the physical, is inapplicable to profit 
 and incapable of cultivation a little way below the surface 
 
 of which there is more to manage, and more to know, 
 
 than any of you will undertake. 
 
 Plato. It happens that we do not sec the stars at even-
 
 266 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 tide, sometimes because there are clouds intervening, but 
 oftener because there are glimmerings of light ; thus 
 many truths escape us from the obscurity we stand in ; 
 and many more from that crepuscular state of mind, 
 which induces us to sit down satisfied with our imagina- 
 tions and unsuspicious of our knowledge. 
 
 Diogenes. Keep always to the point, or with an eye 
 upon it, and instead of saying things to make people stare 
 and wonder, say what will withhold them hereafter from 
 wondering and staring. This is philosophy ; to make 
 remote things tangible, common things extensively useful, 
 useful things extensively common, and to leave the least 
 necessary for the last. I have always a suspicion of 
 sonorous sentences. The full shell sounds little, but 
 shows by that little what is within. A bladder swells 
 out more with wind than with oil. 
 
 CLXXXVIIT. 
 
 Plato. My sentences, it is acknowledged by all good 
 judges, are well constructed and harmonious. 
 
 Diogenes. I admit it : I have also heard it said that 
 thou art eloquent. 
 
 Plato. If style, without elocution, can be. 
 
 Diogenes. Neither without nor with elocution is there 
 eloquence, where there is no ardour, no impulse, no 
 energy, no concentration. Eloquence raises the whole 
 man : thou raisest our eyebrows only. We wonder, we 
 applaud, we walk away, and we forget. Thy eggs are 
 very prettily speckled ; but those which men use for their 
 sustenance are plain white ones. People do not every 
 day put on their smartest dresses ; they are not always in 
 trim for dancing, nor are they practising their steps in all 
 places. I profess to be no weaver of fine words, no dealer
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 267 
 
 in the plumes of phraseology, yet every man and every 
 woman I speak to understands me. 
 
 Plato. Which would not always be the case if the 
 occulter operations of the human mind were the subject. 
 
 Diogenes. If what is occult must be occult for ever; I 
 why throw away words about it ? Employ on every ' 
 occasion the simplest and easiest, and range them in the 
 most natural order. Thus they will serve thee faithfully, 
 bringing thee many hearers and readers from the intel- 
 lectual and uncorrupted. All popular orators, victorious 
 commanders, crowned historians, and poets above crown- 
 ing, have done it. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 Barroiv {to Ncd'ton). I do not urge you to write in 
 dialogue, although the best writers of every age have 
 done it : the best parts of Homer and Milton are speeches 
 and replies, tKfe"bfest parts of every great historian are the 
 same : the wisest men of Athens and of Rome converse 
 togetlier in this manner, as they are shown to us by Xeno- 
 phon, by Plato, and by Cicero. Whether you adopt such 
 a form of composition, which, if your opinions are new, 
 will protect you in part from the hostility all novelty 
 (unless it is vicious) excites ; or whether you choose to 
 go along the unbroken surface of the didactic ; never 
 look abroad for any kind of ornament. Apollo, either 
 as the god of day or the slayer of Python, had nothing 
 about him to obscure his clearness or to impede his 
 strength, 
 
 cxc. 
 
 Barrmv. Never try to say things admirably ; try only 
 to say them plainly ; for your business is with the con- | ^\ 
 siderate philosopher, and not with the polemical assem - 
 bly. If a thing can be demonstrated two ways, demon-
 
 2 68 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Strata it in both : one will please this man, the other that ; 
 and pleasure, if obvious and unsought, is never to be 
 neglected by those appointed from above to lead us into 
 knowledge. Many will readily mount stiles and gates 
 to walk along a fooFpath in a field, whom the very sight 
 of a bare public road would disincline and weary ; and 
 yet the place whereto they travel lies at the end of each. 
 Your studies are of a nature unsusceptible of much decora- 
 tion : otherwise it would be my duty and my care to warn 
 you against it, not merely as idle and unnecessary, but as 
 obstructing your intent. The fond of wine are little fond 
 of the sweet or the new : the fond of learning are no 
 fonder of its must than of its dregs. Something of the 
 severe hath always been appertaining to order and to 
 grace : and the beauty that is not too liberal is sought 
 the most ardently and loved the longest, 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 Archdeacon Haj-e. Wherever there is a word beyond 
 what is requisite" to express the meaning, that word must 
 be peculiarly beautiful in itself, or strikingly harmonious ; 
 either of which qualities may be of some service in fixing 
 the attention and enforcing the sentiment. But the pro- 
 per word in the proper place seldom leaves anythmg to 
 be desiderated on the score of harmoriy. The beauty of 
 health and strength is more attractive and imp ressive 
 than any beauty conferred by ornamentT 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 Demosthenes. Whatever is rightly said, sounds rightly. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 Epicurus. Natural sequences and right subordination
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 269 
 
 of thoughts, and that just proportion of numbers in the 
 sentences which follows a strong conception, are the con- 
 stituents of true harmony. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 
 Chesterfield. Cicero was himself a trifler in cadences, 
 and whoever thinks much about them will become so, 
 if indeed the very thought when it enters is not trifling. 
 
 Chatham. I am not sure that it is ; for an orderly and 
 sweet sentence, by gaining our ear, conciliates our affec- 
 tions ; and the voice of a beggar has often more effect 
 upon us than his distress. 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 Pollio. Cicero sometimes is exuberant. Conciseness 
 may be better : but where there is much wealth we may 
 excuse a little waste, especially when it falls not un- 
 worthily. I confess to you I love a nobility and ampli- 
 tude of style, provided it never sweeps beyond the subject. 
 There are people who cut short the tails of their dogs ; 
 and such dogs are proper for such masters : but the 
 generous breeds, coursers of the lordly stag, and such as 
 accompanied the steps of Hippolytus and Adonis, were 
 unmutilated. 
 
 cxcvi. 
 
 Horm Tooke. Those only can be called great writers 
 who b?Ift^1?> bear on their subject more than a few high 
 faculties of the mind. I require in him whom I am to 
 acknowledge for such, accuracy of perception, variety of 
 mood, of manner, and of cadence ; imagination, reflection, 
 force, sweetness, copiousness, depth, perspicuity. I re-
 
 270 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 quire in him a princely negligence of little things, and a 
 proof that although he seizes much, he leaves much (alike 
 within his reach) unappropriated and untouched. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 Aljieri. To constitute a great writer the qualities are, 
 adequate expression of just sentiments, plainness without 
 vulgarity, elevation without pomp, sedateness without 
 austerity, alertness without impetuosity ; thoughts offered 
 not abruptly, nor ungraciously, nor forced into us, nor 
 stamped upon us : they must leave room for others to 
 bring forward theirs, and help in suggesting them. 
 Vigorous that appears to ordinary minds which attracts 
 the vulgar by its curtness and violence : but coarse tex- 
 tures are not always the strongest, nor is the loudest 
 voice always the most commanding. 
 
 CXCVIII.— SEDATENESS IN POETRY. 
 
 Aspasia. No writer of florid prose ever was more than 
 a secondary poet. Poetry, in her high estate, is delighted 
 with exuberant abundance, but imposes on her worshipper 
 a severity of selection. She has not only her days of 
 festival, but also her days of abstinence, and, unless upon 
 some that are set apart, prefers the graces of sedateness 
 to the revelry of enthusiasm. 
 
 cxcix. 
 
 [ Boccaccio. What is there lovely in poetry unless there 
 be moderation and composure ? Are they not better 
 than the hot uncontrollable harlotry of a flaunting, dis- 
 hevelled enthusiasm ? Whoever has the power of creating, 
 has likewise the inferior power of keeping his creations in
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 27 1 
 
 order. The best poets are the most impressive, because 
 their steps are regular ; for without regularity there is 
 neither strength nor state. Look at Sophocles, look at 
 /Eschylus, look at Homer. 
 
 CC— PINDAR, 
 
 Lattdor. We have lost the greater and (some believe) 
 the better part of Pindar's poetry : what remains is more 
 distinguished for an exquisite selection of topics than for 
 enthusiasm. There is a grandeur of soul which never 
 leaves him, even in domestic scenes ; and his genius 
 does not rise on points or peaks of subhmity, but per- 
 vades the subject with a vigorous and easy motion, such 
 as the poets attribute to the herald of the gods. 
 
 CCI. — LATIN STYLES. 
 
 Supposing the first of Virgil's Eclogues to have appeared 
 seven years after the death of Catullus, and this poet to 
 have composed his earliest works in the lifetime of 
 Lucretius, we cannot but ponder on the change of the 
 Latin language in so short a space of time. Lucretius 
 was by birth a Roman, and wrote in Rome ; yet who 
 would hot say unhesitatingly, that there is more of what 
 Cicero calls urbane in the two provincials, Virgil and 
 Catullus, than in the authoritative and stately man who 
 leads Memmius from the camp into the gardens of Epi- 
 curus. He complains of poverty in the Latin tongue ; 
 but his complaint is only on its insufficiency in philo- 
 sophical terms, which Cicero also felt twenty years later, 
 and called in Greek auxiharies. But in reality the lan- 
 guage never exhibited such a profusion of richness as in 
 the comedies of Plautus, whose style is the just admira- 
 tion of the Roman orator.
 
 272 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 ecu. — Virgil's dido. 
 
 I Without the sublime, we have said before, there can 
 I be no poet of the first order : but the pathetic may exist 
 in the secondary ; for tears are more easily drawn forth 
 than souls are raised. So easily are they on some occa- 
 sions, that the poetical power needs scarcely be brought 
 into action ; while on the others the pathetic is the very 
 summit of sublimity. We have an example of it in the 
 Ariadne of Catullus : we have another in the Priam of 
 Homer. All the heroes and gods, debating and fighting, 
 vanish before the father of Hector in the tent of Achilles, 
 and before the storm of conflicting passions his sorrows 
 and prayers excite. But neither in the spirited and 
 energetic Catullus, nor in the masculine and scornful and 
 stern Lucretius, no, nor in Homer, is there anything so 
 impassioned, and therefore so sublime, as the last hour 
 of Dido in the JEiteid. Admirably as two Greek poets 
 have represented the tenderness, the anguish, the terrific 
 wrath and vengeance of Medea, all the works they ever 
 wrote contain not the poetry which Virgil has condensed 
 into about a hundred verses : omitting as we must, those 
 which drop like icicles from the rigid lips of .(Eneas ; and 
 also the similes which, here as everywhere, sadly inter- 
 fere with passion. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 If there are fine things in the Argonautics of Apol- 
 lonius, there are finer still in those of Catullus. In rela- 
 tion to Virgil, he stands as Correggio in relation to 
 Raphael : a richer colourist, a less accurate draftsman ; 
 less capable of executing grand designs, more exquisite 
 iB the working out of smaller. Virgil is depreciated by 
 the arrogance of self-sufficient poets, nurtured on coarse 
 fare, and dizzy with home-brewed flattery. Others, who
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 
 
 273 
 
 have studied more attentively the ancient models, are 
 abler to show his relative station, and readier to venerate 
 his powers. Although we find him incapable of contriv- 
 ing, and more incapable of executing, so magnificent a 
 work as the Iliad, yet there are places in his compared 
 with which the grandest in that grand poem lose much 
 of their elevation. Never was there such a whirlwind of 
 passions as Virgil raised on those African shores, amid 
 those rising citadels and departing sails. When the 
 vigorous verses of Lucretius are extolled, no true poet, 
 no sane critic, will assent that the seven or eight examples 
 of the best are equivalent to this one : even in force of 
 expression, here he falls short of Virgil. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 There are four things requisite to constitute might, 
 majesty, and dominion, in a poet : these are creativeness, 
 constructiveness, the sublime, the pathetic. A poet of j 
 the first order must have formed, or taken to himself and ] 
 modified, some great subject. He must be creative and ' 
 constructive. Creativeness may work upon old materials ; 
 a new wo rld may spring Jrom an oldone. Shakespeare 
 found HarnleTandTOphelia ; he found Othello and Desde- 
 mona ; nevertheless he, the only universal poet, carried 
 this, and all the other qualifications, far beyond the reach 
 of competitors. He was creative and constructive, he 
 was sublime and pathetic, and he has also in his humanity 
 condescended to the familiar and the comic. There is 
 nothing less pleasant than the smile of Milton ; but at 
 one time Momus, at another the Graces, hang upon the 
 neck of Shakespeare. 
 
 Tm 
 
 
 ccv. 
 Pdrarca. A poet often does more and better than he 
 
 T
 
 2 74 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 is aware at the time, and seems at last to know as little 
 about it as a silkworm knows about the fineness of hei 
 thread. 
 
 ccvi. 
 
 Aspasia. For any high or any wide operation, a poet 
 must be endued, not with passion indeed, but with power 
 and mastery over it ; with imagination, with reflection, 
 with observation, and with discernment. 
 
 CCVII, 
 
 It is only the wretchedest of poets that wish all they 
 ever wrote to be remembered : some of the best would 
 be willing to lose the most. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 Boccaccio. Good poetry, like good music, pleases most 
 people, but the ignorant and inexpert lose half its plea- 
 sures, the invidious lose them all. What a paradise lost 
 is here ! 
 
 CCIX.— THE ORIGINS OF POETRY. 
 
 Petrarca. I see no reason why we should not revert, 
 at times, to the first intentions of poetry. Hymns to the 
 Creator were its earliest efforts. 
 
 Boccaccio. I do not believe a word of it, unless He 
 himself was graciously pleased to inspire the singer ; of 
 which we have received no account. I rather think it 
 originated in pleasurable song, perhaps of drunkenness, 
 and resembled the dithyrambic. Strong excitement alone 
 could force and hurry men among words displaced and 
 •ixaggerated ideas. 
 
 Believing that man fell, first into disobedience, next 
 into ferocity and fratricide, we may reasonably believe
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 275 
 
 that war-songs were among the earliest of his intellectual 
 exertions. When he rested from battle he had leisure to 
 think of love ; and the skies and the fountains and the 
 flowers reminded him of her, the coy and beautiful, who 
 fled to a mother from the ardour of his pursuit. In after 
 years he lost a son, his companion in the craft and in the 
 forest : images too grew up there, and rested on the 
 grave. A daughter, who had wondered at his strength 
 and wisdom, looked to him in vain for succour at the 
 approach of death. Inarticulate grief gave way to pas- 
 sionate and wailing words, and Elegy was awakened. 
 We have tears in this world before we have smiles, Fran- 
 cesco ! we have struggles before we have composure ; we 
 have strife and complaints before we have submission 
 and gratitude. I am suspicious that if we could collect 
 the ' ' winged words " of the earliest hymns, we should 
 find that they called upon the Deity for vengeance. 
 Priests and rulers were far from insensible to private 
 wrongs. Chryses in the Iliad is willing that his king and 
 country should be enslaved so that his daughter be sent 
 back to him. David in the Psalms is no unimportunate 
 or lukewarm applicant for the discomfiture and extermi- 
 nation of his adversaries : and among the visions of 
 felicity, none brighter is promised a fortunate warrior, 
 than to dash the infants of his enemy against the stones. 
 
 CCX. — POETRY AND HISTORY. 
 
 Aspasia. We make a bad bargain when we change 
 poetry for truth in the afiairs of ancient times, and by no 
 means a good one in any. 
 
 Remarkable men of remote ages are collected together 
 out of different countries within the same period, and per- 
 form simultaneously the same action. On an accumula- 
 tion of obscure deeds arises a wild spirit of poetry ; and
 
 276 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 images and names burst forth and spread themselves, 
 rtfhich carry with them something like enchantment, far 
 beyond the infancy of nations. What was vague imagina- 
 tion settles at last and is received for history. It is diffi- 
 cult to effect and idle to attempt the separation : it is like 
 breaking off a beautiful crystallisation from the vault of 
 some intricate and tv/ilight cavern, out of mere curiosity 
 to see where the accretion terminates and the rock begins. 
 
 CCXI. — THE PROVINCE OF HISTORY. 
 
 Pericles. May our first Athenian historian not be the 
 greatest, as the first of our dramatists has been, in the 
 opinion of many, .^schylus was the creator of Tragedy, 
 nor did she ever shine with such splendour, ever move 
 with such stateliness and magnificence, as at her first 
 apparition on the horizon. The verses of vSophocles are 
 more elaborate, the language purer, the sentences fuller 
 and more harmonious ; but in loftiness of soul, and in the 
 awfulness with which he invests his characters, ^schylus 
 remains unrivalled and unapproached. 
 
 We are growing too loquacious, both on the stage 
 and off. We make disquisitions which render us only 
 more and more dim-sighted, and excursions that only con- 
 sume our stores. If some among us who have acquired 
 celebrity by their compositions, calm, candid, contem- 
 plative men, were to undertake the history of Athens from 
 the invasion of Xerxes, I should expect a fair and full 
 criticism on the orations of Antiphon, and experience no 
 disappointment at their forgetting the battle of Salamis. 
 History, when she has lost her muse, will lose her dignity, 
 her occupation, her character, her name. She will wander 
 about the Agora ; she will start, she will stop, she will 
 look wild, she will look stupid, she will take languidly to 
 her bosom doubts, queries, essays, dissertations, some of
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 277 
 
 which ought to go before her, some to follow, and all to 
 stand apart. The field of History should not merely be 
 well tilled, but well peopled. None is delightful to me, 
 or interesting, in which I find not as many illustrious 
 names as have a right to enter it. We might as well in 
 a drama place the actors behind the scenes, and listen to 
 the dialogue there, as in a history push valiant men back, 
 and protrude ourselves with husky disputations. Show 
 me rather how great projects were executed, great advan- 
 tages gained, and great calamities averted. Show me the 
 generals and the statesmen who stood foremost, that I 
 may bend to them in reverence ; tell me their names, 
 that I may repeat them to my children. Teach me 
 whence laws were introduced, upon what foundation laid, 
 by what custody guarded, in what inner keep preserved. 
 Let the books of the treasury lie closed as religiously as 
 the Sibyl's ; leave weights and measures in the market- 
 place. Commerce in the harbour, the Arts in the light 
 they love, Philosophy in the shade : place History on her 
 rightful throne, and, at the sides of her, Eloquence and 
 War. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 Bishop Parker. The Italians, who far excel us in the 
 writing of history, are farther behind the ancients. 
 
 Marvel. True enough. From Guicciardini and Machia- 
 velli, the most celebrated of them, we acquire a vast quan- 
 tity of trivial information.. There is about them a saw- 
 dust which absorbs much blood and impurity, and of 
 which the level surface is dry : but no traces by what 
 agency rose such magnificent cities above the hovels of 
 France and Germany : none 
 
 — ut fortis Etruria crevit.
 
 278 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 or^ on the contrary, how the mistress of the world sank 
 in the ordure of her priesthood — 
 
 Scilicet et rerum fcuta est nequissima Roma. 
 We are captivated by no charms of description ; we are 
 detained by no pecuHarities of character : we hear a 
 clamorous scuffle in the street, and we close the door. 
 How different the historians of antiquity ! We read 
 Sallust, and always are incited by the desire of reading 
 on, although we are suiTounded by conspirators and bar- 
 barians : we read Livy, until we imagine we are standing 
 in an august pantheon, covered with altars and standards, 
 over which are the four fatal letters that spellbound all 
 mankind.^ We step forth again among the modern 
 Italians : here we find plenty of rogues, plenty of receipts 
 for making more ; and little else. In the best passages 
 we come upon a crowd of dark reflections, which scarcely 
 a glimmer of glory pierces through ; and we stare at the 
 tenuity of the spectres, but never at their altitude. 
 
 Give me the poetical mind, the mind poetical in all 
 things ; give me the poetical heart, the heart of hope and 
 confidence, that beats the more strongly and resolutely 
 under the good thrown down, and raises up fabric after 
 fabric on the same foundation. 
 
 Parker. At your time of life, Mr. Marvel ? 
 
 Marvel. At mine, my lord bishop ! I have lived with 
 Milton. Such creative and redeeming spirits are like 
 kindly and renovating Nature. Volcano comes after 
 volcano, yet covereth she with herbage and foliage, with 
 vine and olive, and with whatever else refreshes and 
 gladdens her, the Earth that has been gasping under the 
 exhaustion of her throes. 
 
 Parker. He has given us such a description of Eve's 
 beauty as appears to me somewhat too pictorial, too 
 luxuriant, too suggestive, too — I know not what. 
 1 S. P. Q. R.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 279 
 
 Marvel. The sight of beauty, in her purity and beati- 
 tude, turns us from all unrighteousness, and is death to 
 sin. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 The AbbS Delille. Milton is extremely difficult to trans- 
 late ; for however noble and majestic, he is sometimes 
 heavy, and often rough and unequal. 
 
 Laiidor. Dear Abbe ! porphyry is heavy, gold is 
 heavier : Ossa and Olympus are rough and unequal : the 
 steppes of Tartary, though high, are of uniform elevation : 
 there is not a rock, nor a birch, nor a cytisus, nor an 
 arbutus, upon them, great enough to shelter a new-dropt 
 lamb. Level the Alps one with another, and where is 
 their sublimity? Raise up the vale of Tempe to the 
 downs above, and where are those sylvan creeks and 
 harbours in which the imagination watches while the 
 soul reposes ; those recesses in which the gods partook 
 the weaknesses of mortals, and mortals the enjojonents of 
 the gods 1 
 
 CCXIV. 
 
 Marvel. He must be a bad writer, or however a very 
 indifferent one, to whom there are no inequalities. The 
 plants of such tableland are diminutive and never worth 
 gathering. What would you think of a man's eyes to 
 which all things appear of the same magnitude and at 
 the same elevation? You must think nearly so of a 
 writer who makes as much of small things as of great. 
 The vigorous mind has mountains to climb and valleys to 
 repose in. Is there any sea without its shoals ? On that 
 which the poet navigates, he rises intrepidly as the waves 
 rise round him, and sits composedly as they subside.
 
 28o REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 CCXV. 
 
 Metastasio. It must be confessed that whatever is far 
 removed from fashionable life and changeable manners 
 is best adapted to the higher poetry. We are glad and 
 righteously proud to possess two worlds, the one at present 
 under our feet, producing beef and mutton ; the other, 
 on which have passed before us, gods, demigods, heroes, 
 the Fates, the Furies, and all the numerous progeny of 
 never-dying, never-aging, eternally parturient Imagina- 
 tion. Great is the privilege of crossing at will the rivers 
 of bitterness, of tears, of fire, and to wander and converse 
 among the Shades. 
 
 CCXV I. 
 
 Porson. You poets are still rather too fond of the un- 
 substantial. Some will have nothing else than what they 
 call pure imagination. Now, air-plants ought not to fill 
 the whole conservatory ; other plants, I would modestly 
 suggest, are worth cultivating, which send their roots 
 pretty deep into the ground. I hate both poetry and wine 
 without body. Look at Shakespeare, Bacon, and Milton ; 
 were these your pure -imagination men? The least of 
 them, whichever it was, carried a jewel of poetry about 
 him worth all his tribe that came after. Did the two of 
 them who wrote in verse build upon nothing ? Did their 
 predecessors ? And pray whose daughter was the muse 
 they invoked? Why Memoi7's. They stood among 
 substantial men and sang upon recorded actions. The 
 plain of Scamander, the promontory of Sigeum, the 
 palaces of Tros and Dardanus, the citadel in which the 
 Fates sang mournfully under the image of Minerva, seem 
 fitter places for the Muses to alight on than artificial 
 rockwork or than faery-rings. But your great favourite.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 28 1 
 
 I hear, is Spenser, who shines in allegory, and who, like 
 an aerolith, is dull and heavy when he descends to the 
 ground. 
 
