ii 
 
 
 A^v. 
 
 coiTeo ^ 
 
 LONDON. ADCCCXCI.
 
 t 
 
 PLEAP«: DO NOT REMOVE 
 THIS BOOK card! 
 
 
 «-tj 
 
 ^(!/0JnV3J0'^ 
 
 University Research Library 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 TT
 
 / 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 APR .2l92t|S^MAY29l96?. 
 
 MAYS 1962 
 / INTERLIBRARY tOAUS 
 
 1 K ^Ci'^f^ Z^i-^UR WEEKS f«OM oilE Of 
 ^ iy,-»?J^^ NON-RENE WABte . [ 
 
 
 i ^P«l i97fl 
 
 /3 
 
 MAR 1 8 194f 
 
 JAN12T949 
 JUL 1 1 1949 
 
 iTl 8 1958f 
 
 -8/24
 
 CALIDORE 
 
 AND MISCELLANEA.
 
 £& 
 
 l?^XqX^mo.^! 
 
 ^ 
 
 «=sP 
 
 ^1 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 ill 1 
 
 coiieOvB/^i 
 
 RICrj/iRDSTiRNCTT. UD. 
 
 Iiovj'e,63,^ReHT €^r£RN <5t. 
 
 LONDON. ADCCCXC-l 
 
 59i4G
 

 
 
 ^ 
 
 f^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Introduction 7 
 
 Recollections of Thomas Love Peacock. By 
 
 Sir Edward Strachey, Bart. ... 15 
 
 Some Recollections of Childhood ... 24 
 
 Calidore : A Fragment of an Unfinished 
 
 Romance 32 
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry 48 
 
 Horae Dramaticae I. — III. .... 71 
 
 The Last Day of Windsor Forest . . .143 
 
 Index of First Lines of Lyrics in the Nine 
 
 Volumes i55
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 RATHER up the fragments that remain" 
 is a precept whose application may be 
 easily overstrained in the case of the 
 literary remnants of a favourite author. A much 
 smaller fraction than half is, in such instances, 
 usually better than the whole. Peacock's editor 
 and publisher, however, have agreed, and it is 
 hoped that the body of his readers will not dissent, 
 that the complete edition of his novels, which has 
 now run its course, might be fitly supplemented by 
 an appendix of minor writings, hitherto uncollected 
 or not easily accessible. Such a decision is espe- 
 cially justifiable in the case of a writer whose 
 slightest production bears the stamp of originality, 
 and this is pre-eminently the case with Peacock, 
 whose manner of presenting even a familiar idea is 
 always distinctively his own. When his robust 
 independence is associated with a congenial sub- 
 ject, the effect is very agreeable, — it is like being 
 made thoroughly at home by one who is thoroughly 
 at home himself. Peacock seldom responded to 
 the mere call of a publisher or editor, for such a 
 call was seldom addressed to him. He was neither
 
 8 Introduction. 
 
 popular enough nor needy enough to be frequently 
 diverted from his own bent, and thus exempt from 
 taskwork, he could always be fresh and vigorous. 
 His reputation, it may be hoped, will not suffer 
 from any of the pieces comprised in the present 
 volume, some of which contribute new colour and 
 substance to the biographical outline of the author, 
 while others are essential to the full exhibition of 
 his character as a man of letters. 
 
 The first of these, however, is not from Peacock's 
 own pen. It is a paper of reminiscence, for which 
 the Editor is indebted to the unsolicited kindness 
 of Sir Edward Strachey, Bart., who, sixty years ago, 
 saw something and heard more of the Peacock of 
 the India House. The elder Strachey, known to 
 the readers of Carlyle as the subject of one of his 
 ineffaceable etchings of men of marked person- 
 ality, has a place in history as one of the ablest 
 home servants of the East India Company, who, 
 but for some impatience of the official harness, 
 might probably have risen to the highest place. 
 He was on cordial terms with his colleague. Pea- 
 cock, and his son's reminiscences, as gracefully 
 written as they were gracefully tendered, contribute 
 something not only to their avowed purpose, but 
 to the record of the great City house from which 
 India was so long governed, which has not yet 
 found an historian. 
 