 Southey. He continues a great favourite with me still, 
 although he must always lose a little as our youth declines. 
 Spenser's is a spacious but somewhat low cliamber, hung 
 with rich tapestry, on which the figures are mostly dis- 
 proportioned, but some of the faces are lively and beauti- 
 ful ; the furniture is part creaky and worm-eaten, part 
 fragrant with cedar and sandal -wood and aromatic 
 gums and balsams ; every table and mantelpiece and 
 cabinet is covered with gorgeous vases, and birds, and 
 dragons, and houses in the air. 
 
 CCXVII. 
 
 Landor. The heart is the creator of the poetical world ; I 
 only the atmosphere is from the brain. Do I then under- 
 value imagination ? No indeed : but I find imagination 
 where others never look for it : in character multifonn 
 yet consistent "" ' 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 Vittoria Colontia. The human heart is the world of \ 
 poetry ; the imagination is only its atmosphere. Faeries, 
 and genii, and^ngeli~themselves;'are' at best its insects, 
 glancing with unsubstantial wings about its lower regions 
 and less noble edifices. 
 
 CCXIX. — MILTON. 
 
 Milton, in this Paradise Regained, seems to be subject 
 to strange hallucinations of the ear ; he who before had 
 greatly excelled all poets of all ages in the science and 
 display of harmony. And if in his last poem we exhibit 
 
 7 
 
 7 
 

 
 282 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 his deficiencies, surely we never shall be accused of dis- 
 respect or irreverence to this immortal man. It may be 
 doubted whether the Creator ever created one altogether 
 so great ; taking into our view at once (as much indeed as 
 can at once be taken into it) his manly virtues, his super- 
 human genius, his zeal for truth, for true piety, true 
 freedom, his eloquence in displaying it, his contempt of 
 personal power, his gloiy and exaltation in his country's. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 Marvel. Good prose, to say nothing of the original 
 thoughts it conveys, may be infinitely varied in modula- 
 tion. It is only an extension of metres, an amplification 
 of harmonies, of which even the best and most varied 
 poetry admits but few. Comprehending at once the 
 prose and poetry of Milton, we could prove, before " fit 
 audience," that he is incomparably the greatest master oi 
 harmony that ever lived. 
 
 CCXXI. — MILTON AND JOHNSON. 
 
 Warton and Johnson are of opinion that Milton is 
 defective in the sense of harmony. But Warton had lost 
 his ear by laying it down on low swampy places, on 
 ballads and sonnets ; and Johnson was a deaf adder coiled 
 up in the brambles of party prejudices. He was acute 
 and judicious, he was honest and generous, he was for- 
 bearing and humane : but he was cold where he was 
 overshadowed. The poet's peculiar excellence, above all 
 others, was in his exquisite perception of rhythm, and in 
 the boundless variety he has given it, both in verse and 
 prose. Virgil comes nearest to him in his assiduous study 
 of it and in his complete success.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 283 
 
 CCXXn. — FRENCH PROSE. 
 
 Salomon. Several of the French prose writers are more 
 harmonious than the best of ours. 
 
 Alfieri. In the construction of their sentences they have 
 obtained from study, what sensibility has denied them. 
 Rousseau is an exception : he beside is the only musical 
 composer that ever had a tolerable ear for prose. Music 
 is both sunshine and irrigation to the mind ; but when it 
 occupies and covers it too long, it debilitates and corrupts 
 it. Sometimes I have absorbed music so totally, that 
 nothing was left of it in its own form : my ear detained 
 none of the notes, none of the melody : they went into 
 the heart immediately, mingled with the spirit, and lost 
 themselves among the operations of the fancy, whose 
 finest and most recondite springs they put simultaneously 
 and vigorously in motion. Rousseau kept it subordinate ; 
 which must always be done with music as well as with 
 musicians. He excels all the moderns in the harmony of 
 his periods. 
 
 Salomon. I have heard it reported that you prefer 
 Pascal. 
 
 Alfieri. Certainly on the whole I consider him the 
 most perfect of writers. 
 
 CCXXIII. — ADDISON. 
 
 Home Tooke. I have always been an admirer of Addi- 
 son, and the oftener I read him, I mean his prose, the 
 more he pleases me. Perhaps it is not so much his style, 
 which, however, is easy and graceful and harmonious, as 
 the sweet temperature of thought in which we always find 
 him, and the attractive countenance, if you will allow me 
 the expression, with which he meets me upon every occa- 
 sion. It is very remarkable, and therefore I stopped to
 
 284 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 notice it, that not only what little strength he had, but 
 even all his grace and ease, forsake him when he ventures 
 into poetry. 
 
 CCXXIV. — GIBBON. 
 
 Landor. Gibbon's manner, which many have censured, 
 I think, in generol, well suited to the work. In the 
 Declme and Fall of the RotJian Empire, there is too much 
 to sadden and disgrist : a smile in such a narrative on 
 some occasions is far from unacceptable : if it should be 
 succeeded by a sneer, it is not the sneer of bitterness, 
 which falls not on debility ; nor of triumph, which accords 
 not with contempt. The colours, it is true, are gorgeous, 
 like those of the setting sun ; and such were wanted. The 
 style is much swayed by the sentiment. Would that 
 which is proper for the historian of Fabius and Scipio, of 
 Hannibal and Pyrrhus, be proper, too, for Augustulus 
 and the Popes ? 
 
 CCXXV. — WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Landor. In Wordsworth's poetry there is as much ot 
 prose as there is of poetry in the prose of Milton. But 
 prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry : 
 on the other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a 
 moderate weight of prose. 
 
 CCXXVI. — PRAISE AND CENSURE. 
 
 Landor. It is becoming and decorous that due honours 
 be paid to Wordsworth ; undue have injured him. Dis- 
 criminating praise mingled with calm censure is more 
 beneficial than lavish praise without it. Respect him ; 
 reverence him ; abstain from worshipping him. Remem- 
 ber no ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few 
 things bum out sooner. '
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGK 285 
 
 CCXXVII. 
 
 Clean}. Let us enjoy, whenever we have an opportunity, 
 the delight of admiration, and perform the duties of 
 reverence. 
 
 CCXXVIII. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. It is cruel and inhuman to withhold 
 the sustenance which is necessary to the growth, if not the 
 existence, of genius ; sympathy, encouragement, commen- 
 dation. Praise is not fame ; but the praise of the intelligent 
 is its precursor. 
 
 CCXXIX. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Opinion on most matters, but 
 chiefly on literary, and above all on poetical, seems to 
 me like an empty egg-shell in a duck -pond, turned on 
 its stagnant water by the slightest breath of air ; at one 
 moment the cracked side nearer to sight, at another the 
 sounder, but the emptiness at all times visible. 
 
 CCXXX. 
 
 In selecting a poet for examination, it is usual either 
 to extol him to the skies, or to tear him to pieces and 
 trample on him. Editors in general do the former : 
 critics on editors more usually the latter. 
 
 CCXXXI. 
 
 Salomon. He who first praises a book becomingly, is 
 next in menl'to the au thor. "^ ""' -— ' ' 
 
 ccxxxir. 
 Porson. —Periodical critics were never so plentiful as
 
 2 86 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 they now are. There is hardly a young author who does 
 not make his first attempt in some review ; showing his 
 teeth, hanging by his tail, pleased and pleasing by the 
 volubility of his chatter, and doing his best to get a 
 penny for his exhibitor and a nut for his own pouch, by 
 the facetiousness of the tricks he performs upon our heads 
 and shoulders. 
 
 CCXXXIII, 
 
 Porson. Those who have failed as painters turn picture- 
 cleaners, those who have failed as writers tunv reviewers. 
 Orator Henley taught in the last century that the readiest- 
 made shoes are boots cut down : there are those who 
 abundantly teach us now, that the readiest-made critics 
 are cut-down poets. Their assurance is, however, by no 
 means diminished from their ill-success. 
 
 ccxxxiv. 
 
 Petrarca. Why cannot we be delighted with an author, 
 and even feel a predilection for him, without a dislike to 
 
 others ? 
 
 Boccaccio. The eyes of critics, whether in commending 
 or carping, are both on one side, like a turbot's. 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 
 Petrarca. No criticism is less beneficial to an author oi 
 his reader than one tagged with favour and tricked with 
 courtesy. The gratification of our humours is not the 
 intent and scope of criticism, and those who indulge in it 
 on such occasions are neither vidse nor honest. 
 
 ccxxxvi. 
 
 Cicero. In literature great men suffer more from their 
 little friends than from their potent enemies.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 287, 
 
 CCXXXVII. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna. Sometimes we ourselves may have 
 exercised our ingenuity, but without any consciousness 
 of spleen or ill-humour, in detecting and discussing the 
 peculiar faults of great poets. Tliis has never been done, 
 or done very clumsily, by our critics, who fancy that a 
 measureless and shapeless phantom of enthusiasm leaves 
 an impression of a powerful mind, and a quick apprehen- 
 sion of the beautiful. 
 
 "Who," they ask us, "who would look for small 
 defects in such an admirable writer ? Who is not trans- 
 ported by his animation, and Winded by his brightness?" 
 To this interrogation my answer is, 
 
 "Very few indeed ; only the deliberate, the instructed, 
 and the wise. Only they who partake in some degree of 
 his nature know exactly where to find his infirmities." 
 
 CCXXXVIII. 
 
 Southey. It is fortunate we have been sitting quite 
 alone while we detected the blemishes of a poet we both 
 venerate. 1 The malicious are always the most ready to 
 bring forward an accusation of malice : and we should 
 certainly have been served, before long, with a writ 
 pushed under the door. 
 
 Landor. Are we not somewhat like two little beggar- 
 boys, who, forgetting that they are in tatters, sit noticing 
 a few stains and rents in their father's raiment ? 
 
 Southey. But they love him. 
 
 CCXXXIX- 
 
 Boccaccio. The generous man, such as you, praises and 
 censures with equal freedom, not with equal pleasure : 
 
 1 Miltoii.
 
 288 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 the freedom and the pleasure of the ungenerous are both 
 contracted, and lie only on the left hand. 
 
 Petrarca. When we point to our friends an object in 
 the country, do we wish to diminish it ? do we wish to 
 show it overcast ? Why then should we in those nobler 
 works of creation, God's only representatives, who have 
 cleared our intellectual sight for us, and have displayed 
 before us things more magnificent than Nature would 
 without them have revealed ? 
 
 CCXL. 
 
 Boccaccio. Beware of violating those canons of criticism 
 you have just laid down. We have no right to gratify 
 one by misleading another, nor, when we undertake to 
 show the road, to bandage the eyes of him who trusts 
 us for his conductor. In regard to censure, those only 
 speak ill who speak untruly, unless a truth be barbed by 
 malice and aimed by passion. To be useful to as many 
 as possible is the especial duty of a critic, and his utility 
 can only be attained by rectitude and precision. He 
 walks in a garden which is not his own ; and he neither 
 must gather the blossoms to embellish his discourse, nor 
 break the branches to display his strength. Rather let 
 him point to what is out of order, and help to raise what 
 is lying on the ground. 
 
 Petrarca. Auditors, and readers in general, come to 
 hear or read, not your opinion delivered, but their own 
 repeated. Fresh notions are as disagreeable to some as 
 fresh air to others ; and this inability to bear them is 
 equally a symptom of disease. Impatience and intoler- 
 ance are sure to be excited at any check to admiration in 
 the narratives of Ugolino and of Francesca : nothing is 
 to be abated : they are not only to be admirable, but 
 entirely faultless.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 289 
 
 Boccaccio. You have proved to me, that in blaming our 
 betters, we ourselves may sometimes be unblamed. When 
 authors are removed by death beyond the reach of irrita- 
 tion at the touch of an infirmity, we best consult their 
 glory by handling their works comprehensively and un- 
 sparingly. Vague and indefinite criticism suits only slight 
 merit, and presupposes it. Lineaments irregular and 
 profound as Dante's are worthy of being traced with 
 patience and fidelity. In the charts of our globe we find 
 distinctly marked the promontories and indentations, and 
 oftentimes the direction of unprofitable marshes and im- 
 passable sands and wildernesses : level surfaces are un- 
 noted. I would not detract one atom from the worth of 
 Dante ; which cannot be done by summing it up exactly, 
 but may be by negligence in the computation. 
 
 CCXLI. — DANTE's PAOLO AND FRANCESCA. 
 
 Boccaccio. Ah ! had Dante remained through life the 
 pure solitary lover of Bice, his soul had been gentler, 
 tranquiller, and more generous. He scarcely hath de- 
 scribed half the curses he went through, nor the roads 
 he took on the journey : theology, politics, and that 
 barbican of the Inferjto, marriage, surrounded with its 
 
 Selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte. 
 Admirable is indeed the description of Ugolino, to who- 
 ever can endure the sight of an old soldier gnawing at 
 the scalp of an old archbishop. 
 
 Petrarca. The thirty lines from 
 Ed io senii 
 are unequalled by any other continuous thirty in the 
 whole dominions of poetry. 
 
 Boccaccio. Give me rather the six on Francesca : for 
 if in the former I find the simple, vigorous, clear narra- 
 tion, I find also what I would not wish, the features of 
 
 u
 
 290 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Ugolino reflected full in Dante. The two characters are 
 similar in themselves ; hard, cruel, inflexible, malignant, 
 but, whenever moved, moved powerfully. In Francesca, 
 with the faculty of divine spirits, he leaves his own nature 
 (not indeed the exact representative of theirs) and con- 
 verts all his strength into tenderness. The great poet, 
 like the original man of the Platonists, is double, possess- 
 ing the further advantage of being able to drop one half 
 at his option, and to resume it. Some of the tenderest 
 on paper have no sympathies beyond : and some of the 
 austerest in their intercourse with their fellow-creatures 
 have deluged the world with tears. It is not from the 
 rose that the bee gathers her honey, but often from the 
 most acrid and the most bitter leaves and petals. 
 Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 
 
 Esser baciato di cotanto amante, 
 Qiiesti, eke niai da me 7ion fa diviso ! 
 
 La bocca mi bacib tutto tremante. 
 Gahotlo fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse. 
 
 Qual giorno piii nan vi leggemmo avante. 
 In the midst of her punishment, Francesca, when 
 she comes to the tenderest part of her story, tells it with 
 cDmplacency and delight ; and instead of naming Paolo, 
 which indeed she never has done from the beginning, she 
 now designates him as 
 
 Questi che mai da me iionfia diviso ! 
 Are we not impelled to join in her prayer, wishing 
 them happier in their union ? 
 
 Petrarca. If there be no sin in it. 
 Boccaccio. Ay, and even if there be — God help us ! 
 What a sweet aspiration in each cesura of the verse ! 
 three love-sighs fixed and incorporate ! Then, when she 
 hath said 
 
 La bocca mi bacih tutto tremante, 
 she stops : she would avert the eyes of Dante from her :
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 29 1 
 
 he looks for the sequel : she thinks he looks severely : 
 she says, 
 
 " Galeotto is the name of the book," 
 fancying by this timorous little flight she has drawn him 
 far enough from the nest of her young loves. No, the 
 eagle beak of Dante and his piercing eyes are yet over 
 her. 
 
 " Galeotto is the name of the book." 
 
 "What matters that?" 
 
 "And of the vsnriter." 
 
 "Or that either?" 
 
 At last she disarms him : but how ? 
 
 • ' That day we read no more. " 
 
 Such a depth of intuitive judgment, such a delicacy of 
 perception, exists not in any other work of human genius ; 
 and from an author who, on almost all occasions, in this 
 part of the work, betrays a deplorable want of it. 
 
 Petrarca. Perfection of poetry ! The greater is my 
 wonder at discovering nothing else of the same order or 
 cast in this whole section of the poem. He who fainted 
 at the recital of P'rancesca, 
 
 " And he who fell as a dead body falls," 
 would exterminate all the inhabitants of every town in 
 Italy ! What execrations against Florence, Pistoia, Siena, 
 Pisa, Genoa ! What hatred against the whole human 
 race ! what exultation and merriment at eternal and im- 
 mitigable sufferings ! Seeing this, I cannot but consider 
 the Inferno as the most immoral and impious book that 
 ever was written. Yet, hopeless that our country shall 
 ever see again such poetrj', and certain that without it our 
 future poets would be more feebly urged forward to ex- 
 cellence, I would have dissuaded Dante from cancelling 
 it, if this had been his intention. Much, however, as I 
 admire his vigour and severity of style in the description 
 of Ugolino, I acknowledge with you that I do not dis-
 
 292 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 cover so much imagination, so much creative power, as 
 in the Francesca. 
 
 CCXLII. — VERBAL CRITICISM, WITH AN EXAMPLE. 
 
 Alfieri. There are those who would persuade us that 
 verbal criticism is unfair, and that few poems can resist 
 it. The truth of the latter assertion by no means establishes 
 the former : all good criticism hath its foundation on 
 verbal. Long dissertations are often denominated criti- 
 cisms, without one analysis ; instead of which it is 
 thought enough to say; "There is nothing finer in our 
 language — we can safely recommend — imbued with the 
 true spirit — destined to immortality, etc." 
 
 A perfect piece of criticism must exhibit where a work 
 is good or bad ; why it is good or bad ; in what degree 
 it is good or bad ; must also demonstrate in what manner 
 and to what extent the same ideas or reflections have 
 come to others, and, if they be clothed in poetry, why, 
 by an apparently slight variation, what in one author is 
 mediocrity, in another is excellence. 
 
 I have never seen a critic of Florence or Pisa or 
 Milan or Bologna, who did not commend and admire 
 the sonnet of Cassiani on the rape of Proserpine, without 
 a suspicion of its manifold defects. Few sonnets are 
 indeed so good ; but if we examine it attentively, we 
 shall discover its flaws and patches. 
 
 ' ' Die un alto strido, gittb i fiori, e volta 
 Air improvisa mano che la cinse, 
 Ttitta in se per la tema onde fii colta 
 La Siciliana vergine si strinse." 
 
 The hand is inadequate to embrace a body ; strinse, 
 which comes after, would have done better : and the two 
 last verses tell only what the two first had told, and 
 feebly : nothing can be more so than the tema ondefu colta.
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 293 
 
 " // nero dio la calda bocca involta 
 Z>' ispido pelo a ingordo bacio spinse, 
 E di stigia ftdigin con la folta 
 Barba Peburnea gola e il sen le tinse. " 
 Does not this describe the devils of our carnival, rather 
 than the majestic brother of Jupiter, at whose side upon 
 dsphodel and amaranth the sweet Persephon^ sits pen- 
 sively contented, in that deep motionless quiet which 
 mortals pity and which the gods enjoy ; rather than him 
 who, under the umbrage of Elysium, gazes at once upon 
 all the beauties that on earth were separated ; Helena 
 and Eriphyle, Polyxena and Hermione, Deidameia and 
 Deianeira, Leda and Omphale, Atalanta and Cydippe, 
 Laodameia with her arm round the neck of a fond youth 
 whom she still seems afraid of losing, and, apart, the 
 daughters of Niobe, though now in smiles, still clinging 
 to their parent. 
 
 CCXLIII. — OF IDIOM. 
 
 Demosthenes. I have been careful to retain as much 
 idiom as I could, often at the peril of being called ordi- 
 nary and vulgar. Nations in a state of decny lose their 
 idiom, which loss is always precursory to that of freedom. 
 What your father and your grandfather used as an ele- 
 gance in conversation, is now abandoned to the populace, 
 and every day we miss a little of our own, and collect a 
 little from strangers : this prepares us for a more intimate 
 union with them, in which we merge at last altogether. 
 Every good writer has much idiom ; it is the life and 
 spirit of language ; and none such ever entertained a fear 
 or apprehension that strength and sublimity were to be 
 lowered and weakened by it. 
 
 CCXLIV. — OF QUOTATION. 
 Lucian. Before I let fall a quotation I must be taken
 
 294 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 by surprise. I seldom do it in conversation, seldomer in 
 composition ; for it mars the beauty and unity of style ; 
 especially when it invades it from a foreign tongue. A 
 » s quoter is either ostentatious of his acquirements, or doubt- 
 It! ful of his cause. And, moreover, he never walks grace- 
 |» fully who leans upon the shoulder of another, however 
 I gracefully that other may walk. 
 
 CCXLV. — VULGARISMS. 
 
 Home Tooke. No expression can become a vulgarism 
 which has not a broad foundation. The language of the 
 vulgar hath its source in physics : in known, compre- 
 hended, and operative things : the language of those who 
 are just above the vulgar is less pure, as flowing from 
 what they do not in general comprehend. Hence the 
 profusion of broken and ill-assorted metaphors, which we 
 find in the conversation of almost all who stand in the 
 intermediate space between the lettered and the lowest. 
 
 CCXLVI. — GALLICISMS AND LATINISMS. 
 
 Barrffw, Our language bears gallicisms better than 
 latinisms, but whoever is resolved to write soberly must 
 be contented with the number of each that was found 
 among us in the time of the Reformation. 
 
 CCXLVn.— ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHY AND DICTION. 
 
 Archdeacon Haj-e. In some of your later writings, 1 
 perceive, you have not strictly followed the line you for- 
 merly laid down for spelling. 
 
 Laitdor. I found it inexpedient ; since whatever the pains 
 I took, there was, in every sheet almost, some deviation 
 on the side of the compositor. Inconsistency was forced
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 295 
 
 on me against all my struggles and reclamations. At last 
 nothing is left for me but to enter my protest, and to take 
 the smooth path instead of the broken-up highway. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. It is chiefly in the preterites and 
 participles that I have followed you perseveringly. We 
 are rich in having two for many of our verbs, and unwise 
 in corrupting the spelling, and thereby rendering the 
 pronunciation difficult. We pronounce "astonisht," we 
 write astonished or astonish'd ; an unnecessary harshness. 
 Never was spoken drop/i?a', or lop/^a', or ho^iped, or 
 prop/<?^ ; but dropt, etc. ; yet, with the choice before us, 
 we invariably take the wrong. I do not resign a right to 
 " astonis/^^a"' or " Aixmmsked." They may, with many 
 like them, be useful in poetry ; and several such termina- 
 tions add dignity and solemnity to what we read in our 
 church, the sanctuary at once of our faith and of our 
 language. 
 
 Landor. In more essential things than preterites and 
 participles I ought rather to have been your follower than 
 you mine. No language is purer or clearer than yours. 
 Vigorous streams from the mountain do not mingle at 
 once with the turbid lake, but retain their force and their 
 colour in the midst of it. We are sapt by an influx of 
 putridity. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Come, come ; again to our spelling- 
 book. 
 
 Landor. Well then, we differ on the spelling of honour, 
 favour, etc. You would retain the u : I would reject it, 
 for the sake of consistency. We have dropt it in author, 
 emperor, afnbassador. Here again, for consistency and 
 compliancy, I write " embassador," because I write, as 
 all do, " embassy." I write theater, sepulch,??-, xncUr, in 
 their English form rather than the French. The best 
 authors have done it; all write "hexameter, and 
 " pentameter."
 
 296 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. It is well to simplify and systematize 
 wherever we can do it conveniently. 
 
 Landor. And without violence to vested rights ; which 
 words have here some meaning. Why " amend " if 
 " emendation "? Why not " pontz/," if " cait?/"? 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Why then should giandet/r be left 
 in solitary state ? The Englishman less easily protrudes 
 his nether jaw than the Frenchman, as " grand^e/r" seems 
 to require. Grandeur (or gTa.ndor, if you will have it so) 
 sounds better. 
 
 Landor. I will have it so ; and so will you and others 
 at last. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Meanwhile, let us untie this last knot 
 of Norman bondage on the common law of language in 
 our land. 
 
 Landor. Set about it : no authority is higher than 
 yours : I will run by the side of you, or be your herald, 
 or (what better becomes me) your pursuivant. 
 
 There is an affectation of scholarship in compilers of 
 spelling-books, and in the authors they follow for ex- 
 amples, when they bring {oxw^axA phenomena and the like. 
 They might as well bring forward mysteria. We have no 
 right to tear Greek and Latin declensions out of their 
 grammars : we need no vortices when we have vortexes 
 before us ; and while we have memorandums, faetotums, 
 ultimatums, let our shepherd dogs bring back to us by 
 the ear such as have wandered from the flock. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. We have " stimulaw/ " ; why "stim- 
 nhis ? " why " stimuU' " ? why " recipe " ? why " receipt " ? 
 we might as reasonably write " deceipt " and " conceipt." 
 I believe we are the only people who keep the Dramatis 
 Personce on the stage, or announce their going ofT by 
 "Exeunt :" "exit" for departure is endurable, and kept 
 in countenance by transit ■ let us deprecate the danger 
 of hearing of a friend's edit, which seems imminent : a
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 297 
 
 ^'^ post-obit" is bad enough: an item I would confine to 
 the ledger. I have no mind for animus. 
 
 Landor. Beside these there are two expressions either 
 of which is quite enough to bring down curses and mor- 
 tality on the poet. " Stand confest " (even if not written 
 " confess'd ") is one; ''■unbidden tears'" the other. I 
 can imagine no such nonsense as unbidden tears. Why 
 do we not write the verb control with an e at the end, 
 and the substantive with u as soul? we might as reason- 
 ably write whol for whole : very unreasonably do we 
 write wholly with a double 1 ; wholy and soly might fol- 
 low the type of Iioly. We see printed befal with one 1, 
 but never fal, and yet in the monosyllable we should not 
 be doubtful of the accentuation. It is but of late that 
 we contro/, reca/, appa/; we do not yet rol. Will any 
 one tell me who put such a lazy beast to our munition- 
 train, and spelt on the front of the carriage ammunition ? 
 We write enter and inter equally with a single final r : 
 surely the latter wants another. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Wliat is quite as censurable, while 
 we reject the good of our own countrymen, we adopt the 
 bad of the forener. We are much in the habit of using the 
 v/oxAfibustier. Surely we might let the French take and 
 torture o\ix freebooter. In our fondness for making verbs 
 out of substantives, we even go to the excess of Jiibuster- 
 ing. And now from coarse vulgarity let us turn our eyes 
 toward inconsiderate refinement. When I was a boy 
 every girl among the poets was a ny7nph, whether in 
 country or town. Johnson countenanced them, and, 
 arm-in-arm with Pope, followed them even into Jeru- 
 salem. "Ye nymphs of Solyma," etc. 
 
 Landor. Pity they ever found their way back !
 
 298 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 CCXLVIII. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Unhappily for us, we are insensible 
 af the corruptions that creep yearly into our language. 
 At Cambridge or Oxford (I am ignorant which of them 
 claims the glory of the invention), some undergraduate 
 was so facetious as to say, " Well, while you are discuss- 
 ing the question, I will discuss my wine." The graceful- 
 ness of this witticism was so captivating, that it took pos- 
 session not only of both universities, but seized also on 
 ' ' men about town. " Even the ladies, who preserve the 
 purity of language, caught up the expression from those 
 who were libertines in it. 
 
 Landor. Chesterfield and Horace Walpole, who are 
 among the most refined of our senators, have at present 
 no more authority in language than in dress. By what 
 we see, we might imagine that the one article is to be 
 cast aside after as short a wear as the other. It occurs 
 to me at this moment, that, when we have assumed the 
 habiliments of the vulgar, we are in danger of contracting 
 their coarseness of language and demeanour. 
 
 Archdeacojt Hare. — Certainly the Romans were iogafi 
 in their tongue, as well as in their wardrobe. Purity and 
 gravity of style were left uncontaminated and unshaken 
 by the breath of Tiberius and his successor. The Anto- 
 nines spoke better Latin than the Triumvir Antonius ; 
 and Marcus Aurelius, although on some occasions he pre- 
 feiTcd the Greek, was studious to maintain his own idiom 
 strong and healthy. When the tongue is paralysed, the 
 limbs soon follow. No nation hath long survived the 
 decrepitude of its language. 
 
 There is perpetually an accession of slang to our ver- 
 nacular, which is usually biennial or triennial. 
 
 Landor. I have been either a fortunate or a prudent 
 man to have escaped for so many years together to be
 
 LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 299 
 
 "pitched into" among ''giant trees," " ?nonsier meet- 
 ings," "glorious fruit," " s/knc/i J cigars, dogs, horses, and 
 bricks," "palmy days," " ricA oddities ;" to owe nohiody 
 a farthing for any other fashionable habits of rude device 
 and demi-saison texture ; and above all, to have never 
 come in at the "eleventh hour," which has been sounding 
 all day long the whole year. They do me a httle injustice 
 who say that such a good fortune is attributable to my 
 residence in Italy. The fact is, I am too cautious and 
 too aged to catch disorders, and I walk fearlessly through 
 these epidemics. 
 
 Archdeacon Hare. Simply to open is insufiScient : we 
 "open up'' and "open out." A gentleman indues a 
 coat ; it will be difficult to exue it if he tries ; he must lie 
 down and sleep in it. 
 
 "Foolery" was thought of old sufficiently expressive : 
 nothing short of ^^«foolery will do now. To repudiate 
 was formerly to put away what disgraced us : it now sig- 
 nifies (in America at least) to reject the claims of justice 
 and honour. We hear people re-read, and see them re- 
 write ; and are invited to a spread, where we formerly 
 went to a dinner or collation. We cut down barracks to 
 a single barrack; but we leave the "stocks" in good 
 repair. We are among ambitions, and among peoples, 
 until Stemhold and Hopkins call us into a quieter place, 
 and we hear once again 
 
 "All people that on earth do dwell." 
 Shall we never have done with ^'' rule and exception,'' 
 ' ' ever and anon," ' ' many a time and oft"! 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 Landor. So far from innovating, the words I propose 
 are brought to their former and legitimate station ; you 
 have sanctioned the greater part, and have t!io\ight the
 
 300 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 remainder worth your notice. Every intelligent and un- 
 prejudiced man will agree with you. I prefer high 
 authorities to lower, analogy to fashion, a Restoration to 
 a Usurpation. Innovators, and worse than innovators 
 were those Reformers called, who disturbed the market- 
 place of manorial Theology, and went back to Religion 
 where she stood alone in her original purity. We English 
 were the last people to adopt the reformed style in the 
 calendar, and we seem determined to be likewise the 
 last in that of language. We are ordered to please tlie 
 public ; we are forbidden to instruct it. Not only pub- 
 lishers and booksellers are against us, but authors too ; 
 and even some of them who are not regularly in the service 
 of those masters. The outcry is, " We have not ventured 
 to alter what we find in use, and why should he ?" 
 
 CCL. 
 
 Mr. Hartley Coleridge, who inherits the genius of his 
 father, is incorrect in mentioning me with a set of people 
 (Elphinstone and Mitford at the head of them) who at- 
 tempt to spell every word as we pronounce it. What, in 
 the name of God, is there in common between these folks 
 and me ? Certainly not this folly : no such idea ever 
 entered my head. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 I am radically a Conservative in everj'thing useful; and, 
 3uring my stay at this inn called Human Life, I would 
 :rust anything to the chambermaids rather than my 
 English tongue. "
 
 Ill 
 
 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
 
 TO I A NTH E 
 
 CCLII. — HOMAGE. 
 
 Away, my verse ; and never fear, 
 
 As men before such beauty do ; 
 On you she will not look severe, 
 
 She will not turn her eyes from you. 
 Some happier graces could I lend 
 
 That in her memory you should live, 
 Some little blemishes might blend. 
 
 For it would please her to forgive. 
 
 CCLIII. 
 
 On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
 Myrtle and rose ! your wreath combine, 
 
 The duller olive I would wear. 
 Its constancy, its peace, be mine. 
 
 CCLIV. 
 
 There is a flower I wish to wear, 
 But not until first worn by you — 
 
 Heartsease — of all earth's flowers most rare ; 
 Bring it ; and bring enough for two. 
 
 CCLV. 
 
 It often comes into my head 
 
 That we may dream when we are dead.
 
 304 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 But I am far from sure we do. 
 O that it were so ! then my rest 
 Would be indeed among the blest ; 
 
 I should for ever dream of you- 
 
 CCLVI. 
 
 All tender thoughts that e'er possessM 
 The human brain or human breast, 
 
 Centre in mine for thee — 
 Excepting one — and that must thou 
 Contribute : come, confer it now : 
 
 Grateful I fain would be. 
 
 CCLVII. 
 
 Pleasure ! why thus desert the heart 
 
 In its spring-tide ? 
 I could have seen her, I could part. 
 
 And but have sigh'd ! 
 O'er eveiy youthful charm to stray, 
 
 To gaze, to touch — 
 Pleasure ! why take so much away 
 
 Or give so much ? 
 
 CCLVIII. — RENUNCIATION. 
 
 Lie, my fond heart, at rest, 
 
 She never can be ours. 
 Why strike upon my breast 
 
 The slowly passing hours ? 
 Ah ! breathe not out the name I 
 
 That fatal folly stay ! 
 Conceal the eternal flame. 
 
 And tortured ne'er betray.
 
 TO lANTHE. 305 
 
 CCLIX. 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed, 
 By every word and smile deceived. 
 Another man would hope no more ; 
 Nor hope I what I hoped before : 
 But let not this last v/ish be vain ; 
 Deceive, deceive me once again ! 
 
 CCLX. 
 
 So late removed from him she swore, 
 
 With clasping arms and vows and tears, 
 In life and death she would adore. 
 
 While memory, fondness, bliss, endears. 
 Can she forswear ? can she forget ? 
 
 Strike, mighty love ! strike, Vengeance ! Soft ! 
 Conscience must come and bring regret — 
 
 These let her feel ! — nor these too oft ! 
 
 CCLXI 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, 
 
 Her hand that trembled and withdrew , 
 She bent her head before my kiss — 
 
 My heart was sure that hers was true. 
 Now I have told her I must part, 
 
 She shakes my hand, she bids adieu. 
 Nor shuns the Iciss — Alas, my heart ! 
 
 Hers never was the heart for you. 
 
 CCLXII. — ABSENCE. 
 
 lanthe ! you are call'd to cross the sea ! 
 A path forbidden me ! 
 
 X
 
 3o6 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Remember, while the sun his blessing sheds 
 
 Upon the mountain-heads, 
 How often we have watch'd him laying down 
 
 His brow, and dropp'd our own 
 Against each other's, and how faint and short 
 
 And sliding the support ! 
 What will succeed it now ? Mine is unblest, 
 
 lanthe ! nor will rest 
 But on the very thought that swells with pain. 
 
 O bid me hope again ! 
 O give me back what Earth, what (without you) 
 
 Not Heaven itself can do, 
 One of the golden days that we have past ; 
 
 And let it be my last ! 
 Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 
 
 Fragile and incomplete. 
 
 CCLXIII. 
 
 Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know 
 
 For me, not him, ye flow. 
 Stay, precious tears ! ah stay ! this jealous heart 
 
 Would bid you flow apart. 
 Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim, 
 
 And hope you rise for him. 
 Your secret cells, while he is present, keep, 
 
 Nor, though I'm absent, weep, 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
 The odour of the falling spray ; 
 
 Life passes on more rudely fleet. 
 And balmless is its closing day.
 
 TO lANTHE. 307 
 
 I wait its close, I court its gloom, 
 But mourn that never must there fall 
 
 Or on my breast or on my tomb 
 
 The tear that would have sooth'd it all. 
 
 CCLXV. — YEARS AFTER. 
 
 " Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? " 
 Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, 
 
 lanthe said, and look'd into my eyes. 
 " A. yes, a. yes to both : for memory 
 Where you but once have been must ever be, 
 
 And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise. " 
 
 CCLXVI. 
 
 No, my own love of other years ! 
 
 No, it must never be. 
 Much rests with you that yet endears, 
 
 Alas ! but what with me ? 
 Could those bright years o'er me revolve 
 
 So gay, o'er you so fair, 
 The pearl of life we would dissolve 
 
 And each the cup might share. 
 You show that truth can ne'er decay. 
 
 Whatever fate befals ; 
 I, that the myrtle and the bay 
 
 Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 
 
 CCLXVI I. 
 
 I wonder not that youth remains 
 With you, wherever else she flies : 
 
 Where could she find such fair domams, 
 Where bask beneath such sunny eyes ?
 
 3o8 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL, 
 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
 Cut down and up again as blithe as ever ; 
 
 From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
 Like little ripples in a sunny river. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 Years, many parti-colour'd years, 
 
 Some have crept on, and some have flown, 
 Since first before me fell those tears 
 
 I never could see fall alone. 
 Years, not so many, are to come. 
 
 Years not so varied, when from you 
 One more will fall : when, carried home, 
 
 I see it not, nor hear Adieu. 
 
 CCLXX. 
 
 Well I remember how you smiled 
 
 To see me write your name upon 
 The soft sea-sand, — " O ! what a child ! 
 
 You think you're writing upon stone I ' 
 I have since written what no tide 
 
 Shall ever wash away, what men 
 Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 
 
 And find lanthe's name again.
 
 y 
 
 r^ 
 
 
 
 •y 
 
 ///VOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 CCLXXI. — ON SWIFT JOINING AVON NEAR RUGKY. 
 
 Silent and modest brook ! who dippest here 
 
 Thy foot in Avon as if childish fear 
 
 Withheld thee for a moment, wend along ; 
 
 Go, foUow'd by my song, 
 
 Such in such easy numbers as they use 
 
 Who turn in fondness to the Tuscan Muse, 
 
 And such as often have flow'd down on me 
 
 From my own Fiesole. 
 
 I watch thy placid smile, nor need to say 
 
 That Tasso wove one looser lay, 
 
 And Milton took it up to dry the tear 
 
 Dropping on Lycidas's bier. 
 
 In youth how often at thy side I wander'd ! 
 
 What golden hours, hours numberless, were squander'd 
 
 Among thy sedges, while sometimes 
 
 I meditated native rhymes, 
 
 And sometimes stumbled upon Latian feet ; 
 
 Then, where soft mole-built seat 
 
 Invited me, I noted down 
 
 What must full surely win the crown, 
 
 But first impatiently vain efforts made 
 
 On broken pencil with a broken blade. 
 
 Anon, of lighter heart, I threw 
 
 My hat where circling plover flew, 
 
 And once I shouted till, instead of plover, 
 
 There sprang up half a damsel, half a lover.
 
 310 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 I would not twice be barbarous ; on I went — 
 And two heads sank amid the pillowing bent. 
 
 Pardon me, gentle stream, if rhyme 
 Holds up these records in the face of Time ; 
 Among the falling leaves some birds yet sing, 
 And Autumn has his butterflies like Spring. 
 Thou canst not turn thee back, thou canst not see 
 Reflected what hath ceased to be : 
 Haply thou little knowest why 
 I check this levity, and sigh. 
 Thou never knewest her whose radiant morn 
 Lighted my path to Love ; she bore thy name. 
 She whom no Grace was tardy to adorn. 
 Whom one low voice pleas'd more than louder fame ; 
 She now is past my praises : from her urn 
 To thine, with reverence due, I turn. 
 O silver-braided Swift ! no victim ever 
 Was sacrificed to thee, 
 Nor hast thou carried to that sacred Rivei 
 Vases of myrrh, nor hast thou run to see 
 A band of Maenads toss their timbrels high 
 Mid io-evohes to their Deity. 
 But holy ashes have bestrewn thy stream 
 Under the mingled gleam 
 Of swords and torches, and the chant of Rome 
 When Wiclif s lowly tomb 
 Thro' its thick briars was burst 
 By frantic priests accurst ; 
 For he had enter'd and laid bare the lies 
 That pave the labyrinth of their mysteries, 
 We part — but one more look ! 
 Silent and modest brook 1
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 311 
 
 CCLXXII. — ABERTAWY. 
 
 It was no dull though lonely strand 
 
 Where thyme ran o'er the solid sand, 
 
 Where snap-dragons with yellow eyes 
 
 Looked down on crowds that could not rise, 
 
 Where Spring had fill'd with dew the moss 
 
 In winding dells two strides across. 
 
 There tiniest thorniest roses grew 
 
 To their full sia^, nor shared the dew : 
 
 Acute and jealous, they took care 
 
 That none their softer seat should share ; 
 
 A weary maid was not to stay 
 
 Without one for such churls as they. 
 
 I tugg'd and lugg'd with all my miglit 
 
 To tear them from their roots outright ; 
 
 At last I did it — eight or ten— 
 
 We both were snugly seated then ; 
 
 But then she saw a half-round bead, 
 
 And cried, Good gracious I how you bleed I 
 
 Gently she wiped it off, and bound 
 
 With timorous touch that dreadful wound. 
 
 To lift it from its nurse's knee 
 
 I fear'd and quite as much fear'd she, 
 
 For might it not increase the pain, 
 
 And make the wound burst out again I 
 
 She coax'd it to lie quiet there 
 
 With a low tune I bent to hear ; 
 
 How close I bent I quite forget, 
 
 I only know I hear it yet. 
 
 Where is she now ? Call'd far away, 
 By one she dared not disobey. 
 To those proud halls, for youth unfit, 
 Where princes stand and judges sit.
 
 h 
 
 312 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Where Ganges rolls his widest wave 
 She dropped her blossom in the grave ; 
 Her noble name she never changed, 
 Nor was her nobler heart estranged. 
 
 CCI.XXIII. — ROSE AYLMER. 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptred race, 
 
 Ah what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all wer^ thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 CCLXXIV. — TO J. S. 
 
 Many may yet recall the hours 
 That saw thy lover's chosen flowers 
 Nodding and dancing in the shade 
 Thy dark and wavy tresses made : 
 On many a brain is pictured yet 
 Thy languid eye's dim violet, 
 But who among them all foresaw 
 How the sad snows that never thaw 
 Upon that head one day should lie 
 And love but glimmer from that eye. 
 
 CCLXXV. — A FIESOLAN IDYL. 
 
 Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound 
 Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires, 
 And where go forth at mom, at eve, at night, 
 Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em.
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 313 
 
 And softer sighs that know not what they want, 
 
 Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree. 
 
 Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
 
 Of sights in Fiesole right up al)ove, 
 
 While I was gazing a few paces off 
 
 At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, 
 
 Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
 
 A gentle maid came down the garden-steps 
 
 And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
 
 I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth 
 
 To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat. 
 
 Such I believed it must be. How could I 
 
 Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind or rain 
 
 Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me. 
 
 And I (however they might bluster round) 
 
 Walk'd off? 'Twere most ungrateful : for sweet scenL'" 
 
 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts. 
 
 And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
 
 That would let drop without them her best stores. 
 
 They bring me tales of youth and tones of love. 
 
 And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
 
 To let all flowers live freely, and all die 
 
 (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) 
 
 Among their kindred in their native place. 
 
 I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
 
 And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup 
 
 Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
 
 Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
 
 I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
 
 More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
 
 Wanned by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
 
 I saw the foot that, although half-erect 
 
 From its gray slipper, could not lift her up 
 
 To what she wanted : I held down a branch
 
 314 PERSONAL ANt) AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 And gather'd her some blossoms ; since their houi 
 Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 
 Of harder wing were working their way thro' 
 And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
 So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, 
 Others, ere broken off, fell into shells. 
 Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
 And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun : 
 Yet every one her gown received from me 
 Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 
 But so she praised them to reward my care. 
 I said, "You find the largest." 
 
 "This indeed," 
 Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one forth. 
 Whether for me to look at or to take 
 She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
 Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. 
 I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part 
 Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature 
 Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
 To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 
 The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not 
 The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
 Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 
 
 CCLXXVT. — FIRSOLAN MUSINGS. 
 
 Let me sit here and muse by thee 
 Awhile, aerial Fiesole ! 
 What has the zephyr brought so sweet ? 
 'Tis the vine-blossom round my seat. 
 Ah ! how much better here at ease 
 And quite alone to catch the breeze, 
 Than roughly wear life's waning day 
 On rotten forms with Castlereagh,
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 315 
 
 'Mid public men for private ends, 
 A friend to foes, a foe to friends ! 
 Long since with youtliful cliases warm, 
 And when ambition well might charm, 
 And when the choice before me lay, 
 I heard the din and turned away. 
 Hence oftentimes imperial Seine 
 Hath listen'd to my early strain, 
 And past the Rhine and past the Rhone 
 My Latian muse is heard and known. 
 
 Nor is the life of one recluse 
 An alien quite from public use. 
 Where alders mourned their fruitless beds 
 A thousand cedars raise their heads, 
 And from Segovia's hills remote. 
 My sheep enrich my neighbour's cote. 
 The wide and easy road I lead 
 Where never paced the harness'd steed, 
 Where hardly dared the goat look down 
 Beneath her parent mountain's frown, 
 Suspended while the torrent-spray 
 Springs o'er the crags that roll away. 
 Cares if I had, I turn'd those cares 
 Toward my partridges and hares. 
 At every dog and gun I heard. 
 Ill-auguring for some truant bird, 
 Or whisker'd friend of jet-tipp'd ear, 
 Until the frightened eld limp'd near. 
 These knew me, and 'twas quite enough, 
 I paid no Mo7-ning Post to puff, 
 Saw others fame and wealth increase, 
 Ate my own mutton-chop in peace, 
 Open'd my window, snatch'd my glass, 
 And from the rills that chirp and pass,
 
 3l6 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 A pure libation pour'd to thee, 
 Unsoil'd uncitied Liberty ! 
 
 Llanlhony ! an ungenial clime, 
 And the broad wing of restless Time, 
 Have rudely swept thy massy walls 
 And rock'd thy abbots in their palls. 
 I loved thee by thy streams of yore, 
 By distant streams I love thee more ; 
 For never is the heart so true 
 As bidding what we love adieu. 
 Yet neither where we first drew breath, 
 Nor where our fathers sleep in death, 
 Nor where the mystic ring was given, 
 The link from earth that reaches heaven, 
 Nor London, Paris, Florence, Rome, 
 In his own heart's the wise man's home. 
 Stored wath each keener, kinder sense. 
 Too firm, too lofty, for offence, 
 Unlittered by the tools of state. 
 And greater than the great world's great 
 If mine no glorious work may be. 
 Grant, Heaven, and 'tis enough for me 
 (While many squally sails flit past, 
 And many break the ambitious mast), 
 From all that they pursue, exempt. 
 The stormless bay of deep contempt ! 
 
 CCLXXVII. — TO JOSEPH ABLETT. 
 
 Lord of the Celtic dells, 
 Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells 
 Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance 
 
 The plumes of flashy France, 
 Or, in dark region far across the main, 
 Far as Grenada in the world of Spain,
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 3 1? 
 
 Warriors untold to Saxon ear, 
 Until their steel-clad spirits reappear ; 
 
 How happy were the hours that held 
 Thy friend (long absent from his native home) 
 Amid thy scenes with thee ! how wide afield 
 
 From all past cares and all to come ! 
 
 What hath Ambition's feverish grasp, what hath 
 
 Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ; 
 
 What Genius, that should cope 
 
 With the heart -whispers in that path 
 Winding so idly, where the idler stream 
 Flings at the white-haired poplars gleam for gleam ? 
 
 Ablett ! of all the days 
 My sixty summers ever knew, 
 Pleasant as there have been no few, 
 
 Memory not one surveys 
 Like those we spent together. Wisely spent 
 Are they alone that leave the soul content. 
 