 "Some Recollections of Childhood," on the 
 other hand, are Peacock's own. They appeared 
 in Fenthys Miscellany^ and were reprinted as
 
 Introduction. 9 
 
 part of a short-lived series, entitled "Tales from 
 Bentley." They exhibit the writer in a very 
 amiable point of view, and afford an excellent 
 illustration of the interest with which apparent 
 trifles may be invested by one himself interested in 
 them. In literature, as in painting, Millet's canon 
 holds, that the chief thing to be considered is 
 not so much the importance of the object as the 
 genuineness of the artist's impulse. It is worthy 
 of remark that a picture, entitled " Recollections 
 of Childhood," was contributed by Peacock's old 
 associate, Jefferson Hogg, to Bulwer's Monthly 
 Chronicle, but only appeared there in part, for the 
 same reason as that which abbreviated the ballad 
 on the wise men of Gotham. " It was either too 
 good or not good enough for the public taste," 
 says Hogg, with an evident inclination to the 
 former hypothesis. 
 
 "Calidore," a fragment of an unfinished romance, 
 is the only absolute novelty from Peacock's pen in 
 this volume. Several commencements of intended 
 fictions exist in Peacock's papers; but, though 
 written with as much care and finish as though 
 they had received the author's last corrections for 
 the press, they have in no other instance proceeded 
 far enough to justify publication. They all belong 
 to the latter portion of the author's life, with the 
 exception of " Calidore," which was in all proba- 
 bility commenced shortly after the publication of 
 " Melincourt." Like that work, it is an attempt to 
 construct an elaborate fiction upon a basis only
 
 10 httroduction. 
 
 adequate to support a short story. If it had been 
 compressed within the dimensions of Paul Heyse's 
 " Centaur," a tale founded upon a similar idea, it 
 might have been a considerable success, for it 
 wants neither wit, humour, nor spirit; and the 
 dialogue is more terse and pointed than usual. 
 But the difficulty of working the conception out 
 is tacitly admitted by the great hiatus in the MS. 
 The Welsh adventures of the hero are suddenly 
 dropped, and without so much as a rough draft to 
 show how he got there, he is transferred to London, 
 where a chapter, penned with as much elaboration 
 as this singularly careful writer ever gave to any- 
 thing, conducts to nothing at all. All the rest is 
 boundless conjecture, chimcBra bombinans in vacuo. 
 What was written, however, excepting a small 
 portion which has become obscure from the 
 accidental imperfection of the MS., seems well 
 worthy of preservation. It is highly characteristic 
 of the author's enthusiasm for the past, and of the 
 alliance which he would fain have effected between 
 the classical spirit and the genius of romantic 
 medisevalism, while interesting analogies may be 
 traced between it and a more celebrated work in- 
 spired by a similar order of ideas, Heine's " Gods 
 in Exile." The picture of the habits of Welsh 
 parsons, utterly inapplicable at the present day, is 
 probably derived from Peacock's acquaintance 
 with the clergyman whom he describes in a letter 
 as "a little, dumpy, drunken, mountain goat." 
 Peacock's " Four Ages of Poetry " has long ago
 