 Together we have visited the men 
 
 Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drowned ; 
 Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again 
 
 That gave the British harp its truest sound ? 
 Live, Derwent's guest ! and thou by Grasmere's springs ! 
 Serene creators of immortal things.^ 
 
 And live too thou for happier days 
 Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays 
 
 Have heart and soul possess'd : - 
 Growl in Grim London he who will. 
 Revisit thou Maiano's hill. 
 
 And swell with pride his sun-burnt breast. 
 
 1 Southey and Wordsworth. ' I^eigh Hunt
 
 3l8 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAIL 
 
 Old Redi in his easy chair 
 
 With varied chant awaits thee there, 
 
 And here are voices in the grove 
 Aside my house, that make me think 
 Bacchus is coming down to drink 
 
 To Ariadne's love. 
 
 But whither am I borne away 
 From thee, to whom began my lay ! 
 
 Courage ! I am not yet quite lost ; 
 I stepp'd aside to greet my friends ; 
 Beheve me, soon the greeting ends, 
 
 I know but three or four at most. 
 
 Deem not that time hath borne too hard 
 Upon the fortunes of thy bard. 
 
 Leaving me only three or four : 
 'Tis my old number ; dost thou start 
 At such a tale ? in what man's heart 
 
 Is there fireside for more ? 
 
 I never courted friends or Fame ; 
 She pouted at me long, at last she came, 
 And threw her arms around my neck and said, 
 
 ' ' Take what hath been for years delay'd, 
 And fear not that the leaves will fall 
 One hour the earlier from thy coronal. " 
 
 Ablett ! thou knowest with what even hand 
 
 I waved away the offer'd seat 
 Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great. 
 
 The rulers of our land ; 
 Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, 
 Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup.
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 3 19 
 
 Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me 
 
 My citron groves of Fiesole, 
 My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook, 
 My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, 
 Which runs away and giggles in their faces, 
 Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places. 
 
 'Tis not Pelasgian wall, 
 By him made sacred whom alone 
 
 'Twere not profane to call 
 
 The bard divine, nor (thrown 
 Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest 
 Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. 
 
 Here can I sit or roam at will ; 
 
 Few trouble me, few wish me ill, 
 Few come across me, few too near ; 
 
 Here all my wishes make their stand ; 
 
 Here ask I no one's voice or hand ; 
 Scornful of favour, ignorant of fear. 
 
 Yon vine upon the maple bough 
 
 Flouts at the hearty wheat below ; 
 Away her venal wines the wise man sends. 
 
 While those of lower stem he brings 
 
 From inmost treasure vault, and sings 
 Their worth and age among his chosen friends. 
 
 Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun 
 Her zone least opens to the genial heat. 
 
 But farther off her veins more freely run : 
 'Tis thus with those who whirl about the great ; 
 The nearest shrink and shiver, we remote 
 May open-breasted blow the pastoral oat.
 
 320 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 CCLXXVIII. — TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Those who have laid the harp aside 
 
 And turn'd to idler things, 
 From very restlessness have tried 
 
 The loose and dusty strings, 
 And, catching back some favourite strain, 
 Run with it o'er the chords again. 
 
 But Memory is not a Muse, 
 
 O Wordsworth ! though 'tis said 
 
 They all descend from her, and use 
 To haunt her fountain-head : 
 
 That other men should work for me 
 
 In the rich mines of Poesie, 
 
 Pleases me better than the toil 
 
 Of smoothing under hardened hand 
 
 With attic emery and oil, 
 
 The shining point for Wisdom's wand. 
 
 Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills 
 
 Descending from thy native hOls. 
 
 Without his governance, in vain 
 
 Manhood is strong, and youth is bold 
 
 If oftentimes the o'erpiled strain 
 
 Clogs in the furnace, and grows cold 
 
 Beneath his pinions deep and frore. 
 
 And swells and melts and flows no more 
 
 That is because the heat beneath 
 Pants in its cavern poorly fed. 
 
 Life springs not from the couch of Death, 
 Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead ; 
 
 Unturn'd then let the mass remain, 
 
 Intractable to sun or rain.
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 32 1 
 
 A marsh where only flat leaves lie, 
 And showing but the broken sky, 
 Too surely is the sweetest lay 
 That wins the ear and wastes the day, 
 Where youthful Fancy pouts alone 
 And lets not Wisdom touch her zone. 
 
 He who would build his fame up high, 
 The rule and plummet must apply, 
 Nor say, " I'll do what I have plann'd," 
 Before he try if loam or sand 
 Be still remaining in the place 
 Delved for each polish'd pillar's base. 
 With skilful eye and fit device 
 Thou raisest eveiy edifice, 
 Whether in sheltered vale it stand, 
 Or overlook the Dardan strand. 
 Amid the cypresses that mourn 
 Laodameia's love forlorn. 
 
 We both have run o'er half the space, 
 Listed for mortal's earthly race ; 
 We both have crost life's fervid line, 
 And other stars before us shine : 
 May they be bright and prosperous 
 As those that have been stars for us ! 
 Our course by Milton's light was sped. 
 And Shakespeare shining overhead : 
 Chatting on deck was Dryden too, 
 The Bacon of the rhyming crew ; 
 None ever cross'd our mystic sea 
 More richly stored with thought than he j 
 Tho' never tender nor sublime. 
 He wrestles with and conquers Time. 
 To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, 
 I left much prouder company ; 
 
 Y
 
 32 2 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, 
 But me he mostly sent to bed. 
 
 I wish them every joy above 
 
 That highly blessed spirits prove, 
 
 Save one : and that too shall be theirs, 
 
 But after many rolhng years, 
 
 When 'mid their light thy light appears. 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 CCLXXLX. — TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 Indweller of a peaceful vale, 
 
 Ravaged erewhile by white-hair'd Dane ; 
 
 Rare architect of many a wondrous tale, 
 
 Which, till Helvellyn's head lie prostrate, shall remain ! 
 
 From Arno's side I hear thy Derwent flow, 
 And see methinks the lake below 
 Reflect thy graceful progeny, more fair 
 And radiant than the purest waters are, 
 Even when gurgling in their joy among 
 The bright and blessed throng. 
 Whom on her arm recline 
 The beauteous Proserpine 
 With tenderest regretful gaze, 
 Thinking of Enna's yellow field, surveys, 
 
 Alas ! that snows are shed 
 
 Upon thy laurel'd head, 
 Hurtled by many cares and many wrongs ! 
 
 Malignity lets none 
 
 Approach the Delphic throne ; 
 A hundred lane-fed curs bai'k down Fame's hundred 
 
 tongties. 
 But this is in the night, when men are slow 
 
 To raise their eyes, when high and low,
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 323 
 
 The scarlet and the colourless, are one : 
 
 Soon sleep unbars his noiseless prison, 
 
 And active minds again are risen ; 
 Where are the curs? dream-bound, and whimpering 
 in the sun. 
 
 At fife's or lyre's or tabor's sound 
 The dance of youth, O Southey, iims not round 
 But closes at the bottom of the room 
 Amid the falling dust and deepening gloom. 
 
 Where the weary sit them down. 
 And Beauty too unbraids, and waits a lovelier crown. 
 
 We hurry to the river we must cross. 
 
 And swifter downward every footstep wends ; 
 
 Happy, who reach it ere they count the loss 
 Of half their faculties and half their friends ! 
 
 When we are come to it, the stream 
 
 Is not so dreary as they deem 
 
 Who look on it from haunts too dear ; 
 The weak from Pleasure's baths feel most its chilling air 
 
 No firmer breast than thine hath Heaven 
 
 To poet sage or hero given : 
 No heart more tender, none more just 
 
 To that He largely placed in trust : 
 Therefore shalt thou, whatever date 
 Of years be thine, with soul elate 
 Rise up before the eternal throne, 
 And hear in God's own voice " Well done." 
 
 Not, were that submarine 
 
 Gem-lighted city mine, 
 Wherein my name, engraven by thy hand. 
 Above the royal gleam of blazonry shall stand ; 
 
 Not, were all Syracuse 
 
 Pour'd forth before my muse,
 
 324 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 With Hiero's cars and steeds, and Pindar's lyre 
 Brightening the path with more than solar fire, 
 Could I, as would beseem, requite the praise 
 Showered upon my low head from thy most lofty lays. 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 CCLXXX. — TO THE SISTER OF ELI A. 
 
 Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile ! 
 
 Again shall Elia's smile 
 Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more : 
 
 What is it we deplore ? 
 
 He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, 
 
 Far worthier things than tears. 
 The love of friends without a single foe : 
 
 Unequalled lot below ! 
 
 His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ; 
 
 For these dost thou repine ? 
 He may have left the lowly walks of men ; 
 
 Left them he has ; what then ? 
 
 Are not his footsteps followed by tlie eyes 
 
 Of all the good and wise ? 
 Though the warm day is over, yet they seek 
 
 Upon the lofty peak 
 
 Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows 
 
 O'er death's perennial snows. 
 Behold him ! from the region of the blest 
 
 He speaks : he bids thee rest. 
 
 CCLXXXI.— FAREWELL TO ITALY, 
 
 I leave thee, beauteous Italy ! no more 
 From the high terraces, at even-tide,
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 325 
 
 To look supine into thy depths of sky, 
 
 Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, 
 
 Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 
 
 Bordering the channel of the milky way. 
 
 Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams 
 
 Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico 
 
 Murmur to me but in the poet's song. 
 
 I did believe (what have I not believed ?), 
 
 Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain, 
 
 To close in thy soft clime my quiet day 
 
 And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade. 
 
 Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherish'd thee so little ; 
 
 Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised ; 
 
 But thou didst promise this, and all was well. 
 
 For we are fond of thinking where to lie 
 
 When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart 
 
 Can lift no aspiration — reasoning. 
 
 As if the sight were unimpair'd by death, 
 
 Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, 
 
 And the sun cheered corruption ! Over all 
 
 The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, 
 
 And light us to our chamber at the grave. 
 
 CCLXXXII. — LANDOR IN ENGLAND TO HIS YOUNGEST 
 SON IN ITALY. 
 
 Carlino ! what art thou about, my boy ? 
 Often I ask that question, though in vain, 
 For we are far apart : ah ! therefore 'tis 
 I often ask it ; not in such a tone 
 As wiser fathers do, who know too well. 
 Were we not children, you and I together ? 
 Stole we not glances from each other's eyes ? 
 Swore we not secrecy in such misdeeds ?
 
 326 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Well could we trust each other. Tell me then 
 What thou art doing. Carving out thy name, 
 Or haply mine, upon my favourite seat, 
 With the new knife I sent thee over sea ? 
 Or hast thou broken it, and hid the hilt 
 Among the myrtles, starred with flowers, behind ? 
 Or under that high throne whence fifty lilies 
 (With sworded tuberoses dense around) 
 Lift up their heads at once, not without fear 
 That they were looking at thee all the while. 
 
 Does Cincirillo follow thee about, 
 Inverting one swart foot suspensively, 
 And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp 
 Of bird above him on the olive-branch ? 
 Frighten him then away ! 'twas he who slew 
 Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed, 
 That feared not you and me — alas, nor him ! 
 I flattened his striped sides along my knee, 
 And reasoned with him on his bloody mind. 
 Till he looked blandly, and half-closed his eyes 
 To ponder on my lecture in the shade. 
 I doubt his memory much, his heart a little, 
 And in some minor matters (may I say it ?) 
 Could wish him rather sager. But from thee 
 God hold back wisdom yet for many years ! 
 Whether in early season or in late 
 It always comes high-priced. For thy pure breast 
 I have no lesson ; it for me has many. 
 Come throw it open then ! What sports, what cares 
 (Since there are none too young for these) engage 
 Thy busy thoughts ? Are you again at work, 
 Walter and you, with those sly labourers, 
 Geppo, Giovanni, Cecco, and Poeta, 
 To build more solidly your broken dam 
 Among the poplars, whence the nightingale
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 327 
 
 Inquisitively watch'd you all day long? 
 
 I was not of your council in the scheme, 
 
 Or might have saved you silver without end, 
 
 And sighs too without number. Art thou gone 
 
 Below the mulberry, where that cold pool 
 
 Urged to devise a warmer, and more fit 
 
 For mighty swimmers, swimming three abreast ? 
 
 Or art thou panting in this summer noon 
 
 Upon the lowest step before the hall, 
 
 Drawing a slice of watermelon, long 
 
 As Cupid's bow, athwart thy wetted lips 
 
 (Like one who plays Pan's pipe), and letting drop 
 
 The sable seeds from all their separate cells, 
 
 And leaving bays profound and rocks abrupt. 
 
 Redder than coral round Calypso's cave? 
 
 CCLXXXIII. — THOUGHTS OF FIESOLE, FROM TORQUAY 
 
 Whatever England's fields display, 
 The fairest scenes are thine, Torbay ! 
 Not even Liguria's sunny shore 
 With palm and aloe pleas'd me more. 
 Sorrento softer tale may tell, 
 Parthenope sound louder shell, 
 Amalfi, Ocean's proudest boast, 
 Show loftier hills and livelier coast, 
 Where Nereids hear the nightly flute, 
 And gather fresh such morning fruit 
 As hangs within their highth, and shows 
 Its golden gleam through glossy boughs. 
 But, with thy dark oak-woods behind, 
 Here strelch'd against the western wind 
 The sails that from the Zuyderzee 
 Brought him wlio left our fathers free.
 
 32 8 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Yet (shame upon me !) I sometimes 
 Have sighed awhile for other climes. 
 Where, though no mariner, I too 
 Whistled aloft my little crew : 
 'Twas now to spar, 'twas now to fence, 
 'Twas now to fathom Shakespeare's sense, 
 And now to trace the hand divine 
 That guided Raffael's faultless line. 
 And then we wonder who could raise 
 The massy walls at which we gaze, 
 Where amid songs and village glee 
 Soars immemorial Fiesole. 
 At last we all in turn declare 
 We know not who the Cyclops were. 
 " But the Pelasgians ! those are true?" 
 " I know as much of them as you. " 
 " Pooh ! nonsense ! you may tell us so ; 
 Impossible you should not know !" 
 Then plans, to find me out, they lay, 
 Which will not fail another day. 
 England, in all thy scenes so fair. 
 Thou canst not show what charm'd me there ! 
 
 CCLXXXIV. — ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY, 
 
 Not the last straggles of the sun, """^ 
 Precipitated from his golden throne. 
 Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense ; 
 
 But the calm exod of a man 
 
 Nearer, thoughTar above, who ran 
 The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence. 
 
 Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint ! 
 Thus, O my Southey ! poet, sage, and saint J
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 329 
 
 Thou, after saddest silence, art removed. 
 What voice in anguisli can we raise, 
 Or would we ? need we, dare we, praise ? 
 
 God now does that, the~God thy whole heart loved. 
 
 CCLXXXV.— ON THE SAME. 
 
 It was a dream (ah ! what is not a dream ?) 
 In which I wander'd thro' a boundless space 
 Peopled by those that peopled earth erewhile. 
 But who conducted me ? That gentle Power, 
 Gentle as Death, Death's brother. On his brow 
 Some have seen poppies ; and perhaps among 
 The many flowers about his wavy curls 
 Poppies there might be ; roses I am sure 
 I saw, and dimmer amaranths between. 
 Lightly I thought I leapt across a grave 
 Smelling of cool fresh turf, and sweet it smelt. 
 I would, but must not linger ; I must on, 
 To tell my dream before forgetfulness 
 Sweeps it away, or breaks or changes it. 
 I was among the shades (if shades they were) 
 And look'd around me for some friendly hand 
 To guide me on my way, and tell me all 
 That compass'd me around. I wish'd to find 
 One no less firm or ready than the guide 
 Of Alighieri, trustier far than he, 
 Higher in intellect, more conversant 
 With earth and heaven and whatso lies between. 
 He stood before me — Soulliey. 
 
 "Thou art he," 
 Said I, "whom I was wishing." 
 
 "That I know,' 
 Replied the genial voice and radiant eye. 
 We may be question'd, question we may not ; 
 
 /
 
 33° PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 For that might cause to bubble forth again 
 Some bitter spring which cross'd the pleasantest 
 And shadiest of our paths." 
 
 "I do not ask," 
 Said I, "about your happiness ; I see 
 The same serenity as when we walk'd 
 Along the downs of Clifton. Fifty years 
 Have roll'd behind us since that summer-tide, 
 Nor thirty fewer since along the lake 
 Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd, 
 Through the crisp waves I urged my sideling bark, 
 Amid sweet salutation off the shore 
 From lordly Milan's proudly courteous dames." 
 ' Landor ! I well remember it," said he, 
 
 " I had just lost my first-born only boy, 
 And then the heart is tender ; lightest things 
 Sink into it, and dwell there evermore." 
 
 The words were not yet spoken when the air 
 Blew balmier ; and around the parent's neck 
 An angel threw his arms : it was that son. 
 
 " Father ! I felt you wish'd me," said the boy, 
 
 " Behold me here !" 
 
 Gentle the sire's embrace, 
 Gentle his tone. ' ' See here your father's friend S ' 
 He gazed into my face, then meekly said, 
 
 " He whom my father loves hath his reward 
 On earth ; a richer one awaits him here." 
 
 CCLXXXVI. — TO THE REV. CUTHBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 ^ Cuthbert ! whose father first in all our land 
 
 Sate^m'^calm judgment on poetic peer, 
 Whom hatred never, friendship seldom, warp'd. 
 Again I read his page and hear his voice ; 
 I heard it ere I knew it, ere I saw
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 33 1 
 
 Who utter'd it, each then to each unknown. 
 
 Twelve years had past when upon Avon's chff, 
 
 Hard by his birth-place, first our hands were join'd ; 
 
 After three more he visited my home. 
 
 Along Llanthony's n.iin'd aisles we walk'd 
 
 And woods then pathless, over verdant hill 
 
 And ruddy mountain, and aside the stream 
 
 Of sparkling Ilondy. Just at close of day 
 
 There by the comet's light we saw the fox 
 
 Rush from the alders, nor relax in speed 
 
 Until he trod the pathway of his sires 
 
 Under the hoary crag of Comioy. 
 
 Then both were happy. 
 
 War had paused : the Loire 
 Invited me ; again burst forth fierce War. 
 I minded not his fury : there I staid, 
 Sole of my countrymen, and foes abstain'd 
 (Though sore and bleeding) from my house alone. 
 But female fear impell'd me past the Alps, 
 Where, loveliest of all lakes, the Lario sleeps 
 Under the walls of Como. 
 
 There he came 
 Again to see me ; there again our walks 
 We recommenced — less pleasant than before. 
 Grief had swept over him ; days darken'd round : 
 Bellagio, Valintelvi, smiled in vain. 
 And Monte Rosa from Helvetia far 
 Advanced to meet us, mild in majesty 
 Above the glittering crests of giant sons 
 Station'd around — in vain too ! all in vain ! 
 
 Perhaps the hour may come when others, taught 
 By him to read, may read my page aright 
 And find what lies within it ; time enough 
 Is there before us in the world of thought.
 
 / 
 
 332 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 The favour I may need I scorn to ask. 
 
 What sovran is there able to reprieve, 
 
 How then to grant, the life of the condemn'd 
 
 By Justice, where the Muses take their seat ? 
 
 Never was I impatient to receive 
 
 What any man could give me : when a friend 
 
 Gave me my due, I took it, and no more— 
 
 Serenely glad because that friend was pleased. 
 
 I seek not man)', many seek not me. 
 
 If there are few now seated at my board, 
 
 I pull no children's hair because they munch 
 
 Gilt gingerbread, the figured and the sweet. 
 
 Or wallow in the innocence of whey ; 
 
 Give me wild-boar, the buck's broad haunch give me. 
 
 And wine that time has mellow'd, even as time 
 
 Mellows the warrior hermit in his cell. 
 
 CCLXXXVII. — TO THE MEMORY OF JULIUS HARE. 
 Julius ! how many hours have we ^i"^^^^ 
 
 Together spent with sages old ! 
 In wisdom none surpassing thee. 
 
 In Truth's bright armour none more bold. 
 
 By friends around thy couch in death 
 
 My name from those pure lips was heard. 
 
 Fame ! how feebler all thy breath 
 Than virtue's one expiring word ! 
 
 CCLXXXVIII.— TO THE MEMORY OF LADY BLESSINGTON. 
 Again, perhaps and only once again," 
 
 1 turn my steps to London. Few the scenes 
 And few the friends that there delighted me 
 Will now delight me : some indeed remain, 
 Though changed in features—friend and scene — 
 
 both changed!
 
 INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 333 
 
 I shall not watch my lilac burst her bud 
 
 In that wide garden, that pure fount of air, 
 
 Where, risen ere the morns are warm and bright, 
 
 And stepping forth in very scant attire. 
 
 Timidly, as became her in such garb. 
 
 She hasten'd prompt to call up slumbering Spring. 
 
 White and dim-purple breathed my favourite pair 
 
 Under thy terrace, hospitable heart, 
 
 Whom twenty summers more and more endear'd ; 
 
 Part on the Arno, part where eveiy clime 
 
 Sent its most graceful sons to kiss thy hand. 
 
 To make the humble proud, the proud submiss, 
 
 Wiser the wisest, and the brave more brave. 
 
 Never, ah never now, shall we alight 
 
 Where the man-queen ^ was born, or higher up — 
 
 The nobler region of a nobler soul — 
 
 Where breathed his last the more than kingly man.* 
 Thou sleepest, not forgotten, nor unmourn'd, 
 
 Beneath the chestnut shade by Saint Germain ; 
 Meanwhile I wait the hour of my repose, 
 
 Not under Italy's serener sky. 
 
 Where Fiesole beheld me from above 
 
 Devising how my head most pleasantly 
 
 Might rest ere long, and how with such intent 
 
 I smooth'd a platform for my villagers, 
 
 (Though stood against me stubborn stony knoll 
 
 With cross-grain'd olives long confederate) 
 
 And brought together slender cypresses 
 
 And bridal myrtles, peering up between. 
 
 And bade the modest violet bear her part. 
 
 Dance, youths and mnidens ! though around my grave 
 
 Ye dance not, as I wish : bloom myrtles ! bend 
 
 Protecting arms about them, cypresses ! 
 
 I must not come among you ; fare ye well I 
 
 1 Elizabeth. — - 2 The Protector.— W. S. L.
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 
 
 CCLXXXIX. — AN APOLOGUE ON BYRON, 1822. 
 
 From the Conversation of BishoJ> Burnet and Hjimphrj 
 Hardcastle. Byronis shadowed forth under the char octet 
 of Mr. George NeUy, and Southey under that of Milton. 
 
 Burnet, Who would have imagined that the youtn who 
 was carried to his long home the other day, I mean my 
 Lord Rochester's reputed child, Mr. George Nelly, was 
 for several seasons a great poet ? \'^-f' fefrvSmber the 
 time when he was so famous an one, that he ran after Mr. 
 Milton up Snow-hill, as the old gentleman was leaning on 
 his daughter's arm from the Poultry, and, treading down 
 the heel of his shoe, called him a rogue and a har ; while 
 another poet sprang out from a grocer's shop, clapping 
 his hands, and crying, " Bravely done ! by Beelzebub ! the 
 young cock spurs the blind buzzard gallantly !" On some 
 neighbour representing to Mr. George the respectable 
 character of Mr. Milton, and the probability that at some 
 future time he might be considered as among our geniuses, 
 and such as would reflect a certain portion of credit on 
 his ward, and asking him withal why he appeared to him 
 a rogue and liar, he replied : "I have proofs known to 
 few ; I possess a sort of drama by him, entitled Comus, 
 which was composed for the entertainment of Lord Pem- 
 broke, who held an appointment under the king, and this 
 ven' John has since changed sides, and written in defence 
 of the Commonwealth." 
 