 Tntrodtiction. 1 1 
 
 soared into immortality in the eagle grasp of the 
 rejoinder which it provoked from Shelley, even 
 though Shelley's specific references to it have been 
 omitted. It is sufficiently manifest that if the 
 author could have obtained an audience as a poet 
 he would not have sought one as a critic, and the 
 epithets whimsical and splenetic, may not seem 
 quite inappropriate. On the other hand, the 
 analysis of the birth, growth, and decay of poetry 
 is both just and sagacious, so long as it is limited 
 to a particular school or country, and it is under- 
 stood that upon a comprehensive view these 
 phenomena will ever be found simultaneous, like 
 birth and death in the human race, or incandes- 
 cence and extinction in the sidereal universe. It 
 should further be remarked that the apparently 
 illiberal treatment of the Lake Poets is far from 
 expressing the writer's real sentiments. He de- 
 lighted to gird at Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
 Southey, but he also delighted to quote them. In 
 " Gryll Grange " he eulogises their absolute truth 
 to Nature, and of Wordsworth he says, in an essay 
 reprinted in this volume, " He has deep thought, 
 graceful imaginings, great pathos, and little passion." 
 — a judgment which, save that it ignores the in- 
 estimable service performed by the regeneration 
 of poetic diction, may satisfy any but an ultra- 
 Wordsworthian, 
 
 In " Horae Dramaticae," Peacock appears at his 
 best as a critic. The themes are worth the labour, 
 admitting of the eliciting of positive results, and
 
 1 2 Introduction. 
 
 the reader lays the essays down with a conscious- 
 ness of distinct intellectual gain. Three ancient 
 dramas, one corrupt, one grievously mutilated, one 
 merely fragmentary, have been restored as perfectly 
 as circumstances permitted, a substantial conquest 
 from " the realm of Chaos and old Night." 
 
 " The Last Day of Windsor Forest " forms a 
 fitting conclusion to Peacock's writings, an old 
 man's reminiscence of an episode memorable in 
 the history of a place where much of his life had 
 been passed, and which, after his favourite river, 
 he loved better than any spot in the world. It 
 is also in all probability his last composition. 
 Written, as would seem, for Fraser's Magazine, it 
 was never sent there, and was first published by the 
 present writer in the National Review for August 
 1887. 
 
 Several others of Peacock's miscellaneous 
 articles would have borne reprinting, had the 
 dimensions of this volume allowed, and two, which 
 ought to be included in any future edition of his 
 writings pretending to completeness, are sufficiently 
 remarkable to demand a brief notice here. The 
 review of Moore's " Epicurean " in the Westminster 
 Review iox Oq.\.o\)QX 1827, is really memorable. Pea- 
 cock was not in general a very formidable assailant 
 of the men or opinions he disliked, but was for once 
 so thoroughly exasperated by Moore's caricature of 
 his favourite philosophy, " drawing a portrait of 
 everything that an eminent Epicurean was not, and 
 presenting it to us as a fair specimen of what he
 
 Introduction. 1 3 
 
 was," and so well qualified by his own peculiar 
 range of knowledge to effect and enjoy the exposure 
 of Moore's misapprehensions as well as his misre- 
 presentations, that he has for once achieved a 
 criticism which may fairly be termed annihilating. 
 He cannot, indeed, distil the corrosive acid of 
 Carlyle, or unchain the overwhelming torrent of 
 Macaulay ; his indictment is cumulative ; he re- 
 turns to the charge again and again ; and, if some- 
 what tardy in producing the desired effect, leaves 
 his opponent at last riddled through and through 
 with' sarcasms. The following may serve as an 
 example. Moore says : 
 
 Among solitary columns and sphinxes, already half sunk 
 from sight, Time seemed to stand waiting, till all that now 
 flourished around should fall beneath his desolating hand 
 like the rest. 
 
 Peacock comments : — 
 
 The sands of the Libyan desert gaining on Memphis like 
 a sea is an impressive though not original image, but the 
 picture is altogether spoiled by the figure of Time standing 
 waiting. Has Mr Moore forgotten that time and tide wait 
 neither for men nor sands ? The very essence of the idea of 
 Time is steady, incessant, interminable progression. If he 
 has any business in the place, it is as an agent, himself silently 
 impelling the progress of desolation, not waiting till the sands 
 have done their work, in order to begin his. And as Mem- 
 phis was still a flourishing city at least four centuries later 
 than our very curious specimen of an Epicurean, Time must 
 have stood waiting for no inconsiderable portion of himself. 
 