 Mr. George began with satirising his father's friends,
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 33 5 
 
 and confounding the better part of them with all tlie 
 hirelings and nuisances of the age, with all the scavengers 
 of lust and all the link-boys of literature ; with Newgate 
 solicitors, the patrons of adulterers and forgers, who, in 
 the long vacation, turn a penny by puffing a ballad, and 
 are promised a shilling in silver, for their own benefit, on 
 crying down a religious tract. He soon became recon- 
 ciled to the latter, and they raised him upon their shoulders 
 above the heads of the wittiest and the wisest. This 
 sei^ved a whole winter. Afterwards, whenever he wrote a 
 bad poem, he supported his sinking fame by some signal 
 act of profligacy, an elegy by a seduction, an heroic by an 
 adultery, a tragedy by a divorce. On the remark of a 
 learned man, that irregularity is no indication of genius, 
 he began to lose ground rapidly, when on a sudden he 
 cried out at the Haymarket, "There is no God !" It was 
 then surmised more generally and more gravely that there 
 was something in him, and he stood upon his legs almost 
 to the last. "Say what you will," once whispered a 
 friend of mine, "there are things in him as strong as 
 poison, and as original as sin." ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 At last he is removed from among the living : let us 
 hope the best ; to wit, that the mercies which have begun 
 with man's forgetfulness will be crowned with God's for- 
 giveness. 
 
 CCXC. — NOTE TO THE ABOVE, 1824. 
 
 Little did I imagine that the extraordinary man, the 
 worst parts of whose character are represented here, 
 should indeed have been carried to the tomb so imma- 
 turely. If, before the dialogue was printed, he had per- 
 formed those services to Greece which will render his 
 name illustrious to eternity, those by which he merited 
 such funereal honours as, in the parsimony of praise,
 
 f 
 
 336 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL, 
 
 knowing its value in republics, she hardly would have 
 decreed to the most desei'ving of her heroes, if, I repeat 
 it, he had performed those sei-vices, the performance of 
 which I envy him from my soul, and as much as any 
 other does the gifts of heaven he threw away so carelessly, 
 never would I, from whatever provocation, have written 
 a syllable against him. I had avoided him ; I had 
 slighted him ; he knew it : he did" not love rne ; he could 
 not. While he spoke or wrote against me, I said nothing 
 in' print or conversation : the taciturnity of pride gave 
 way to other feelings, when my friends, men so much 
 better, and (let the sincerity of the expression be ques- 
 tioned by those who are unacquainted with us) so much 
 dearer, so much oftener in my thoughts, were assailed by 
 him too intemperately. 
 
 Let any man who has been unfair or injurious to me, 
 show that he has been so to me only, and I offer him my 
 hand at once, with more than mere forgiveness. 
 
 Alas ! my writings are not upon slate : no finger, not 
 of Time "himself, who dips it in the clouds of years and in 
 the storm and tempest, can efface the written. Let me 
 be called what I may — I confess it, I am more inconsist- 
 ent than he was. I do not talk of weeping or bewailing 
 or lamenting, for I hate false words, and seek with care, 
 difficulty, and moroseness, those that fit the thing — why 
 then should I dissemble that, if I have shed no tears, 
 they are at this moment in my eyes ! O that I could 
 have clasped his hand before he died ! only to make him 
 more enamoured of his own virtues, and to keep him with 
 them always ! 
 
 A word to those who talk of inconsistency. There is 
 as much of it in him who stands while another moves, as 
 in him who moves while another stands. To condemn 
 what is evil, and to commend what is good, is consistent : 
 to retract an error, to soften an asperity, to speak all the
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 337 
 
 good we can, after worse ill than we would, is that and 
 more. If I must understand the word inconsistency as 
 many do. I wish I may be inconsistent "with all my 
 enemies. I wiirfalce especTal care"That"my uTconsistency 
 ngVef makes me a worse snan or a richer. 
 
 CCXCl. 
 
 Landor. I do not assert that my grief remains for days, 
 or even hours together, violent or unremitted, although 
 it has done so once or twice : but seldom have I thought 
 of a friend or companion, be it at the distance of thirty 
 or forty years, that the thought is not as intense and 
 painful, and of as long a visitation, as it was at first. 
 Even those with whom I have not lived, and whom indeed 
 I have never seen, affect me by sympathy, as though I had 
 known them intimately, and I hold with them in my walks 
 many imaginary conversations. If anything could engage 
 me to visit Rome, to enrlure the sighToTTier^icarred and 
 awful ruins, telling their grave stories upon the ground 
 in the midst of eunuchs and fiddlers ; if I could let charnel- 
 houses and opera-houses, consuls and popes, tribunes and 
 cardinals, orators and preachers, clash in my mind, it 
 would be that I might afterwards spend an hour in soli- 
 tude where the pyramid of Cestius points to the bones 
 of Keats and Shelley. Nothing so attracts my heart as 
 ruins in deserts, or so repels it as ruins in the circle of 
 fashion. What is so shockTrigasTHe hard verity of Death 
 swept by the rustling masquerade of Life ! and does not 
 Mortality of herself teach us how little we are, without 
 placing~us amidst the trivialities of patchwork "pomp, 
 where Virgil led the gods to found ah empire, "where 
 Cicero saved and Caesar shook ftie world ! 
 
 7.
 
 338 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 CCXCII. — SHELLEY. 
 
 / 
 
 / Landor. Let me return to Shelley. Innocent and 
 careless as a boy, he possessed all fTie"delicate feelings of 
 a gentleman, all the discrmiination of a scholar, and 
 united, in just degrees, the ardour of the poet with the 
 patiefiBrstid forbearance of the philosopher. His gener- 
 osity and charity went far beyond those of any man (1 
 believe) at present in existence. He was never known to 
 speak evil of an enemy, unless that enemy had done 
 
 tsomT^evous injustice to another : and he divided his 
 income of only one thousand pounds, with the fallen and 
 afflicted. 
 
 This is the man against whom such clamours have been 
 raised by the religious a la mode, and by those who live 
 and lap under their tables : this is the man whom, from 
 one false story about his former wife, I hdd "rera'sed to 
 visit at Pisa. I blush in anguish at my prejudice and 
 injustice, and ought hardly to feel it as a blessing or a 
 consolation, that I regret him less than I should have 
 done if I had known him personally. As to what remains 
 of him now life is over, he occupies the third place among 
 our poets of the present age— no humble station — for no 
 other age since that of Sophocles has produced on TTie 
 whole earth so many of such merits— and is incomparably 
 the most elegant, graceful, and harmonious of tlie prose- 
 writers. 
 
 CCXCIII. — S OUTHE Y. 
 
 Interest is always excited by him, enthusiasm not 
 always. If his elegant prose and harmonious verse are 
 insufficient to excite it, turn to his virtues, to his manliness 
 in defence of truth, to the ardour and constancy of his 
 friendships, to his disinterestedness, to his generosity, to
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 339 
 
 his rejection of title and office, and consequently of wealth 
 and influence. He has laboured to raise up merit in 
 whatever path of literature he found it ; and poetry in 
 particular has never had so intelligent, so impartial, and 
 so merciful a judge. 
 
 CCXCIV. — A CONFESSION OF JEALOUSY. 
 
 Jealous, I own it, I was once. 
 That wickedness I here renounce. 
 I tried at wit, it would not do ; 
 At tenderness, that fail'd me too ; 
 Before me on each path there stood 
 The witty and the tender Hood. 
 
 / 
 
 CCXCV. — ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 7 
 
 There is delight in singing, though none hear 
 f Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
 In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
 And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 
 Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, 
 No man hath walk'd along our roads with step 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 
 Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where / 
 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. y/ 
 
 CCXCVl. — MACAULAY. 
 
 The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
 Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
 
 /
 
 / 
 
 340 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 And by long strides are left behind 
 The dear delights of woman-kind, 
 Who win their battles like their loves, 
 In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 
 And have achieved the crowning work 
 When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk. 
 Another comes with stouter tread, 
 And stalks among the statelier dead. 
 He rushes on, and hails by turns 
 High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, 
 And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
 Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
 When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
 Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 
 
 CCXCVII. — CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Dedication of Itnaginary' Conversation of Greeks ana 
 Romans, l8j8. 
 
 Friends as we are, have long been, and ever shall be, I 
 doubt whether I should have prefaced these pages with 
 your name were it not to register my judgment that, in 
 breaking up and cultivating the unreclaimed wastes of 
 Humanity, no labours have been so strenuous, so con- 
 tinuous, or half so successful, as yours. While the world 
 admires in you an unlimited knowledge of mankind, deep 
 thought, vivid imagination, and bursts of eloquence from 
 unclouded heights, no less am I delighted when I see you 
 at the schoolroom you have liberated from cruelty, and 
 at the cottage you have purified from disease. 
 
 CCXCVIII. — LITERARY ENMITIPZS. 
 
 I regret all enmities in the literary world, and particu- 
 larly when they are exercised against the oriianients and 
 glories of our country, against a Wordsworth ' and a
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 34 1 
 
 Southey. It has been my fortune to love in general 
 those men most who have thought most differently from 
 me, on subjects wherein others pardon no discordance. 
 I think I have no more right to be angry with a man, 
 whose reason has followed up a process different from 
 what mine has, and is satisfied with the result, than with 
 one who has gone to Venice while I am at Siena, and 
 who writes to me that he likes the place, and that, although 
 he said once he should settle elsewhere, he shall reside in 
 that city. My political opinions are my only ones, beyond 
 square demonstration,~tlmt I am certain will never change. 
 If my muscles have hardened in them and are fit for no 
 other, I have not on this account the right or inclination 
 to consider a friend untrue or insincere, who declares that 
 he sees more of practical good in an opposite quarter, 
 to that where we agreed to fix the speculative ; and that 
 he abandons the dim, astounding majesty of mountain 
 scenery, for the refreshing greenness and easy patlis of 
 the plain. I have walked always where I must breathe 
 hard, and where such breathing was my luxury : I now 
 sit somewhat stiller and have fewer aspirations, but I 
 inhale the same atmosphere yet. 
 
 CCXCIX. 
 
 Landor. From my earliest days I have avoided society 
 as much as I CbuM decorously, for I received more 
 pleasure in the cultivation and improvement of my own 
 thoughts than in walking up and down among the 
 thoughts of others. Yet, as you know, I never have 
 avoided the intercourse of men distinguished by virtue 
 and genius ; of genius, because it warmed and invigorated 
 me by my trying to keep pace with it ; of virtue, that if 
 I had any of my own it might be called forth by such 
 vicinity. Among all men elevated in station who have
 
 342 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 made a noise in the world (admirable old expression !) 
 I never saw any in whose presence I felt inferiority, 
 exceptmg Kosciusko. But how many in the lower paths 
 of life have exerted both virtues and abilities which I 
 never exerted, and never possessed ! what strength and 
 courage and perseverance in some, in others what endur- 
 ance and forbearance ! At the very moment when most, 
 beside yourself, catching up half my words, would call 
 and employ against me in its ordinary signification what 
 ought to convey the most honorific, the term self-sufficiency, 
 I bow my head before the humble, with greatly "mofethan 
 their humiliation. You are better-tempered than I am 
 and readier to converse. There are half- hours when, 
 although in good humour and in good spirits, I would 
 not be disturbed by the necessity of talking, to be the 
 possessor of all the rich marshes we see yonder. In this 
 interval there is neither storm nor sunshine of the mm^, 
 .. but calm and (as the farmer would call it) growing 
 weather, in which the blades of thought spring up and 
 dilate insensibly. Whatever I do, I must do in the open 
 ■ air, or in the silence of night : either is sufficient : but I 
 prefer the hours of exercise, or, what is next to exercise, 
 of field-repose. 
 
 / 
 
 ccc. 
 
 I know not whether I am proud, 
 But this I know, I hate the crowd : 
 Therefore pray let me disengage 
 My verses from the motley page, 
 Where others far more sure to please 
 Pour out their choral song with ease. 
 And yet perhaps, if some should tire 
 With too much froth or too much fire, 
 There is an ear that may incline 
 Even to words so dull as mine.
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 343 
 
 CCCI. 
 
 The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings 
 
 To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow, 
 Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings, 
 
 They who have coveted may covet now. 
 
 Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd, 
 The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature, 
 
 Where every voice (l)Ut bird's or child's) is hush'd. 
 And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure. 
 
 CCCII. — THE GENIUS OF GREECE. 
 
 Why do I praise a peach 
 Not on my wall, no, nor within my reach ? 
 
 Because I see the bloom 
 And scent the fragrance many steps from home. 
 
 Permit me still to praise 
 The higher genius of departed days. 
 
 Some are there yet who, nursed 
 In the same clime, are vigorous as the first, 
 
 And never waste their hours 
 (Ardent for action) among meadow flowers. 
 
 Greece with calm eyes I see, 
 Her pure white marbles have not blinded me, 
 
 But breathe on me the love 
 Of earthly things as bright as things above ; 
 
 There is (where is there not ?) 
 In her fair regions many a desert spot ; 
 
 Neither is Dirce clear, 
 Nor is Ilissus full throughout the year.
 
 344 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHI'CAL. 
 CCCIII. — ON HIS OWN AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 
 
 From eve to morn, from mom to parting night, 
 Father and daughter stood before my sight. 
 I felt the looks they gave, the words they said, 
 And reconducted each serener shade. 
 Ever shall these to me be well-spent days, 
 Sweet fell the tears upon them, sweet the praise. 
 Far from the footstool of the tragic throne, 
 I am tragedian in this scene alone. 
 
 HIS READERS. 
 
 Among the Dry Sticks many are so slender that they 
 seem to have been cut after a few years' growth ; others 
 are knottier and more gnarled than are usually carried 
 to market, but give out greater heat and burn longer. 
 Among the varieties may be found a few fragments 
 seemingly exotic ; pointed leaves hanging grimly to them, 
 very like those of the pine which grew formerly about 
 Rome and above Tivoli ; laurels of a species uncultivated 
 in England ; and prunings which may be taken for ohve, 
 if we judge of them by the smoothness of the bark, the 
 purity of the flame, and the paucity of the ashes. 
 
 We often find in the clouds, in the mountains, in the 
 fire, and in other objects, resemblances of things quite 
 different : so it may happen that in some of these Dry 
 Sticks ^\\& observer, if his mood is contemplative, or, more 
 probably, if he is half- dreaming, shall see somewhat to 
 remind him of poetry. 
 
 cccv. 
 
 Landor. I have expunged many thoughts for then- close 
 resemblance to what others had written whose works I 
 never sav/ until after. But all thinking men must think,
 
 CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 34 S 
 
 all imaginative men must imagine, many tilings in com- 
 mon, although they differ. Some abhor what others 
 embrace; but the thought strikes them equally. With 
 some an idea is productive, with others it lies inert. I 
 have resigned and abandoned many things because I 
 unreasonably doubted my legitimate claim to them, and 
 many more because I believed I had enough substance 
 in the house without them, and that the retention might 
 raise a clamour in my courtyard. 
 
 • CCCVI. 
 
 Landor. It has been my fortune and felicity, from my 
 earliest days, to have avoidedraTT'compefitioniy Ivly tutor 
 at Oxford could never persuade me to write a piece of 
 latin poetiy for the Prize, earnest as he was that his pupil 
 should be a winner at the forthcoming Enccenia. Poetry 
 was always my amusement, prose my study and business. 
 I have published five volumes of Imaginary Conversa- 
 tions : cut the worst of them tlirougTi' the middle, and 
 there will remain in this decimal fraction quite enough to 
 satisfy my appetite for fame. I shall dine late ; but the 
 dining-room will be well lighted, the guests few and select. 
 
 CCCVI I. 
 
 I claim no place in the world of letters ; I am alone, 
 and will be alone, as Ibiig as I live, and after. 
 
 CCCVIII. 
 
 He who is within two paces of the ninetieth year may 
 sit down and make no excuses ; he must be unpopular, 
 he never tried to be much otherwise ; he never contended 
 with a contemporaiy, but walked alone on FHeTar eastern 
 uplands, meditating and remembering.
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND 
 DEA TH. 
 
 / 
 
 CCCIX. — TO AGE, 
 
 Welcome, old friend ! These many years 
 Have we lived door by door : 
 
 The Fates have laid aside their shears 
 Perhaps for some few more. 
 
 I was indocile at an age 
 
 When better boys were taught, 
 
 But thou at length hast made me sage, 
 If I am sage in aught. 
 
 Little I know from other men, 
 
 Too httle they from me, 
 But thou hast pointed well the pen 
 
 That writes these hnes to thee. 
 
 Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope. 
 
 One vile, the other vain ; 
 One's scourge, the other's telescope, 
 
 I shall not see again : 
 
 Rather what lies before my feet 
 
 My notice shall engage. 
 He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 
 Dreads not the frost of Age.
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH. 345^ 
 
 cccx. 
 
 Is it not better at an early hour 
 
 In its calm ceU to rest the weary head, 
 
 While birds'are singing and while blooms the bower, 
 Than sit the fire out and go starved to bed '! 
 
 CCCXI. — TO A PAINTER. 
 
 Conceal not Time's misdeeds, but on my brow 
 
 Retrace his mark : 
 Let the retiring hair be silvery now 
 
 That once was dark : 
 Eyes that reflected images too bright 
 
 Let clouds o'ercast, 
 And from the tablet be abolish'd quite 
 
 The cheerful past. 
 Yet care's deep lines should one from waken'd mirth 
 
 Steal softly o'er, 
 Perhaps on me the fairest of the earth 
 
 May glance once more. 
 
 CCCXII. 
 
 Give me the eyes that look on mine, 
 And, when they see them dimly shine, 
 
 Are moister than they were. 
 Give me the eyes that fain would find 
 Some relics of a youthful mind 
 
 Amid the wrecks of care. 
 Give me the eyes that catch at last 
 A few faint glimpses of the past, 
 
 And, like the arkite dove. 
 Bring back a long-lost olive-bough. 
 And can discover even now 
 
 A heart that once could love.
 
 348 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 CCCXIII. 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said, 
 ' You will be sweet when I am dead : 
 Where skies are brightest we shall meet, 
 And there wnll you Ije yet more sweet, 
 Leaving your winged company 
 To waste an idle thought on me. " 
 
 / 
 
 CCCXIV. — THE THREE ROSES. 
 
 When the buds began to burst. 
 
 Long ago, with Rose the first 
 
 I was walking ; joyous then 
 
 Far above all other men, 
 
 Till before us up there stood 
 
 Britonferry's oaken wood, 
 
 Whispering '■'■Happy as thou art. 
 
 Happiness and thou must part." 
 
 Many summers have gone by 
 
 Since a second Rose and I 
 
 (Rose from that same stem) have told 
 
 This and other tales of old. 
 
 She upon her wedding day 
 
 Carried home my tenderest lay ; 
 
 From her lap I now have heard 
 
 Gleeful, chirping. Rose the Third. 
 
 Not for her this hand of mine 
 
 Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine ; 
 
 Cold and torpid it must lie, 
 
 Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH. 349 
 
 CCCXV. 
 
 Various the roads of life ; in one 
 All terminate, one lonely way. 
 
 We go ; and " Is he gone ? " 
 Is all our best Mertds say. 
 
 / 
 
 CCCXV I. 
 
 The day returns, my natal day, 
 
 Borne on the storm and pale with snow 
 
 And seems to ask me why I stay, 
 
 Stricken by Time and bowed by Woe. 
 
 Many were once the friends who came 
 To wish me joy ; and there are some 
 
 Who wish it now ; but not the same ; 
 They are whence friend can never come ; 
 
 Nor are they you my love watch'd o'er 
 Cradled in innocence and sleep ; 
 
 You smile into my eyes no more, 
 Nor see the bitter tears they weep. 
 
 CCCXVII. — ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 
 
 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, 
 Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ; 
 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 CCCXVIII. — ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on, 
 
 And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady ; 
 
 She, who once led me where she would, is gone. 
 So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
 
 350 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 CCCXIX. — M EMORY. 
 
 The Mother of the Muses, we are taught, 
 
 Is Memoiy : she has left me ; they remain, 
 
 And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 
 
 About the summer days, my loves of old. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! is all I can reply. 
 
 Memory has left with me that name alone. 
 
 Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, 
 
 But her bright image in my darkest hour 
 
 Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or uncall 'A 
 
 Forgotten are the names of visitors 
 
 Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; 
 
 Forgotten are the names of earlier friends 
 
 Whose genial converse and glad countenance 
 
 Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ; 
 
 To these, when I have written and besought 
 
 Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone 
 
 Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain, 
 
 A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, 
 
 If thy'stream carried only weeds away. 
 
 But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 
 
 It hurries down to wither on the strand. 
 
 cccxx. 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low 
 
 I know not what into my ear : 
 Of his strange language all I know 
 
 Is, there is not a word of fear.
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 / 
 
 A.D. 
 
 JB^ 
 
 1770 
 
 — 
 
 1771 
 
 — 
 
 1772 
 
 — 
 
 1774 
 
 — 
 
 1775 
 
 — 
 
 1777 
 1778 
 1780 
 1784 
 
 178s 
 1788 
 
 2 
 3 
 5 
 9 
 10 
 
 '3 
 
 1790 
 
 15 
 
 1791 
 
 16 
 
 1792 
 
 17 
 
 1793 
 
 18 
 
 1794 
 
 19 
 
 1795 
 
 20 
 
 1796 
 
 21 
 
 1797 
 1798 
 
 22 
 23 
 
 1799 
 
 1800 
 
 24 
 25 
 
 1801 
 
 26 
 
 1802 
 
 27 
 
 1803 
 
 1804 
 
 1805 
 1806 
 
 1807 
 
 The following Table is intended to show the chronological relations 
 of Lander to some of his contemporaries, with the dates of the chief 
 events in his life, and of the publication of his principal works. The 
 titles of these are printed in italics. 
 
 [Chatterton died. Wordsworth born.] 
 
 [Gray died. Scott born.] 
 
 [Coleridge born.] 
 
 [Goldsmith died. Southey born.] 
 
 Born at Warwick, Jan. 30. [Charles Lamb born.] 
 
 [Thomas Campbell and Henry Hallam born.] 
 
 [Hazlitt born.] 
 
 Goes to school at Knowle. 
 
 [Johnson died. Leigh Hunt born.] 
 
 Goes to school at Rugby. [De Quincey born.] 
 
 [Byron born.] 
 
 Removed from Rugby. 
 
 Resident at Ashbourne, under Dr. Langley. 
 
 Ashbourne. [Shelley born.] 
 
 Enters at Trinity College, Oxford. 
 
 Rusticated ; leaves Oxford ; goes to London. 
 
 London ; afterwards Tenby. — 'JVie Poems of Walter 
 Savage Landor: London, Cadell and Davies. — ./^ 
 Moral Epistle; respectfully dedicated to Earl 
 Stanhope: London, Cadell and Davies. [Keats bom 
 Carlyle born.] 
 
 South Wales, Warwick. [Burns died.] 
 
 South Wales, Warwick. [B. W. Procter born.] 
 
 South Wales. — Gebir: a Poem, in seven books : London, 
 Rivingtons. 
 
 Bath ; London ; Brighton. [Hood bom.] 
 Bath, etc. [Cowper died. Macaulay born.] — Poems 
 from the A 7-abic and Persian : Warwick, Sharpe : 
 and London, Rivingtons. 
 Bath, etc. 
 
 Bath, etc. ; visit to Paris during peace of Amiens. — 
 Poetry by the Author of Gebir: London, Riving- 
 tons. 
 Bath, etc. — Gebir: a Poem, in seven books. By Walter 
 Savage Latidor. Second Edition : Oxford, Slatter 
 and Munday. — Gebirius: Poona. Scripsit Savagius 
 Landor: Oxford, Slatter and Munday. 
 Bath, etc. 
 
 Bath, etc. Landor's father dies. 
 Bath, etc — Simotiidea: Bath, Meyler : and London, 
 
 Robinson. 
 Bath, etc. (projects and abandons purchase of an estate 
 at Loweswater). 
 
 29
 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 353 
 
 / 
 
 A.D. 
 
 t8o8 
 
 33 
 
 34 
 
 35 
 36 
 
 37 
 
 i»i3 38 
 1814 39 
 
 1809 
 
 1810 
 1811 
 
 i»i5 
 
 1822 
 1823 
 1824 
 
 1827 
 
 1828 
 1829 
 
 1830 
 1S31 
 
 I8I6 
 
 41 
 
 I8I7 
 I8I8 
 
 42 
 
 43 
 
 I8I9 
 1820 
 
 44 
 45 
 
 1825 50 
 
 1826 51 
 
 40 
 
 55 
 56 
 
 Bath, etc. Purchases Llanthony Abbey, Monmouth- 
 shire ; makes the acquaintance of Southey ; goes 
 as a volunteer to join the insurgent army in Spain 
 (August-October). [Lord Houghton born.] 
 Llanthony, Bath.—TAn-e Letters, ivritteii in Spain, 
 to D. Francisco Rignehne, co»imaudins: the Third 
 Division of the Gallician army. [A. 'I'ennyson, Eliz. 
 Barrett, \V. E. Gladstone, Ch. Darwin, born.] 
 Llanthony, Bath. 
 Llanthony, Bath. Marries Julia Thuillier. [Thackeray 
 
 born.] 
 Llanthony, V>-a\\-\.— Count Julian : a Tragedy: London, 
 Murray. — Coiitinentary on Aleinoirs 0/ I\fr. Fox: 
 London : Murray. [Dickens, R. Browning, J. For- 
 ster, born.) 
 Llanthony, Bath. 
 
 Leaves Llanthony (M.ay) ; goes to Jersey ; thence, 
 having left Mrs. Landor in anger, to Tours ; makes 
 the acquaintance of Francis Hare. 
 Tours ; rejoined by Mrs. Landor ; Como. — Idyllia nova 
 
 quinqtie Heroitin atque Heroiditin, etc. : O.xford. 
 Como. 
 
 Como. Eldest son, Arnold .Savage, born. 
 Como ; Genoa, Villa Pallavicini. 
 Pisa ; part of summer at Pistoia. 
 
 Pisa.— fdyi/ia Heroica decent, etc., parti ni jam prima 
 partim iterum atq. tertioedit Savagius Landor: Pisa. 
 Pisa; thence to Florence. — Poche osscrvazioni, etc., 
 di Walter Savage Landor, gentiluomo ingtese ; 
 Naples. [Keats died.] 
 Florence ; Palazzo Medici. [Shelley died.] 
 Florence ; Palazzo Medici. 
 
 Florence ; Palazzo "MatAm.— Imaginary Conversations 
 0/ Literary Men atid Statesmen. By Walter Savage 
 Landor, Esq., vols. i. and ii. : London, Taylor and 
 Hessey. [Byron died.] 
 Florence ; Palazzo Medici. 
 
 Florence ; Palazzo Medici and Villa Castiglione.— //«- 
 aginary Conversations, etc., vols. i. and ii., second 
 edition : London, Colburn. 
 Florence ; Villa Castiglione ; makes the .acqu.aintance 
 of Lord and Lady Blessington, and accompanies them 
 on a trip to Naples. Makes the acquaintance of Mr. 
 Joseph Ablett of Llanbedr. 
 Florence ; Villa Castiglione. — Imaginary Conversa- 
 tions, etc., vol. iii. ; London, Colburn. 
 Fiesole : Villa Gherardesca (purchased by help of 
 Mr. Ablettl. Landor's mother dies. ^Ladame de 
 Molande', formerly Mrs. Swift, the lanthe of Landor's 
 early poetry, comes to Florence with her children. — 
 Imaginary Conversations, etc., vols. iv. and v. 
 London, Duncan. 
 Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca. [Hazlitt died.] 
 Fiesole; Villa Gherardesca. — Gebir, Co^mt Julian, and 
 
 2 A
 
 /.'"' 
 
 A.D. 
 
 JET. 
 
 1832 
 
 57 
 
 1833 
 
 58 
 
 1834 
 
 59 
 
 1835 
 
 60 
 
 1836 
 
 61 
 
 1837 
 
 62 
 
 1838 
 1839 
 
 63 
 64 
 
 1840 
 184I 
 
 6s 
 66 
 
 1842 
 
 ■843 
 1844 
 184s 
 1846 
 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 70 
 71 
 
 1847 
 
 72 
 
 1848 
 
 73 
 
 1849 
 
 74 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 other Poems. By ]Valtcr Sax>age Landor, Esq. : 
 London, Moxon. 
 
 Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca ; with a summer and autumn 
 trip to England, returning in company with Julius 
 Hare and Ur. Worsley by Innsbruck and Venice. 
 [.Scott died.] 
 
 Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca. 
 
 Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca. — CiiaiioJt ami Examiiia- 
 tioti of li'illimii Shakespeare, etc. : London, Saim- 
 ders and Otley. [Coleridge died. Charles Lamb 
 died.] 
 
 Fiesole : Baths of Lucca and England (leaving at Fiesole 
 his wife, with whom he had quarrelled, and his 
 children). 
 
 Clifton ; Wales ; London ; Germany. — Pericles and 
 Astasia, by Walter Savage Latuior, Esq, : 2 vols. ; 
 London, Saunders and Otley.— The Letters 0/ a 
 Conser-jath-e, by Walter Savage Landor: London. 
 Saunders and Otley. 
 
 Wales ; London ; Devonshire; Bath. — Tlie Pentaineron 
 and Pentalpgia: London, Saimders and Otley. — 
 A Satire on Satirists, and Admonition to Detractors: 
 London, Saunders and Otley. 
 
 Bath. 
 
 Bath. — Andrea of Hungary, and Giovanni of Naples. 
 By Walter Savage Latidor : London, Bentley. 
 
 Bath. [Francis Hare died.] 
 
 Bath ; visit to Paris. — Era Rupert : London, Saunders 
 and Otley. 
 
 Bath. 
 
 Bath. [Southey died.] 
 
 Bath. [Campbell died.] 
 
 Bath. [Hood died.] 
 
 Bath. — The Works of Walter Savage Landor ; 2 vols. : 
 London, I\Io,\ou. (Vol. i. contains all the previously 
 published Imaginary Conz'crsations, with additions 
 and corrections ; vol. ii., a new series of Imaginary 
 Conversations, together with Tltc Examination of 
 Shakespeare, Pericles and A spasia, The Pentame7on, 
 the poems previously published in the volume of 
 1831, besides a number of new poems, including the 
 Hellenics. This edition, prepared with the help of 
 Mr. John Forster and Archdeacon Hare, was until 
 1876 the sole and standard collected edition of 
 Landor's writings in prose and verse together.) 
 
 Bath. — The Hellenics of li'altcr Savage Landor. En- 
 larged and completed : London, IMoxon. — Pocmata 
 et Inscriptiones novis auxit Savagiiis Landor : 
 London, Moxon. 
 
 Bath. — The Italics of Walter Savage Landor: London, 
 Reynell and Weight. — Imaginary Conversation oj 
 King Carlo- Albe7-to ami the Duchess Belgoioiso: 
 London, Longmans, 1848. (J. Ablett died.] 
 
 Bath.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 355 
 
 A.D. 
 1850 
 1851 
 
 75 
 76 
 
 1852 
 .833 
 
 77 
 78 
 
 1854 
 
 79 
 
 185s 
 1856 
 
 80 
 81 
 
 1857 
 1858 
 
 82 
 
 83 
 
 1859 
 
 84 
 
 i860 
 1S61 
 1862 
 1863 
 
 85 
 86 
 
 87 
 88 
 
 1864 
 
 89 
 
 Bath. [Lady Blessington died. Wordsworth died.] 
 
 Bath. —Popery, British and Foreign. By JValter 
 Savage Landor: London, Chapman and Hall. 
 [Madame de Molande died.] 
 
 Bath. 
 
 Bath. — Imngitiary Conversations of Greeks and Ro- 
 mans, by Walter Savage Landor: London, Mo.\on. 
 — The Last Fruit off an old Tree, by II alter Savage 
 Landor : London, Moxon. 
 
 Bath. — Letters 0/ an American, mainly on Kussia and 
 Revolution. Edited by Walter Savage Landor : 
 London, Chapman and Hall. 
 
 Bath, fjulius Hare died.] 
 
 Bath. — Antony and Octavius; Scenes for the Study. 
 By Walter Savage Landor : London, Bradbury and 
 Evans. — Letter frojn W. S. Landor to R. W. 
 Fmersou : Bath, WilHams. 
 
 Bath (quarrel-s and scandals). 
 
 Bath; Genoa; Fiesole. — Dry Sticks, fagoted by Walter 
 Savage Landor: Edinburgh, Nichol. _ Lawsuit con- 
 sequent on this publication : trial at Bristol. Landor, 
 having in the meanwhile left England, is condemned, 
 costs £ 1000. 
 
 Fiesole ; Siena ; Florence. Having found life with 
 his family at the Villa Gherardesca insupportable, he 
 settles in lodgings in the Via Nunziatina. — The Hel- 
 lenics of ]V alter Savage Landor, etc. Neiv edition, 
 enlarged: Edinburgh, Nichol. [Leigh Hunt died. 
 De Quincey died. Macaulay died.] 
 
 Florence ; Via Nunziatina. 
 
 Florence ; Via Nunziatina. 
 
 Florence ; Via Nunziatina. 
 
 Florence ; Via Nunziatina. — Heroic Idyls, mith ad- 
 ditional Forms. By Walter Savage Landor. 
 [Thackeray died.] 
 
 Florence ; Via Nunziatina. Dies September 17. 
 
 A final collected and corrected (though not, strictly speaking, 
 complete) edition of Landor's writings was prepared by Forster 
 after his death, and published in 1876 with a second edition of the 
 Life by Forster prefixed {The Works and Life of Walter Savage 
 Landor, 8 vols. London : Chapman and Hall, 1876). This edition 
 ha.s, by permission of the publishers, been followed in our text, 
 except where the reverse is expressly stated. I have adopted, how- 
 ever, certain formal deviations from it in orthography and punctua- 
 tion : these consist chiefly in spelling "walked," or in verse " walk'd," 
 for Landor's '' walkt," and so on in all similar cases (see Preface and 
 Selections, no. ccxlix.), and in the substitution of the more familiar 
 sign — for the less familiar sign . . used by Landor as its equi- 
 valent. Other departures from the text of 1876 are specified when 
 they occur.
 
 !56 NOTES. 
 
 I.— DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE. 
 
 In the notes below, the references which follow the number of 
 each selection are, first, to the place in the series of Landor's works 
 where it first appeared ; and second, to the place where it is to be 
 found in the final collected edition of 1876. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 3. i. I mag. Co7iv., v., 1829, p. 95. Afterwards incorporated 
 in Conversation of Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa : 
 Epicurus reciting the part of Peleus, and Ternissa 
 that of Thetis: see Jl'orks, 1876, ii. p. 228 ff. Again, 
 as an independent dialogue, but versified : Hellenics, 
 2d ed. , 1859, P- 187 : Works, 1876, vii. p. 504. 
 
 Such an interchange of condolences between the 
 hero and goddess on the coming fate of their son, as 
 Landor has here imagined, is not recorded as having 
 found a place in any ancient treatment of the theme. 
 
 5- II 1- 17- After "words" is inserted in the later eds., 
 " I deposit them in my bosom ; " I have preferred 
 the original reading of 1S29. 
 
 6. ,, 1. 9. In the later eds. are omitted the words, "twice 
 
 nine have not yet rolled away," which I have retained 
 from ed. 1829, as being essential to the sense. In this 
 speech of Thetis, Landor seems to have forgotten, or 
 not chosen to remember, that the wedding was held 
 according to tradition at the cave of Cheiron on 
 INIount Pelion, whence Peleus led his bride, not to 
 the " halls of Tethys," but to his own palace. 
 
 7. ii. I mag. Conv. Gr. and Rom., 1853, p. 3: IVoiks, 
 
 1876, ii. p. 3. Again, versified, //^//t'WiV-j, 2d ed., 1859, 
 p. 162 : IVorks, 1876, vii. p. 490. 
 
 This interview of .Achilles and Helen on Mount Ida 
 belonged to the early epic traditions of the Trojan 
 war, and had been related in the lost Kypria of 
 Stasinus (Proclus, CJtresto>nat!i. KaX fiera. ravra 
 'EXevTjv (TTidv/nei dedaaadai Kal crvvrjyayev 
 avTOvs is TO avTo A(f>po5iT7} /cat Q^tis). 
 
 12. ,, 1. 8. Landor spells Kalydon, but as he was not consistent 
 with himself in these matters (see above, p. 6, 1. 32), 
 wavering, like other scholars, between the use of the 
 Greek consonant and its Latin equivalent, I have 
 for the sake of uniformity introduced the latter, both 
 here and in 11. 32, 33, below. 
 
 12. „ 1.12. I have omitted from the beginning of this line the 
 
 words, " Horrible creatures ! boars, I mean." 
 
 13. iii. Hellenics, 1847, p. 61 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 518. 
 
 The re-capture of Helen by Menelaus, and his 
 averted vengeance, belonged also to the early epic 
 traditions of Greece. They were related in the
 
 NOTES. 357 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 Lesser Iliad and the Ilinpersis : the scene was 
 figured on one of the earliest recorded works of 
 Greek art, the chest of Cypsehis {Paiisan., v. i8i), 
 and is depicted on a number of extant vases. Accord- 
 ing to Stesichorus, the Greeks were about to stone 
 Helen for her crimes, but at the sight of her beauty 
 dropped the stones from their hands. See also 
 Aristoph. Lysistr., 155. 
 
 17. iv. Introduced in Pericles and Aspasia, 1836, p. 266: 
 Works, 1876, V. p. 529. Landor represents this 
 dialogue as the work of Aspasia herself, who sends 
 it to Cleone at Miletus, explaining its motive 
 thus, " I imagine Agamemnon to descend from his 
 horrible death, and to meet instantly his daughter. 
 By the nature of things, by the suddenness of the 
 event, Iphigeneia can have heard nothing of her 
 mother's double crime, adultery and murder." 
 
 For Landor's opinion of the merits of this scene, see 
 Selections, no. ccciii. He wrote afterwards several 
 other poetical fragments on the same heroic theme. 
 Two of these, the Death of Clyteninestra and 
 the madness of Orestes, were tirst published in 
 the Pentalogia, appended to the Pentaineron of 
 Petrarca and Boccaccio (1837). Both were in- 
 corporated, together with a third fragment, the 
 Prayer of Orestes at Delphi, in subsequent editions 
 of Pericles and Aspasia (letters ccxxv.-ccxxix.. 
 Works, 1846, ii. p. 447 ff. ; 1876, v. p. 535 ff) These 
 three are dramatic in form. An independent narra- 
 tive poem on the sacrifice of Iphigeneia appeared 
 first, Works, 1846, ii. p. 482, and in subsetiuent edi- 
 tions of the Hellenics; it is included among Lord 
 Houghton's Selections from Landor in Ward's 
 English Poets, iv. p. 479. All of these pieces are 
 fine, but the first, here reprinted, is much the finest : 
 the second and third being in my judgment marred 
 by an excess of the Landorian abruptness. The 
 obvious and just criticism on the present fragment is 
 that the disclosure, which is prepared for by such 
 admirably conceived and beautiful approaches, is 
 after all never made. The lyrical conclusion, sung 
 by the chorus of Argive warriors, I have ventured 
 to omit as not related to the emotions of the father 
 and daughter at their re-union. 
 
 22. v. Works, 1846, ii. p. 193 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 19. 
 
 A First Conversation between the same persons 
 appears Works, 1846, ii. p. 93: Works, \Zy6,\\-\>. 8. 
 This, although full of beauties, I have passed by as 
 not needful to the understanding of the Second 
 Conversation, of which the excellence is higher and 
 more sustained. All details in this Conversation are 
 of Landor's invention, beyond the mere tradition 
 that Rhodope and /Esop were fellow-slaves before
 
 358 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 Rhodope was taken by Xanthus to Egypt ; see 
 Herodotus, ii. 134, 135, where also (and in Strabo, 
 xvii. 808, and Athenaeus, xiii. 596) will be found dis- 
 cussed the questions concerning her supposed real 
 name Doricha, her relations with the brother of Sappho, 
 and her identification with Nitocris, Queen of Egj'pt. 
 
 33. vi. Imag. Conv., iii., 1828, p. 133 : IVorks, 1876, ii. p. 309. 
 For the facts relating to the death of Marcellus, see 
 Polybius (x. 32, and the doubtful fragment in Suidas 
 sub voce 'IfJLfpos), but more particularly Appian, 
 Hannib., 50. and Plutarch, Marcell., 30. Landnr has 
 taken several details from the last two writers. They 
 both tell of the reverence paid by Hannibal to the 
 fallen consul ; of the ring Hannibal took from his 
 body ; of the escape of the young Marcellus, his son ; 
 and how his ashes were sent home with honour to 
 his family. But both Appian and Plutarch represent 
 Marcellus as already dead when Hannib.al came up ; 
 and the essential idea of the dialogue, that of making 
 him survive his death-wound long enough to speak 
 with and learn the generosity of his conqueror, is 
 Lander's own. 
 
 38. vii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 243 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 314. (Had 
 been originally printed in the Cambridge Philological 
 MiiseiDii, vol. ii., 1833, p. i.) 
 
 The main authority for the heroism of Hasdrubal's 
 wife and the forebodings of Scipio is Appian (Libyc. 
 130-133) : he expressly describes himself as following 
 in his account that of Polybius, who was present. 
 The Conversation is a very long one ; this extract and 
 the following are its opening and concluding pass- 
 ages. Hardly any other two in Landor's works 
 better illustrate his feeling for the genius of Rome 
 and the genius of Greece respectively. The central 
 part of the Conversation is taken up with a discussion 
 on the causes of Hannibal's failure to achieve ulti- 
 mate victory over Rome, and with a long monologue 
 by Pansetius, relating a social experience of his 
 youth : from this are taken Selections x.xxi. and 
 .xxxii. below. 
 
 47. ix. Iinag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 475 : Works, 1846, ii. p. 346. 
 The authorities which Landor has in his mind are 
 again Appian (Iber. 95-97), and Plutarch, Mariits. 
 3. But this time he has treated them very freely. 
 The tremendous invention of the "civic fire" and 
 the famished sentinel are his own. The real his- 
 toiy of the siege, according to Appian, was that 
 after enduring every extremity of horror and priva- 
 tion, the surviving inhabitants .agreed to surren- 
 der the town to Scipio, stipulating only for a day's 
 delay, during which those who preferred death 
 to such an issue, might put an end to themselves, 
 which they accordingly did, some one way and
 
 NOTES, 359 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 some another, the remainder afterwards surrendering 
 {ot 5i TTpuTa fxef avrovs, oi [iovXo/jLevoi, dux- 
 pQfVTO : 01 XoiTToi S' e^ijecrac K.r.\.) 
 
 $2. X. Iviag. Cotiv.., iii., 1828, p. 107 : Jl'orl-s, 1876, ii. p. 420. 
 
 The historical authority whom Landor has had 
 in his mind is Suetonius, 7'zfi. 7: — " Agrippinam 
 |sc. Vipsaniam], M. Agrippa genitam . . . diixit 
 uxorem : sublatoque ex eo filio Druso, quamquani 
 bene convenientem, rursusque gravidam, diniittere, 
 ac JuHam, August! filiam, confestim coactus est 
 ducere : non sine magno angore animi, cum et 
 Agrippinae consuetudine teneretur, et JuHae mores 
 improbaret ; ut quam sensisset sui quoque sub priore 
 marito appetentem, quod sane etiam vulgo existama- 
 batur. Sed Agrippinam et abegisse post divortium 
 doluit ; ei soiiel oinnino ex occitrsii %'isaiii adco con- 
 tcntis et tiiiiientibus ociilis />rosecHtits est, ut aisto- 
 (iituiit sit lie 7inqiia}n in conspcctiini ejus posthac 
 veil i ret." 
 
 53. ,, 11. 6-14. That in K.c. 6, six years after his divorce from 
 
 Vipsania, Tiberius retired for a time into voluntary 
 exile at Rhodes, is well known. In mentioning this 
 fact Suetonius writes: — " Rhodum enavigavit, 
 amocnitate et salubritate insulae Jam iiidc caf<tiis, 
 cutn ad eain nh A riiienia rcdieiis appulissct.^' The 
 date of the Armenian expedition of 'i'iberius was 
 B.C. 20, eight years before his divorce. In putting 
 into his mouth this reminiscence of happy days spent 
 by him in youth at Rhodes, Landor is working on the 
 hint supplied by those incidental words of Suetonius. 
 
 55. ,, 1. 14. " Virtuous as I know she is." These words 
 
 seem inconsistent, not only with the notorious disso- 
 luteness into which Julia fell soon after her marriage 
 with Tiberius, but with the opinion cf her attributed 
 to him at the time of that marriage in the passage 
 we have just quoted from Suetonius. Landor, how- 
 ever, might justify himself by another passage of 
 the same writer : — " Cutn J iilia primo coitcorditcr et 
 aiiiore vtiitno vixit : mox dissedit," etc. 
 
 56. .xi. Iinag. Canv., v., 1829, p. 509 : Works, 1876, v. p. 215, 
 63. xii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 79 : Il'orks, 1876, v. p. 232. 
 
 The main fact assumed in this dialogue, the capture 
 and honourable release of the Empress Constance by 
 Tancred of Sicily, is historical, but not the details. 
 
 Among Landor's shorter dialogues are two typical 
 ones of media; val chivalry, this of Taneredi and Con- 
 stantia, and another oi John of Gaunt and Joanna 0/ 
 I\ent (Works, 1876, v. p. 199). I have with some 
 hesitation preferred to give the Sicilian dialogue rather 
 than the English, not indeed as finer, but as briefer 
 and simpler. 
 67. xiii. Intai;. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 416 : Jl'orks, 1876, iii. p. 216.
 
 360 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 Both this and no. xiv. following are extracts 
 from longer Conversations ; both are introduced 
 in order to illustrate particular strains in Lan- 
 dor's work : his strain of Oriental romance, and his 
 strain of satire against the fanatical and priestly- 
 character. The friendship between Mahomet and a 
 Nestorian monk is historical : the Byzantine and 
 Eastern writers generally call the monk Bahira or 
 Bonhiya ; theWestern writersof the Middle Age called 
 him, apparently without .any authority, Serghis ; see 
 Prideau.x, Life of Mahomet, p. 46. 
 
 71. xiv. ]Vorks, 1846, ii. p. 81 : }Vo7-ks, 1876, iii. p. 235. 
 