 This may be a convenient place for recording 
 that Peacock was the writer of two letters, signed
 
 14 Introduction. 
 
 "Phihtmos," in the Times of November 3 and 
 November 7, 1838, on the unsuccessful attempt 
 of the Sejnira7jiis in the previous July to steam 
 against the monsoon from Bombay to Suez, which 
 prove that any opposition on his part to the Red 
 Sea route for the Indian mails was by no means 
 due to any doubt of its practicability for steam- 
 ships. There are probably other unacknowledged 
 communications of his on the same subject.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 By Sir Edward Strachey, Bart. 
 
 fN the Examiner's Office at the India House 
 in Leadenhall Street, were drafted the 
 despatches of the Court of Directors of 
 the East India Company relating to the adminis- 
 tration of Justice, Revenue, and Public Works in 
 India. In 1819 this Office was reorganised, with 
 a view to its greater efficiency, and three new men 
 —Edward Strachey (my father), James Mill, and 
 Thomas Love Peacock were introduced with the 
 title of " Assistants," to be employed in writing the 
 despatches in the above-mentioned departments 
 respectively. They were thus brought into a 
 familiar intercourse, which, between my father and 
 Peacock, became a lasting friendship. My personal 
 recollections of Peacock do not go further back 
 than about 1827, but they were aftenvards supple- 
 mented by those of my mother, and of my cousin, 
 the late Mrs Phillipps, known as Miss Kirkpatrick 
 to all readers of Thomas Carlyle's hfe. I remember
 
 1 6 Recollections of 
 
 Peacock in my father's room in the India House, 
 and when he occasionally came to dine and sleep 
 at our house at Shooter's Hill, as a kindly, genial, 
 laughter-loving man, rather fond of good eating 
 and drinking, or at least of talking as if he were so, 
 for I remember no other actual proof of this than 
 his saying, when asked if he would have some 
 cherry pie, "That is one of my heresies," meaning 
 that he ate it, though he knew it to be unwhole- 
 some ; and it is possible that my recollections may 
 be largely coloured by my familiarity with his 
 descriptions of eating and drinking in the hospit- 
 able houses in his several novels. On the other 
 hand, he practised as a young man, what his hero, 
 Mr Forester in "Melincourt," preached, and gave up 
 sugar as a protest against negro slavery. This my 
 mother told me, my father having, I suppose, heard 
 it from Peacock himself. She also told me that my 
 father and one or two other friends were spending 
 Saturday and Sunday with Peacock at his cottage 
 when his little daughter died in 1826. The child 
 was thought to be getting better, and Peacock 
 went out in high spirits for a walk with his friends. 
 When they carne back he was told that the child 
 was dead. His grief was great, and he said to my 
 father that there were times when the world could 
 not be made fun of. I remember my father bring- 
 ing back one day the lines beginning " Long night 
 succeeds thy little day," of which Peacock had 
 just given him a copy, and which were put on the 
 child's gravestone, as told by his grand-daughter.
 