 The story of the capture of Fra Filippo Lippi at 
 Ancona, and his detention as a slave in Barbary, is 
 given in full by Vasari, but being unsupported by 
 other evidence, is now generally discredited. The fact 
 of the painter's friendly relations with Pope Eugenius 
 IV. is historical. Here is the passage of Vasari on 
 which Landor has founded the episode which I have 
 extracted from this Conversation: — "E trovandosi 
 nella marca d'Ancona, diportandosi un giorno con 
 certi amici suoi in una barchetta per mare, furono 
 tutti insieme dalle fuste de' Mori che per quel luoghi 
 scorrevano presi e menati in Barberia, e messo cias- 
 cuno di loro alia catena e tenuto schiavo ; dove stette 
 con molto disagioper 18 mesi. Ma perche nn giorno, 
 avendo egli molto in pratica il padrone, gli venne 
 comodita e capriccio di ritrarlo, preso un carbone 
 spento dal fuoco, con quello tutto intero lo ritrasse 
 Co' suoi abiti indosso alia moresca in muro bianco. 
 Onde essendo dagli altri schiavi detto questo al 
 padrone, perche a tutti un miracolo pareva, non 
 s'usando il disegno ne la pittura in quelle parti, cio 
 fu causa della sua liberazione della catena, dove per 
 tanto tempo era stato tenuto." 
 
 78. XV. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 7 : Works, 1876, v. p. 309. 
 
 Here again it may be interesting to compare with 
 Landor's treatment of his theme the text which doubt- 
 less suggested it to him : — "Si trovava in que' giorni a 
 Ferrara il celebre P. Francesco Panigarola . . . Egli 
 era in molta grazia del Duca e delle Principesse ; il 
 che saputosi dal Tasso, che gia avea quelche dimesti- 
 chezza con esso lui, gli scrissepregandoloche volesse 
 esergli cortese d'una sua visita ; giacche a lui sarebbe 
 stato concesso agevolmente di poter venire a vederlo 
 quando voleva. Se gli raccomandij poi, perche 
 baciasse umilissimamente le mani in suo nome a Ma- 
 dama Leonora, se fosse migliorata, facendola sapere, 
 che ere molto incresciuto del suo male che non avea 
 pianto in versi per una tacita repugnanza del suo 
 genio ; ma che se in altro potea servirla gli com- 
 mandasse, ch' era prontissimo, particolarmente in 
 cose di poesia piu liete. Non so se il Panigarola
 
 NOTES. 361 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 fosse in tempo di far questo officio ; glacche la Princi- 
 picessa in vece di migliorare ando poggiorando di 
 sorte, che alle 10 di Febbrajo del 1581 con santa 
 resignazione, e co' piii ferventi segni di Cristiana pieta 
 rese lo spirito a Dio nel quarantacinquesimo anno e 
 quelche mese dell' eta sua " (Serassi, / 'ita di TorqKato 
 Tasso, Rome, 1785). Want of space lias prevented 
 me from coupling with this admirable and touching 
 short dialogue the earlier and closely related one of 
 Tasso and his sister Cornelia (\Vorks, 1876, v. p. 269). 
 
 81. xvi. Works, 1846, !i. p. 37 : Works, 1876, v. p. 220. _ 
 
 The meeting here supposed between the virgin hero- 
 ine and the king's mistress is imagina^>^ Charles VI I. 
 seems not to have come under the influence of Agnes 
 Sorel until the victorious part of Jeanne's career was 
 over in 1431. That influence was, however, really- 
 employed to brave him to resolute action against 
 his enemies ; witness the well-known quatrain of 
 Francis I. : — 
 
 " Gentille Agnes, plus d'honneur tu me'rite 
 La cause etant de France recouvrer 
 Que ce que pent dedans un cloistre ouvrer 
 Close nonnain ou bien devot hermite." 
 
 90. xvii. Iviag. CoHV., ii., 1824, p. 275 : Works, 1876, v. p. 180. 
 Etiually of Landor's own invention is this scene 
 between Henry and Anne Boleyn after her condemna- 
 tion. His chivalrous view of the queen's character is 
 founded on that of I!urnet and the Protestant historians 
 generally. 
 
 g^. ,, 11. 13, 29. At these points I have reverted to the te.xt as 
 it stood in 1826 (jinag. Conv., ii. , 2d ed. , p. 53), omit- 
 ting the additional matter inserted Jl'oris, 1846, and 
 afterwards. 
 
 96. xviii. ///lag-. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 49 : Wor/cs, 1876, v. p. 177. 
 
 100. xi.x. Appended to R.xam. of Shakspcare, 1834, p. 234 : 
 Works, 1876, V. p. 90. 
 
 In this noble scene, Landor has worked upon the 
 bald hints of kindness shown by Esse.x to Spenser after 
 his return, which are afforded by Ben Jonson, in his 
 conversations as reported by Drummond of Haw- 
 thornden, and by Phineas Fletcher. The words of 
 Jonson as given by Drummond are: — "That the 
 Irish having rob'd .Spenser's goods, and burnt his 
 house and a little child new born, he and his wife 
 escaped ; and after, he died for lake of bread in King 
 Street, and refused 20 pieces sent to him by my Lord 
 of Esse.x, and said, he was sorrie he had no time to 
 spend them." Phineas Fletcher writes in the Fiir/>ie 
 Island, book i., stanza 20 : — 
 " And had not that great Hart (whose Imnour'd head, 
 
 Ah, lies full low) pitied thy woful plight.
 
 362 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied, 
 Unblest, nor graced with any common rite." 
 
 loi. xix. I. 5. I have ventured to omit a somewhat lengthy and 
 coarse anecdote with which Essex at this point is made 
 to keep the grave business of the dialogue waiting. 
 
 106. XX. Iinag. CoHv., iv., 1829, p. 137 : IVorks, 1876, v. p. 
 204. 
 
 In no other of Landor's dialogues does he rise to 
 such heights of feeling as in this. His clue to the cha- 
 racters and bearing of the martyred ladies he found 
 in Burnet {Hist 0/ the reign 0/ James //. ), who 
 writes of Alice, Lady Lisle : " She died with a great 
 constancy of mind ; and expressed a joy that she 
 thus suffered for an act of charity and piety ; " and of 
 Elizabeth Gaunt : " She died with a constancy, even 
 to a cheerfulness, that struck all that saw it. She 
 .said, charity was a part of her religion, as well as 
 faith ; this at most was the feeding an enemy ; so 
 she hoped she liad her reward with him, for whose 
 sake she did this service ; how unworthy soever the 
 person was, that m.ade so ill a return for it ; she re- 
 joiced that God had honoured her to be the first that 
 suffered by fire in this reign ; and that her suffering 
 was a martyrdom for that religion which was all love." 
 The two executions are spoken of on the same page 
 by Burnet ; hence, no doubt, Landor's idea of bring- 
 ing the two victims together in prison. The historical 
 fact is that Lady Lisle was condemned and executed 
 at Winchester during the Bloody Assize in the 
 summer ; Elizabeth Gaunt, whose trial took place in 
 the Old Bailey, not till several months afterwards 
 (Macaulay, Hist. 0/ England, i., 639 ff., 663 ff.). 
 
 no. xxi. I mag. Conv._, iii., 1826, p. 503 : lVor?cs, 1876, iii. p. 168. 
 The main circumstances of the flight, return, trial, 
 and death of Alexis are historical ; the particular 
 circumstances are vei-y variously told. This fierce 
 historical satire has its counterpart in another 
 Russian conversation of Landor's, that of the Empress 
 Catharine and Princess Dashkof {IVcJrks, 1876, v. p. 
 208). 
 
 iig. xxii. From Landor's early poem of GfT^/n Gc^/r, 1798, p. 3 : 
 IVorks, 1876, vii. p. 4. This passage was reprinted 
 as a separate extract by the author himself in Hel- 
 lenics, 2d ed., 1859, p. 97. 
 
 During Landor's retirement in South Wales (1795- 
 1798) his friend Rose Aylmer (see Selections cclxxii. 
 cclxxiii. cccxiv.) lent him T/te Progress 0/ Romance, 
 through Times, Countries, ami Manners, with 
 Remarks on the Good and Bad Effects of it, on 
 them res/'cctively, in a Course 0/ Evening Cmi- 
 versations. By C. R. [Clara Reeve], Author 0/ 
 The English Baron, The Two Mentors, etc. 2 vols.
 
 NOTES. 363 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 Colchester : Keynor ; and London : Robinson. 
 1785. There are few more inane books ; but 
 at the end of vol. ii. Landor found a tale which 
 justly struck him as marked by inagnifunin quid 
 sttb crepusculo antiqicitatis — viz. "The History 
 of Charoba, Queen of ./Egypt : Taken from a His- 
 tory of Ancient jEgjfpt, according to the Tradi- 
 tions of the Arabians." In her preface the author 
 states that she has borrowed this tale from The 
 History of Ancient Aigypt, according to the Tradi- 
 tions of tlie Arabians. — IVrittcn in Arabic, by the 
 Reverend Doctor Miirtadi, the son ofGaf'iphns, the 
 son of Chateiii, the son of Moiscin the Mcudcsian. 
 Translated into French by M. Vat tier, Arabic 
 Professor to Louis the i^th King of France. 
 Poetical use had already been incidentally made of 
 the tale in the History of Joscpli by Mrs. Rowe, 
 the friend of Matthew Prior. I.andor has treated 
 his materials with great freedom. The contrast be- 
 tween the characters and fates of the warlike and 
 the peaceful brethren is entirely of his own con- 
 triving. There is a shepherd in the original who 
 wrestles with a nymph, but he is no brother of 
 Gebir's. Here is the rather pretty passage of 
 Clara Reeve's te.xt upon which Landor has founded 
 his own treatment of this episode ; — " Now the 
 chief shepherd was a beautiful person, .and of a 
 goodly st.ature and aspect. One day when he had 
 committed his flocks to the other shepherds, and 
 wandered far away from them, he saw a fair young 
 lady rising out of the sea, who walked towards him 
 and saluted him graciously. — He returned her saluta- 
 tion, and she began to converse with him. — 'Young 
 man,' .said she, ' will you wrestle with me for a wager 
 that I shall lay against you?' 'What will you lay, 
 fair lady,' said the .shepherd, 'and what can I stake 
 against you?' ' If you give me a fall,' said the lady, 
 ' I will be yours, and at your disposal, ^ — and if I give 
 you a fall you shall give me a beast out of your flock.' 
 — ' I am content,' .said the shepherd, — so he went 
 towards her, and she met him, and wrestled with 
 him, and presently gave him a fall. She then took a 
 beast out of the flock, and carried it away with her 
 into the sea. 
 
 "She came every evening afterwards, and did the 
 same, until the shepherd was desperately in love with 
 her: — So the Hock was diminished, .and the shepherd 
 was pining away with love and grief. 
 
 " One day King Ccbinis, passing by the .shepherd, 
 found him sitting very pensive by his flocks : so he 
 came near and spoke to him. — 'What misfortune hath 
 befallen thee, shepherd ? why art thou so altered and 
 dejected? thy flock also diminishes, and gives less 
 milk every day?' — Upon this the shepherd took
 
 364 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 119. 
 
 124. 
 
 130. 
 
 131- 
 
 132. 
 
 132. 
 
 courage, and told the king all that had befallen him 
 by the lady of the sea." 
 
 xxii. 1. I. Thus in the extract as given in Hellenics, 1859. 
 In other eds. the line runs — 
 
 " But Gebir, when he heard of her approach." 
 ,, 11. 2-5. The white internal shell of the sepia or cuttle- 
 fish, often found on the sea-beach. 
 ,, 11. 24-31. This is the famous passage of "the shell," 
 echoed by Wordsworth in the Excursion, and by 
 Byron in the Island. See English Men 0/ Letters ; 
 Landor. p. 169-70 ; and for Landor's own Latin version 
 of the lines, which was probably earlier than the 
 English, see Poeinata et Inscriptiones, 1847, P- S^- 
 
 xxiii. From the same, book v., ad init. 
 
 This scene is of Landor's invention : the nurse 
 figures in the prose original, but without a name ; 
 Landor has transferred her to the name Dalica, 
 which in the original is that of a kinswoman of 
 Charoba's, who becomes queen after her death. 
 
 xxiv. From the same, book vii. 
 
 XXV. From Landor's early poem of Chrysaor, in Poetry by the 
 Author of Gebir, 1802, p. i : Works, 1876, vii. p. 456 
 (where the poem ought to end at p. 461, 1. 20 : what 
 follows, by an editorial oversight, belonging to a totally 
 independent piece, Regeneration). 
 
 This poem, in its main drift obscure, contains some 
 of the finest passages of blank verse in Landor's early 
 high-pitched manner. This of Neptune and the 
 nymphs, and of the overthrow of Chrysaor, is the best. 
 The only clue to any conceivable source for such a 
 myth as Landor seems to have had in his mind, I find 
 in Diodorus : — 
 
 5ia/3e/367)TO 701/3 Ka.ff 6\r]v ttjh olKov/nffTjv 
 on Xpi'ffdwp 6 Xa/3uiJ' dwo tov ttXovtov t7)v 
 rrpoatjyopiav ^aai.\ev€L fikv awdari's 'Iprjpias, 
 Tpds 5' f'x^' ''''^'' o'oifJt-druiJ' woKe/jLiKois, avvaywv- 
 iaras v'iovs, diacpepovras rah re pdifiaLS Kai rals 
 ev ToTs d-yu)cr»' dvdpa-yadiais. — Diod , iv. 156. 
 
 ,, 1. 13 ff. Under the name and figure of the nymph 
 lone, Landor here alludes, as he had previously 
 alluded in Gebir, to one Nancy Jones, the object of 
 one of the atnourettes of his Welsh days. She died 
 a few years afterwards, and Landor printed some 
 lines to her memory in Siiiwnidea, 1806, p. 14. 
 
 ,, 1. 2. Thirteen lines are here omitted as unintelligible 
 without a fuller knowledge than we possess of the 
 circumstances implied. 
 xxvi. Works, 1846, li. p. 473: Works, 1876, vii. p. 408. 
 
 This and the four next examples are from the group
 
 NOTES. 
 
 565 
 
 of classical poems called by Lander Hellenics. They 
 owed their origin to the expression by Lady Bles- 
 sington of a wish that Landor would translate into 
 English some of his Latin Idyllia Heroica. This he 
 did, and added to them other classical pieces (and 
 they are the best) written originally in English. 
 This tale of Thrasymedes (or Thrasybnlus) and the 
 daughter of Peisistratos has been expanded by Landor 
 from the brief account in Polya;nus, Stratagem, v. 14 ; 
 see also Plutarch, Apoplitltegm., Pels. 3. 
 
 135. xxvii. H'orks, 1876, ii. p. 481 : ]Fo>-ks, 1876, vii. p. 444. 
 
 In writing this delightful idyl, Landor has evidently 
 had somewhat vaguely in his mind a story to which 
 allusion is made once by Athenaius, and twice by 
 Plutarch. It was in reality a story of the colonizing, 
 not of Lemnos, but of Lesbos, and is quoted by Plu- 
 tarch from the Lesbian writer Myrsilos. The tale 
 ran, that an oracle had enjoined the founders of the 
 colony to cast a virgin alive into the sea during their 
 voyage, as an offering either to Poseidon or to Am- 
 phitrite ; that the virgin chosen (called variously 
 the daughter of Phineus and the sister of Smintheus) 
 was beloved by Enalos, or Enallos ; who plunged after 
 her into the sea, where she was cared for by the 
 Nereids, while he was employed to watch the horses 
 of Poseidon ; and that by-and-by both were restored 
 to earth, being safely brought to land at Methymne in 
 Lesbos, some said by a great wave, others by help 
 of a dolphin (Plutarch, De solert. anhii. 36, SeJ>t. 
 sap. conviv. 20 : Athenaeus, xi. 466). 
 
 140. xxviii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 478 ; Works, 1S76, vii. p. 422. 
 
 It is hardly conceivable that a poem of this perfect 
 ease and grace, this pure classical charm of imagery 
 and narrative and sentiment, should not long ago have 
 established itself, as it must surely one day do, as a 
 standard favourite with all readers of English poetry. 
 The Greek story on which it is founded was originally 
 told by a lost writer of the fifth century B.C., Charon 
 of Lampsacus. Reference is made to it Schol. Theocr. 
 iii. 14 : Schol. ApoU. Rhod. ii. 477 ; and Etym. 
 Mag. sub voce' A/jLa8pvas. In the two places last 
 cited, the outlines of the story are given in almost 
 identical terms. Rhoscus (PotATOS, Landor's l\haicos 
 is an error) finds a tree in danger of falling, and has 
 it stayed with props : the nymph of the tree appears, 
 thanks him, and asks him what she can do to repay 
 him : he entreats her love : there are obstacles, but 
 in the meantime Rhoecus agrees to avoid the society of 
 mortal women, and a bee acts as messenger between 
 him and the nymph. One day the bee interrupts him 
 when he is playing draughts ; he utters an angry ex- 
 clamation, whereat the nymph taking offence leaves 
 him desolate. In modern English poetry, Mr. Lowell
 
 366 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 has among his early works given another version of 
 the tale. 
 
 149. xxix. Hellenics, 1847, p. 45. This sequel, to my mind well 
 worthy of its predecessor, does not appear in the 
 Works of 1846. Neither did Landor (for what rea- 
 son I cannot guess) reprint it in the Hellenics of 
 1859. Hence it has unfortunately dropped out alto- 
 gether from Mr. Forster's collected edition. 
 
 153. XXX-. Works, 1S46, ii. bis: viz. p. 389, as an episodic poem in 
 Pericles and Aspasia (letterlxxxv.,CIeone to Aspasia), 
 and again p. 483, independently among the Hellenics ; 
 thence reprinted in the Hellenics of 1847 and 1859 : 
 Il'orks, 1876, once only in Pericles and Astasia, v. p. 
 384. There are several differences of reading between 
 the poems as printed in Pericles and Aspasia and in 
 the Hellenics ; in the text I have ventured to com- 
 bine what seem to me the best points of both. 
 
 153. ,, 1. 3. Hell., for veined, read slender. 
 
 153. ., 11. 7, 8. Hell., read instead. 
 
 Away, and voices like thine own come near 
 And nearer, and solicit an embrace. 
 
 153. ,, I. II. Pericl. and Aspas., for Iris stood, read Fate's 
 
 shears were. 
 
 153- ,, 1.14. //^//,y()r those now dim, r^-^rf but now dim. 
 
 153. ,, 1. 15. A'^//.,y()r watchfulness, rt-a;/ wakefulness. 
 
 153- J. 1- 19- Pericl. andAsp.,afterhers,readtheJurtkerlines: 
 
 With her that old boat incorruptible. 
 Unwearied, undiverted in its course. 
 Had plash'd the water up the farther strand. 
 
 154 xxxi. An episode from the narrative of Pansetius in the dia- 
 logue of Scipio, Panjetius, and Polybius ; see above, 
 nos. vii. and viii. 
 
 156. xxxii. From the same ; the allegory being, however, complete 
 in itself. In the description of the figure of Hope, 
 Landor has inadvertently repeated some phrases from 
 the description of truth contained in an earlier allegory 
 in the conversation of the two Ciceros (see // 'orks, 
 1876, ii. p. 401). Landor excelled in this kind of 
 composition ; for an example in which the utmost 
 depth and tenderness of human feeling is combined 
 with the most lucid grace of imagery, compare no. 
 xxxvi. below. 
 
 158. xxxiii. An episode from the Penta)neron of Boccaccio and 
 Petrarca. — Pentanicron and Pentalogia, 1837, Third 
 Day's Interview, p. 136 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 478. 
 
 165. xxxiv. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview. 
 
 167. XXXV. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview. To my mind 
 a masterpiece hardly matched in the whole range of 
 imaginative prose literature. Some of the scenery and 
 incidents of the poet's life at Naples are suggested
 
 NOTES. ' 367 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 by the confessions put by Boccaccio himself into the 
 mouth of Fiammetta in his I 'isioiie dcW aiuorosa 
 J''iaiiiiintta. 
 
 172. xxxvi. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview. Separately 
 reprinted by Landor, in Works, 1846, ii. p. 468. 
 
 172. ,, 1. 24. A page or more of the original conversation is 
 here omitted ; nearly as much was dropped by Lan- 
 dor himself in the version last referred to. 
 
 176. x.xxvii. Exam. 0/ Sliakspeare, 1834, p. 209: Works, 1876, ii. 
 p. 544. This is one of the various heads of discourse 
 which Landor makes Shakspeare quote to Sir Thomas 
 Lucy, from the mouth of Dr. Glaston, the Oxford 
 preacher ; see also no. xxxviii. at the beginning of 
 next .section. 
 
 IL-REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE. 
 
 The contents of this section consist for the most part of extracts 
 selected from Lander's longer prose writings, and especially from 
 the Imaginary Conversations, viz. — 
 
 From the Imaginary Conversatiois. 
 Aesop and Rhodope. (ist Conv.), Works, 1846, ii. p. 93 : Works, 
 
 1876, ii. p. 8. Ixxiv. 
 Alfieri and Metastasio. Wo7-ks, 1876, v. p. 127 (first published in 
 
 Eraser's Magazine, 1856). clx. clxvii. cxcvii. ccxv. 
 Alfieri and Salomon the Florentine Jew. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 
 
 257 : Works, 1876, iv. p. 265. clxv. ccxxii. ccxxxi. ccxxxi. 
 
 ccxlii. 
 Barrow and Newton. I mag. Conv., v., 1829, p- 1 : Works, 1876, 
 
 iv. p. 348. Ixviii. Ixix. Ixxxi. Ix.xxiv. cxxiii. cxxv. cxxvii. 
 
 clxxxi.x. cxc. ccxlvi. 
 Bossuet and the Duchesse de Fontanges. ^mag. Conv., iii., 1828, 
 
 p. 337 : Works, 1876, v. p. 192. Ixxxvi. cii. 
 Boulter, Archbishop and Philip Savage. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 
 
 89: Works, 1876, iii. p. 202. clxxviii. clxxix. 
 Brooke, Lord and Sir Philip Sidney. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 13 : 
 
 Works, 1876, iv. p. 3. xlvii. liii. Ivi. lix. Ixxxii. cxi. cxx. cx.xxvi. 
 
 cxxxvii. 
 Catherine, Empress and Princess Dashkof. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, 
 
 p. 231 : Works, 1876, v. p. 208. cxUi. 
 Cicero, Marcus Tullius and Quinctus. Imag. Cony., ii., 1824, p. 
 
 349 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 368. Ix. Ixxiii. Ixxvi. cxlvi. cxlvii. 
 
 ccxxxvi. 
 Chesterfield, Lord and Lord Chatham. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 
 
 291 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 141. cxciv. 
 Colonna, Vittoria and Michel Angelo. Works, 1846, ii. p. 213 : 
 
 Works, 1876, V. p. 278. liv. Ixxx. Lxxxiii. xcviil. ciii. cxii. 
 
 cxxxviii. ccxviii. ccxxxvii. 
 Dante and Beatrice. WorliS, 1846, ii. p. 152: Works, 1876, v. p. 
 
 249. xlix. 
 Delille, Abbe and Walter Landor. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 249: 
 Works, 1S76, iv. p. 91. cc. ccxiii. ccxxiv.
 
 368 • NOTES. 
 
 Demosthenes and Eubulides. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 229 : Works, 
 
 1876, ii. p. 130. Ixv. l.wi. cviii. cxxiv. cljtxi. clxxii. clxxiii. 
 
 clxxiv. cxcii. ccxliii. 
 Diogenes and Plato. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 453: IVorks, 1876, 
 
 ii. p. 64. 1. li. Ixxii. .\ci. c.xl. clx.xxvii. cl.xxxviii. 
 Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa. Imag. Conv., v. 1829, p. 153: 
 
 IVorks, 1876, ii. p. 190. Iv. Ixxi. lx.xv. Ixxxv. ci. cxiv. cxv. 
 
 cxvi. cvii. c.\'.xix. cli. clii. cxciii. 
 Galileo, Milton, and a Dominican. IVorks, 1846, ii. p. 234 : IVorks, 
 
 1876, V. p. 80. xc. cix. • 
 Johnson, Dr. and Home Tooke. (ist Conv.), Imag. Conv. ii., 1824, 
 
 cliii. ; (2d Conv.), Works, 1846, i. p. 193: Works, 1876, iv. p. 
 
 209. cviii. clviii. ccx.xiii. ccxlv. 
 Lacy, General and Cura Merino. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 67 : 
 
 Works, 1876, vi. p. 41. clx.xxiii. 
 Hare, Archdeacon and Walter Landor. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 97 : 
 
 Works, 1876, V. p. 97. cxci. ccxxv. ccxxvi. ccx.xviii. ccxxi.x. 
 
 ccxlvii. cc.xlviii. ccxli.x. 
 La Fontaine and La Rochefoucauld. Works, 1846, ii. p. 206 : Works, 
 
 1876, V. p. 53. Ixxxvii. xcvi. cxiii. cxxii. clxi. 
 Landor, English Visitor, and Florentine Visitor. Imag. Conv., iii., 
 
 1828, p. 375 : Works, 1876, vi. p. 205. clxx. ccxc. 
 Lucian and Timotheus. Works, 1846, ii. p. 17 : Works, 1876, ii. 
 
 p. 258. xcv. ccxliv. 
 LucuUus and Caesar. Imag. Conv., iv. 1829, p. 23: Works, 1876, 
 
 ii. p. 350. Ixxvii. Ixxviii. cliii. 
 Machiavelli and Guicciardini. Works, 1876, v. p. 145. clxxv. 
 Marvel, Andrew and Bishop Parker. Works, 1846, ii. p. 98 : 
 
 Works, 1876, V. p. 3. xlv. xlvi. Iviii. Ixii. Ixiii. Ixvii. xcii. cxi. 
 
 clxii. ccxii. ccxiv. ccxx. 
 Melanchthon and Calvin. Works, 1846, ii. p. 221 : Works, 1876, 
 
 V. p. 70. xxxix. xl. .xli. 
 Middleton and Magliabecchi. Imag. Conv., i., 1826, p. 483 : Works, 
 
 1876, iv. p. 132. xlviii. 
 Miguel and his Mother. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 445: Works, 
 
 1876, vi. p. 384. clxiii. clviv. 
 Milton and Marvel, li'orks, 1876, v., ist Conv., p. 150, 2d Conv., 
 
 p. 156. xliv. l.xxix. cxliii. 
 Pallavicini, Marchese and Walter Landor. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, 
 
 p. 113: IVorks, 1876, vi. p. 3. clxviii. clxix. 
 Penn, William, and Lord Peterborough. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 
 
 247 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 250. Ixi. 
 Peter Leopold, Granduke and President du Paty. Imag. Conv., 
 
 i., 1824, p. 167 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 45. xcvii. 
 PoUio, Asinius and Licinius Calvus. Works, 1876, ii. p. 433. 
 
 cxix. cxcv. 
 Romilly and Wilberforce. Works, 1S46, ii. p. 197 : IVor-ks, 1876, 
 
 iii. p. 397. xlii. 
 Scipio, Polybius, and Pansetius. Works, 1846, ii. p. 243 : Works, 
 
 1876, ii. p. 314. cxxxii. 
 Southey and Landor. Works, 1846, ii. p. 57 : Works, 1876, iv. p. 
 
 427. ccxvii. ccxxxviii. 
 Southey and Porson. Imag. Coim., i., 1824, p. 49: Works, 1876, 
 
 iv. p. 18. Ixiv. clxxxv. ccxvi. ccxxxii. ccxxxiii.
 
 NOTES. 369 
 
 Tibullus and Messala. IVorks, 1876, ii. p. 407. cxxxi. 
 Washington and Franklin. Imag. Co/n'., ii., 1824, p. 19: IVoiks, 
 1876, iii. p. 107. xliii. clxxx. 
 
 From Citation and Examination of Shakspcarc, 1S34: Works, 
 1876, ii. p. 455. xxxviii. See also no. xxxvii. 
 
 From Pericles and Aspasia, 1836 : IVorks, 1876, v. p. 5. 
 Hi. Ixxxviii. Ixxxix. xciv. xcix. cv. ex. cxxvi. cxxviii. cxxx. cx.xxiii. 
 cx.vxiv. cxxxv. c.xliv. cxlv. cxli.x. cl. cliv. clv. clvii. clix. clx.\xvi. 
 cxcviii. ccvi. ccx. ccxi. ccxxvii. See also nos. clxxvi. ccl. ccli. 
 
 From The Pentaiiieron and Pcntalogia, 1837, p. 316: IVorks, 
 1876, iii. p. 546. Ixx. cxlviii. clvi. clxvi. cxcix. ccv. ccviii. cci.x. 
 ccxxxiv. ccxxxv. ccxxxix. ccxl. ccxli. 
 
 From an article on the Poems 0/ Catieiliis : Last Fruit, 1853, 
 p. 237, originally printed in the Foreign Quarterly Review (then 
 edited by Forster^, July 1842 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 379. c. cci. ccii. 
 cciii. cciv. ccxix. ccxxi. ccxxx. ccxcii. 
 
 The remaining nos. in this section are as follows : — 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 209 xciii. Works, 1876, viii. p. 174. 
 
 212. civ. Works, 1876, viii. p. 278. cvi. Works, 1876, viii. p. 2. 
 
 218. cxxi. IVorks, 1876, viii. p. 164. The above are all examples 
 of the brief gnomic or proverbial form of verse into 
 which Landor was accustomed to throw his thoughts, 
 and often almost exactly the same thoughts as he 
 puts into the mouth of the interlocutors in his prose 
 dialogues. 
 
 224. cxxxix. From High and Lonu Life in Italy, a series of papers 
 in the form partly of correspondence and partly of 
 dialogue, contributed in 1837 to Leigh Yinnl'f, Hlontkly 
 Repository (not reprinted). 
 
 253. clxxvi. From Reflections on A ihens at the decease of Pericles, 
 
 appended to ist ed. oi Pericles and Aspasia, 1836, ii. 
 p. 297 (not reprinted). 
 
 254. clxxvii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 465 : IVorks, 1876, v. p. 584. 
 
 Written by Landor at Venice in the autumn of 1832, 
 on his way b.-ick from England to Fiesole. 
 259. clxxxi. ) Extracted from the dedication to General Mina (the 
 261. clx.xxii. ) leader of the rebellion in Spain against P'erdinand) of 
 Imag. Conv., iv. 1829. In later eds. this dedication 
 was afterwards suppressed, and portions of it, includ- 
 ing the present extracts, were distributed with modi- 
 fications among the speakers in the Conversation of 
 Odysseus, Trelawny, and Tersitza. 
 263. clxxxiv. Hellenics, 1847, ad i nit. The recreancy of Pio None 
 from the Liberal cause naturally led to the complete 
 suppression of this dedication in later eds. I have 
 inserted it here as the most highly wrought specimen 
 of Landor's manner in the majestic-declamatory vein 
 of political writing. "The ferocious animal" is, of 
 2 R
 
 37° NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 course, Russia ; the " nation which revelled in every 
 crime," France ; and the " weaker hand," that of 
 Louis Philippe. 
 300. ccl. ccli. From Letter- to an Author, appended to ist ed. of 
 Pericles and Astasia, ii. p. 322 (not reprinted). 
 
 III.— PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 To Ian'the (see English Men of Letters; Landor, p. 22). — 
 lanthe is LandorVcTassic substitute for Jane, the second name of 
 Sophia Jane Smft. To this lady Lander's somewhat roving affec- 
 tions dnring- his life at Bath (about 1800-1806) were principally de- 
 voted, and he held her in great honour and affection ever after. 
 Her first husband, a collateral descendant of the Dean of St. 
 Patrick's, died in 1812, and she soon afterwards married M. de 
 Molande, a French hiiigre of high family. After the Restoration, 
 Madame de Molande, who had children by both marriages, went to 
 live with her second husband in Paris. Being left once more a 
 widow, she spent two years (1829-31) with her children in Florence, 
 and passed the remainder of her life between England and France, 
 dying in Paris in 1851. A few further particulars concerning this 
 lady will be found in a book of curious gossiping reminiscences, 
 published anonymously by a still surviving son of her first marriage, 
 and kindly sent me by the author, viz. Willielin's IVandering^s : an 
 Autobiograpliy : London, Rivingtons, 1878. I have tried to make 
 the poems referring to her tell their own storj', by arranging them 
 in a natural sequence. The chronological order of their publication 
 (which 1 have indicated in the notes that follow) is of little help 
 towards such an attempt, inasmuch as some of the earliest written 
 were not published till long afterwards ; moreover, it is possible that of 
 the pieces included, one or two may not really refer to lanthe at all. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 303. cclii. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 289: Works, 1876, 
 
 viii. p. 6. — ccliii. IVorks, 1846, ii. p. 624 : IVorics, 
 1876, viii. p. 18. — ccliv. Djy Sticks, 1858, p. 157 : 
 Works, 1876, p. 278. — cclv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 621 : 
 Works, 1876, viii. p. 9. 
 
 304. cclvi. Gehir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 312: Works, 1876, 
 
 viii. p. 8. — cclvii Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 
 292: Works, T876, viii. p. 6. — cclviii. Works, 1846, ii. 
 p. 620 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 6. 
 
 305. ccli.v. Works, 1846, ii. p. 626 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 22. — 
 
 ccl.x. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 310 : Works, 
 1876, viii. p. 24. — cclxi. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 
 1821, p. 309: li'o}-ks, 1876, viii. p. 22. — cclxii. Gebir, 
 Co7<nt J uliafi, etc., 1831, p. 313: ll'orks, 1876, viii. 
 p. 10. 
 306 cclxiii. Sivionidea, 1806, p. 45: Works, 1876, p. 9. — cclxiv. 
 Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 314 : Works, 1876, 
 p. 24.
 
 NOTES. 371 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 307. cclxv. IVor/cs, 1846, ii. p. 650 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 90 — 
 
 clxvi. IVorks, 1846, ii. p. 650 : U'orks, 1876, viii. p. 
 88. — ccLwii. Last Fruit, 1852, p. 192 : Works, 1876, 
 viii. p. 378. 
 
 308. cclxviii. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 160 : U'orks, 1S76, viii. p. 278. — 
 
 cclxix. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 377 : U'orks, 1876, viii. 
 p. 172.— cclxx. Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 230: U'orks, 
 1876, viii. p. 338. 
 
 Invocations and Reminiscences. — The selection of poems, 
 mostly addresses to persons and places, which I have grouped under 
 tliis title, all relate to Landor's personal experiences and relations, 
 and illustrate his life as well as his art The order in which they 
 are .arranged is that, in the main, of the circumstances to which they 
 refer, .and not the chronological order of their production. 
 
 309. cclxxi. L^ast Fruit, 1853, p. 444: U'orks, 1876, viii. p. 229. 
 
 Landor was a great lover of brooks and streams; and 
 this lyric, in the irregular metre of Lycidas. was 
 written after a visit paid in old age to one which he 
 had frequented in his school-days. 
 
 310. ,, 1. 12; see note on " lanthe " above, 11. 25 ff. WiclifTe 
 
 died and was buried in Lutterworth churchyard in 
 1384. In 1415 the Council of Constance decreed that 
 his bones should be dug up and burnt : on the ex- 
 press injunction of the Pope, this order was carried 
 out in 1428, and his ashes were cast into the Swift. 
 
 311. cclxxii. Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 157 : Works, 1876, vii. p. 320. 
 
 Abertawy is the old name for Swansea ; and in the 
 coast about Swansea and Tenby, Landor in his early 
 Welsh days(i795-i798) used to roam in company with 
 his friend Rose Aylmer, the youngest daughter nf 
 Henry, fourth Baron Aylmer. She afterwards went 
 to India, and died there in 1800. (See no. cclxxiii. 
 following, and notes to nos. x.xxii. cccxiii. and cccxiv.) 
 
 312. cclxxiii. Siinoiiidca, 1806, p. 14 : U-'orks, 1876, viii. p. 270. 
 
 This is the famous little elegy written after hearing 
 of the death of Rose Aylmer in India. As first 
 printed in Siiuoitidea, 1. 4 began, "For Aylmer;" 
 1. 5, "Sweet Aylmer," and in 1. 7, for "memories," 
 stood " sorrows ;" it was in the reprint of 1831 that 
 the piece first attained its present form, and its full 
 poetical value. 
 312. cclxxiv. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 173: U'orks. 1876, viii. p. 279. 
 I have not been able to ascertain to whom these 
 beautiful lines were addressed, or at what date 
 composed. 
 
 312. cclxxv. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 317: U'orks, 1876, 
 viii. p. 40. I have given to this piece the title of 
 "Fiesolan" (instead of Faesulanl "Idyl," from a 
 copy of the poems of 1831, with MS. corrections in
 
 372 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 Landor's handwriting, p. 314 : after 1. 6 there fol- 
 lows in all the editions the lame explanatory' line, 
 (For such appear their petals when detacht) : 
 surely a disastrous bathos ; I am happy to have the 
 authority of the same corrected copy of the original 
 edition for omitting it. 
 314. cclxxvi. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 366: Works, 1S76, 
 viii. pp. 49, 315 ; 11. II ff. allude to Landor's sanguinely 
 undertaken schemes of agricultural improvement at 
 Llanthony, 1S09-14. 
 
 316. ccl.xxvii. Jl'orks, 1846, ii. p. 673: IForks, 1876, viii. p. 153. 
 This ode was addressed by Landor to the cultivated 
 man and kind friend whose name it bears, after they 
 had made a tour together in the summer of 1832 from 
 Mr. Ablett's Welsh home to the lakes, and after 
 Landor had returned again to Italy. It was first 
 printed in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, Dec. 3, 
 1834, in a form considerably varying from that which 
 it afterwards took, and mcluding some lines to Cole- 
 ridge, afterwards expunged (see English Men oj 
 Letters ; Landor, p. 143), and next in a little volume 
 called Literary Hours, by varioiis Friends, privately 
 printed by Mr. Ablett in 1837, of which a few copies 
 found their way into circulation, and which contained 
 also the two odes next following. 
 
 320. cclxxviii. ]Vorks, 1846, ii. p. 667: Works, 1876, viii. p. 136. 
 Written about the same time as the last. 
 
 322. cclxxix. Works, 1846, ii. p. 670: Works, 1876, viii. p. 146. 
 Written about the same time as the last two (in l\Ir. 
 Ablett's Literary Hours it bears the date 1833). 
 
 324. cclxxx. Il'orks, 1846, ii. p. 673 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 133. 
 Written on hearing the news of Lamb's death in 1834. 
 
 324. cclxxxi. Il'orks, 1846, ii. p. 647 : ll'orks, 1876, viii. p. 80. 
 
 Written on leaving Italy after the great quarrel with 
 Mrs. Landor in 1835. 
 
 325. cclxxxii. Pentaineron and Pcntalogia, 1837, p. 290 : Works, 
 
 1876, iv. p. 537. Written after reaching England on 
 the same occasion. The poem, in its tenor undis- 
 guisedly autobiographical, was introduced by Landor 
 into the Fifth Day's Conversation of Boccaccio and 
 Petrarca, where Boccaccio recites it as the work of 
 "a gentleman who resided long in this countrj', and 
 who much regretted the necessity of leaving it ; " 
 and Petrarca receives it with the comment, " There 
 have been those anciently who would have been 
 pleased with such poetry, and perhaps there may be 
 again." " Cincirillo " is the cat. 
 
 327. cclxxxiii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 646: ll'o>-ks, 1876, viii. p. 78. 
 
 328. cclxxxiv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 638 : H'orks, 1876, viii. p. 56. 
 
 329. cclxxxv. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 329 : IVorks, 1876, viii. p. 196.
 
 NOTES. 373 
 
 ^AGE NO. 
 
 330. cclxxxvi. Last Fruit, 1853, P- S'Q • 'ii''oyks, 1S76, viii. p. 246. 
 
 332.cclxxxvii. i?rj/ ^7/f/tj.-, 1858, p. 54: Works, 1876, viii. p. ig6. 
 
 332. cclxxxviii. Last L'ruit, 1853, p. 450 : Works, 1876, pp. 235, 
 237. 1- 3- 
 
 The _" wide garden," with its white and purple 
 Hlacs, is the garden of Gore House, Kensington, 
 where Lady Blessington and Count D'Orsay lived 
 from 1836 until the final crash of their fortunes in 
 1849, and where Landor was accustomed to stay for 
 some weeks almost every year during that interval. 
 11. 16, 18: Landor means Greenwich, where Elizabeth 
 was born, and Hampton Court, where Cromwell was 
 seized with his last illness, though he did not in fact 
 die there, but in London. 
 
 Characters and Confessions. — Under this heading I have 
 arranged what seem to me the most characteristic passages, whether 
 of prose or verse, in which Landor has passed judgment on his con- 
 temporaries or on himself. 
 
 334. cclxxxix. The Conversation of Bishop Burnet and Humphrey 
 
 Hardcastle appeai'ed first in Iinag. Com/., i. 1824, p. 
 154. This attack on Byron, clumsy in the main, but 
 containing one or two strong and eflfective strokes, was 
 written during the height of the Sa/ain'c Schoot con- 
 troversy. Southey, in his blundering Vision of J udg- 
 iiicnt, had quoted a remark on Byron from Landor's 
 Latin essay appended to the Idyllia Hcroica, pub- 
 lished at Pisa in 1820. Byron had retorted in his 
 Vision of Judgment, published also at Pisa in Leigh 
 Hunt's Journal, the Liberal: this was Landor's 
 rejoinder. 
 
 335. ccxc. Appended to the same Conversation in the next edition. 
 
 hiiag. Conv., i. 2d ed., 1826, p. 220. In later 
 editions the passage is broken up, and parts of it 
 distributed between other conversations. 
 
 This dignified palinode speaks for itself : a private 
 letter (unpublished) written by Landor to Francis 
 Hare on receipt of the news of Byron's death, 
 expresses exactly similar feelings. 
 
 337. ccxci. From the Conversation of Landor, English Visitor, and 
 
 Florentine Visitor, as it first appeared, I mag. Coni\, 
 iii. 1828, p. 376. Considerable changes were after- 
 wards made in the text. 
 
 338. ccxcii. From the same Conv., same ed. In Jf 'or,{-j, 1S46, the last 
 
 words were altered to these : — " He occupies, if not the 
 highest, almost the highest, place among our poets of 
 the present age — no humble station — and is among 
 the most elegant, graceful, and harmonious of the 
 prose writers." In Works, 1876, the passage has 
 dropped out from the Conversation altogether.
 
 374 
 
 PAGE NO 
 
 338. ccxciii. 
 
 339. ccxciv. 
 
 340. ccxcvu. 
 
 341. CCXCIX. 
 
 342. ccc. 
 
 343. ccci. 
 
 344. CCCIV. 
 
 345. cccvi, 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 From The Poems 0/ Catullus : Last Fruit, 1853, p. 
 237 : JVorks, 1876, viii. p. 379. 
 
 Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 218 : IVorks, 1876, p. 336.— 
 ccxcv. IVorks, 1846, i. p. 673: Works, 1876, viii. p. 
 152. — ccxcvi. IVorks, 1846, i. p. 673 : IVorks, 1876, 
 viii. p. 151. 
 
 Itiiag. Conzi. Greeks and Romans, 1858, ad init. — 
 ccxcviii. From footnote to Conversation of Southey 
 and Person, I mag. Con7'., i. 2d ed., 1826, p. 59. The 
 passage was broken up, and incorporated in the Con- 
 versation of Landor, Florentine Visitor, and English 
 Visitor. 
 
 From Conversation of Southey and Landor, IVorks, 
 1846 : ]Vo)-ks, 1846, ii. p. 57 : IVorks, 1876, iv. p. 427. 
 
 IVorks, 1846, ii. p. 652 : IVorks, 1876, viii. p. 95. 
 
 Last Fruit, 1853, p. 373: IVorks, 1876, viii. p. 167: 
 Last Fruit, p. 401 : IVorks, 1876, viii. p. 195/.7 
 cccii. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 401 : IVorks, 1876, viii. 
 p. 195. — ccciii. From Satire on Satirists, 1837, p. 23 
 (not reprinted). 
 
 From Preface to Dry Sticks, 1858 (not reprinted).— 
 cccv. From Conversation of Southey and Landor. 
 
 From Conversation of Archdeacon Hare and Landor. 
 — cccvii. From Letter to Lord Brougham on the 
 Neglect of Southey, in Last Fruit, 1853, p. 317 
 (not reprinted). 
 
 On the Approach of Old Age and Death. 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 346. cccix. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 433: Works, 1876, viii. p. 221. 
 
 347. cccx. Works, 1846, ii. p. 665 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 132.— 
 
 cccxi. Works, 1S46, ii. p. 674 : Works, 1S76, viii. p. 
 156. The painter here addressed is W. Fisher, whose 
 portrait of Landor, looking up in profile, may be seen 
 at the National Portrait Gallery, and has been iised, 
 along with the photograph given at the beginning of 
 Works, 1876, vol. ii., in preparing the spirited en- 
 graving which Mr. Sherbofift' tas erxecuted for our 
 title-page. The vvell-knowm portrait by Boxall gives 
 an uncharacteristic and somewhat feebly benignant 
 view of the "old lion ;" it is with intention that the 
 more combative and aggressiVe" characters^ of the 
 head have been insisted in on our own vignette. — 
 cccxii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 653 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 96. 
 
 348. cccxiii. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 372 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 166. -;- 
 
 cccxiv. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 115: Works, 1876, viii. 
 p. 288. " Rose the First" is, of course, Rose Aylmer, 
 see nos. cclxxii. cclxxvii. Thetffotfief'oniiis young 
 lady. Lady Aylmer, after the death of her firjt hus- 
 band, married a Welsh gentleman. Mr. Howel Price,
 
 NOTES. 
 
 375 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 349. CCCXV. 
 
 350. CCCXIX. 
 
 and had by him a daughter, who married Mr. D. M. 
 Paynter. The daughter of this marriage, christened 
 Rose in her turn, was Lander's "young Rose" and 
 "second Rose." By his " tenderest lay" he means 
 the lines. To a Bride, addressed to her on her 
 marriage to Mr., now Sir Charles, Sawle, in 1846 ; 
 see H'orks, 1876, viii. p. 87. "Rose the Third" is 
 the daughter of this last marri.ige, and greatgrand- 
 niece of the original Rose Aylmer. 
 
 Works, 1846, ii. p. 649: Works, 1876, viii. p. 87. — 
 cccxvi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 638 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 
 56. — cccxvii. Prefixed to Zrti^ /'V«zV, 1853. For the 
 circumstances under which the lines were first read 
 by Landor at breakfast to his friend Miss Eliza Lynn 
 (now Mrs. Lynn Linton\ see that lad^s article in 
 Eraser's Magazifie, July 1870. — cccxviii. Heroic 
 Idyls, 1863, p. 212 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 334. 
 
 Heroic Idyls, p. 96 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 30S, II. 
 6 flF. "That name" is of course lanthe : the 
 "other bards" are Byron and Shelley. Landor's 
 poems to Mrs Swift under the name of lanthe had 
 first appeared in Sijnonidca, 1806: it was in 1813 
 that the same beautiful name was used by Shelley in 
 Queen Mab (also as a real name for his infant d.augh- 
 ter), and by Byron in his dedication of Childe Harold 
 to Lady Charlotte Harley. — cccxx. Last Fruit, p. 
 383 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 178. 
 
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