 Thomas Love Peacock. 17 
 
 James Mill, like Peacock, had his country walks 
 with his friends. Mrs Phillipps says, " James Mill 
 ordered one fine Sunday a beef-steak for dinner, 
 taking his ease at his inn, though not quite a Fal- 
 staff. The followers objected to the beef-steak 
 because it was very tough, and not otherwise 
 pleasant food. Mill said it was tender and good, 
 etc., because it was so and so, and therefore must 
 be tender." Peacock said, " Yes ; but, as usual, 
 all the reason is on your side, and all the proof on 
 mine." And again — Coulson, Editor of the Globe 
 and Traveller, said to Peacock, " When I know 
 Mill well, shall I like him — will he like what I like 
 and hate what I hate ? " " No," says Peacock, 
 " he will hate what you hate, and hate everything 
 you like." But this was too severe. For Coulson, 
 a friend of Charles Buller and of Frederick Maurice, 
 as well as of Peacock, could hardly have formed 
 the friendship which Professor Bain tells us existed 
 between him and Mill, on a common hatred only. 
 Mill was always kind to me when I saw him in my 
 fath-er's room, yet the impression left on my mind 
 at the end of sixty years — an impression no doubt 
 made by what I was told as well as by what I saw 
 and heard — is a contrast to Peacock's place in 
 my memory as a warm-hearted, genial man, indul- 
 gent to himself, but not less indulgent to others. 
 It was from an unwillingness to show hospitality to 
 Mill that Peacock refrained from publishing the 
 volume of "Paper Money Lyrics," single pieces of 
 which, by degrees, appeared in the Globe, and else- 
 
 B
 
 1 8 Recollections of 
 
 where, but of which I remember the MS. copy long 
 before. Though his humourous dishke of paper 
 money and poUtical economists appears in his 
 earUer novels, it was no doubt much intensified 
 by his intercourse with Mill. He one day came 
 to my father's room, and said, with mock indigna- 
 tion, " I will never dine with Mill again, for he 
 asks me to meet only political economists. I dined 
 with him last night, when he had Mushet and 
 MacCulloch, and after dinner, Mushet took a 
 paper out of his pocket, and began to read : ' In 
 the infancy of society, when Government was in- 
 vented to save a percentage — say, of 3^ per cent.' 
 — on which he was stopped by MacCulloch with, 
 ' I will say no such thing,' meaning that this was 
 not the proper percentage." Two or three years 
 later, the story was told in " Crotchet Castle " in 
 the way the reader knows. Peacock was pleased 
 when he was told that a boy's simplicity had 
 vainly tried to make out which of his characters 
 represented his own opinions, saying : " That is 
 just as it should be." But my father told me he 
 thought that Peacock really considered the state of 
 society when men wore armour and had no paper 
 money, was better than our own. But he used to 
 quote, with approval, the classical saying that the 
 world was flebile litdibriian, and he probably cared 
 less for the relative merits of different periods 
 of history, than for the suitableness of each for 
 sujjplying the materials for fun and laughter. He 
 satirised the vices and follies of men as a fun-loving
 
 Thomas Love Peacock. 19 
 
 caricaturist more than as a Juvenal or a Butler, 
 though the sterner mood is not always absent ; and 
 his caricatures of Shelley, Byron, Southey, Words- 
 worth, Coleridge, and the editors of the Quarterly 
 and Edinburgh Reviews provoke our laughter by 
 the ridiculous want of resemblance to their originals. 
 He scoffed impartially at the two great party 
 Reviews, and once he said to my father, as they 
 passed a man with a package of Edinburgh Reviews^ 
 " There goes a lot of lies and bad grammar," with 
 as much pleasure as if he had been the editor of 
 the Legitimate Review, to whom he has introduced 
 us in " Melincourt." 
 
 Peacock loved Latin and Greek, Italian and 
 French literature, as well as that of England. 
 There is a story of his familiarity with French, and 
 his ready wit (reminding us of a somewhat simi- 
 lar story of Sheridan), how he recited, in discus- 
 sing with a Frenchman the tragic dignity of Racine, 
 several lines, beginning with " Madame preparez 
 votre mouchoir;" and the unsuspecting hearer 
 could only reply — "Ah, sir, you have taken the 
 very worst verses in all Racine." In his " Mis- 
 fortunes of Elphin," he gave the Welsh legends 
 with careful accuracy. I heard him say that he 
 had great difficulty in getting at the true story of 
 Taliesin's birth, as more than one learned authority 
 had concealed his own ignorance on the matter by 
 saying that the story was too long to be told then ; 
 and he was proud of the fact that Welsh archaeo- 
 logists treated his book as a serious and valuable
 
 20 Recollections of 
 
 addition to Welsh history. His familiar love of 
 Latin and Greek is known to all his readers. Many 
 a scholar must have found a new pleasure in his 
 out-of-the-way quotations and allusions, and in the 
 skilful humour of his Greek etymologies of English 
 names, and especially for those of the three philo- 
 sophers in " Headlong Hall," than which nothing 
 could be happier. Like other men who have never 
 been at Oxford or Cambridge, he would speak dis- 
 paragingly of the learning of those Universities, and 
 avowed his opinion of the superiority of the Germans 
 in classical studies. But though he recommended 
 me a German commentary on Greek metres as 
 better than those of any English critic, he put 
 Maltby's Lexicon as one of the three Greek 
 Lexicons which, he told my father, were indis- 
 pensable for me, the other two being Hedericus 
 and Scapula, and he finally himself selected for 
 me a copy of the London edition of Scapula, 
 edited in 1820 by the English scholars Bailey 
 and Major. It was pardonable if there was a 
 little mixture of vanity in Peacock's assertion 
 that the Dionysiaca of Nonnus was the finest poem 
 in the world after the Iliad, since very i^tw but 
 himself had the knowledge of the former which 
 could qualify them for deciding or discussing the 
 question on its merits. The highly-polished verse 
 of the Panopolitan poet would have greater charms 
 for a man of Peacock's generation than for our own, 
 and the two specimens which he gives as mottoes 
 to chapters viii. and x. of the " Misfortunes of
 
 Thomas Love Peacock. 2 1 
 
 Elphin " can hardly be praised too much for their 
 grace and beauty. I may be forgiven if, in my 
 eightieth year, I look back to the day when Peacock 
 sent, through my father, the verses which make me 
 fond of these mottoes,* to the schoolboy in whose 
 studies he took so kind an interest. 
 
 Peacock's literary style was elaborately polished, 
 and he disliked writing letters, lest he should fall 
 into any fault in hasty composition. His official 
 despatches were described by my father as " neat 
 and exact, characteristic of the man." Whether 
 " the Chairs " in Leadenhall Street or the Board 
 of Control found any wit or humour in them I 
 know not : but I recall Peacock's account of his 
 having gone one day to see a director of the Com- 
 pany sell tea. He found the great merchant prince 
 sitting at a table in a room, round which were a 
 number of tea brokers in a state of fury, each 
 brandishing a huge ledger, and occasionally shout- 
 ing out, " A halfpenny." The monopoly of tea, of 
 
 * AXXd TeoiS TToKa.iJ.rjcn iJ.axrilJ-ova dvpaov dtipwf, 
 AlOepos d^ia pe^ov' eVei A(6s diJ.(ipoTos avXij 
 06 ae irovuv dtrdvevde dede^erai' ovde aoi ^QpaL 
 M^TTO) ae6\evaavTi Tri'Xaj ireTciawcnv 'OXv/jlttov. 
 
 Grasp the bold thyrsus ; seek the field's array ; 
 And do things worthy of ethereal day : 
 Not without toil to earthborn man befalls 
 To tread the floors of Jove's immortal halls : 
 Never to him, who not by deeds has striven, 
 Will the bright Hours roll back the gates of heaven. 
 Iris to Bacchus, in the \ith Book of the 
 
 DiONYSIACA OF NONNUS.
 
 22 Recollectio7is of 
 
 which the lowest price was eight shilHngs a pound, 
 gave the East India Company a revenue sufificient 
 to pay the whole of the home expenses of the Com- 
 pany, including the interest on their stock, and also 
 to pay a like sum into the British treasury. 
 
 If, in conclusion, I may supplement these im- 
 perfect memories and family traditions from the 
 sources of Peacock's books and the memoirs of 
 his grand-daughter, I should say that he was a 
 kind-hearted, genial, friendly man, who loved to 
 share his enjoyment of life with all around him ; 
 and he was self-indulgent without being selfish. 
 His ideals of life were noble and generous, and in 
 " Melincourt " they temper with seriousness, even 
 sadness, the boyish love of fun and caricature which 
 never fail him. And if we see in " The Misfortunes 
 of Elphin " and " Crotchet Castle " increased in- 
 tellectual power accompanied by a more worldly 
 tone of thought, the natural consequence of pros- 
 perous enjoyment of life as he found it, it is pleasant 
 to recognise signs in " Gryll Grange," the child of 
 his old age, a softer and better morality than that 
 which characterises the two last-named books. 
 
 I have written down these reminiscences of 
 Thomas Love Peacock honestly : but I do not ask 
 the reader to accept them as absolutely true. A 
 good memory implies a sufficient activity of imagi- 
 nation to form our original impressions of a person 
 or an event into a distinct picture. And then we 
 keep that picture clear and living in our mind's 
 eye by retouching it from time to time by what we
 
 Thomas Love Peacock. 23 
 
 suppose to be memory, but which is often, in great 
 part at least, imagination. And so, year after year, 
 we recollect our last recollections, and not the 
 original thing itself, or even its first image. The 
 process is unconscious, but we occasionally discover 
 its reality when we come across some contemporary 
 or otherwise independent record, and find how 
 much is different from our own. The proper title 
 of a biography, whether of oneself or of another, will 
 probably always be " Dichtung und Wahrheit," if 
 we translate it " Truth and Fiction," and not 
 necessarily " Poetry and Truth." 
 
 Edward Strachey.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 By the Author of " Headlong Hall." 
 
 The Abbey House. 
 
 PASSED many of my early days in a 
 country town, on whose immediate out- 
 skirts stood an ancient mansion, bearing 
 the name of the Abbey House. This mansion has 
 long since vanished from the face of the earth ; but 
 many of my pleasantest youthful recollections are 
 associated with it, and in my mind's eye I still see 
 it as it stood, with its amiable, simple-mannered, 
 old English inhabitants. 
 
 The house derived its name from standing near, 
 though not actually on, the site of one of those rich 
 old abbeys, whose demesnes the pure devotion of 
 Henry the Eighth transferred from their former 
 occupants (who foolishly imagined they had a right 
 to them, though they lacked the might which is its 
 essence) to the members of his convenient Parlia- 
 mentary chorus, who helped him to run down his 
 Scotch octave of wives. Of the abbey itself a
 
 Some Recollections of ChildJiood. 2 5 
 
 very small portion remained : a gateway, a piece of 
 a wall which formed part of the enclosure of an 
 orchard, wherein a curious series of fish ponds, 
 connected by sluices, was fed from a contiguous 
 stream with a perpetual circulation of fresh water, 
 a sort of piscatorial panopticon, where all approved 
 varieties of fresh-water fish had been classified, 
 each in its own pond, and kept in good order, 
 clean and fat, for the mortification of the flesh of 
 the monastic brotherhood on fast days. 
 
 The road which led to the Abbey House termi- 
 nated, as a carriage road with the house itself. 
 Beyond it, a footpath over meadows conducted 
 across a ferry to a village about a mile distant. 
 A large clump of old walnut trees stood on the 
 opposite side of the road to a pair of massy iron 
 gates, which gave entrance to a circular gravel 
 road, encompassing a large smooth lawn, with a 
 sun-dial in the centre, and bordered on both sides 
 with tall, thick evergreens and flowering shrubs, 
 interspersed in the seasons with hollyhocks, sun- 
 flowers, and other gigantic blossoms, such as are 
 splendid in distances. Within, immediately 
 opposite the gates, a broad flight of stone steps 
 led to a ponderous portal, and to a large antique 
 hall, laid with a chequered pavement of black and 
 white marble. On the left side of the entrance 
 was the porter's chair, consisting of a cushioned 
 seat, occupying the depth of a capacious recess, re- 
 sembling a niche for a full-sized statue, a well- 
 stuffed body of black leather glittering with gold-
 
 26 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 headed nails. On the right of this hall was the 
 great staircase ; on the left, a passage to a wing 
 appropriated to the domestics. 
 
 Facing the portal, a door opened into an inner 
 hall, in the centre of which was a billiard table. 
 On the right of this hall was a library ; on the left 
 a parlour, which was the common sitting-room ; 
 and facing the middle was a glazed door, opening 
 on the broad flight of stone steps which led into 
 the gardens. 
 
 The gardens were in the old style : a large, 
 square lawn occupied an ample space in the 
 centre, separated by broad walks from belts of 
 trees and shrubs on each side ; and in front 
 were two advancing groves, with a long, wide 
 vista between them, looking to the open country, 
 from which the grounds were separated by a ter- 
 raced wall over a deep, sunken dyke. One of the 
 groves we called the Green Grove and the other 
 the Dark Grove. The first had a pleasant glade, 
 with sloping banks covered with flowery turf ; the 
 other was a mass of trees, too closely canopied with 
 foliage for grass to grow beneath them. 
 
 The family consisted of a gentleman and his 
 wife, with two daughters and a son. The eldest 
 daughter was on the confines of womanhood ; the 
 youngest was little more than a child ; the son was 
 between them. I do not know his exact age, but 
 I was seven or eight, and he was two or three years 
 more. 
 
 The family lived, from taste, in a very retired
 
 Some Recollections of ChildJiood. 27 
 
 manner ; but to the few whom they received they 
 were eminently hospitable. I was, perhaps, the 
 foremost among these few, for Charles, who was my 
 schoolfellow, was never happy in our holidays unless 
 I was with him. A frequent guest was an elderly 
 male relation, much respected by the family, but 
 no favourite of Charles, over whom he was dis- 
 posed to assume greater authority than Charles 
 was willing to acknowledge. 
 
 The mother and daughter had all the solid 
 qualities which were considered female virtues in 
 the dark ages. Our enlightened age has, wisely, no 
 doubt, discarded many of them, and substituted 
 show for solidity. The dark ages preferred the 
 natural blossom, and the fruit that follows it ; the 
 enlightened age prefers the artificial double-blossom, 
 which falls and leaves nothing. But the double- 
 blossom is brilliant while it lasts ; and where there 
 is much light there ought to be something to glitter 
 in it. 
 
 These ladies had the faculty of staying at home ; 
 and this was a principle among the antique faculties 
 that upheld the rural mansions of the middling 
 gentry. Ask Brighton, Cheltenham, et id genus 
 o?nne, what has become of that faculty. And ask 
 the plough -share what has become of the rural 
 mansions. 
 
 They never, I think, went out of their own 
 grounds but to church, or to take their regular daily 
 airing in the old family carriage. The young lady 
 was an adept in preserving : she had one room, in
 
 28 CalidorCy and Miscellatiea. 
 
 the corner of the hall, between the front and the 
 great staircase, entirely surrounded with shelves in 
 compartments stowed with classified sweetmeats, 
 jellies, and preserved fruits, the work of her own 
 sweet hands. These were distinguished ornaments 
 of the supper-table ; for the family dined early, and 
 maintained the old fashion of supper. A child 
 would not easily forget the bountiful and beautiful 
 array of fruits, natural and preserved, and the 
 ample variety of preparations of milk, cream, and 
 custard, by which they were accompanied. The 
 supper-table had matter for all tastes. I remember 
 what was most to mine. 
 
 The young lady performed on the harpsichord. 
 Over what a gulf of time this name alone looks 
 back ! What a stride from the harpsichord to one 
 of Broadwood's last grand pianos ! And yet with 
 what pleasure, as I stood by the corner of the in- 
 strument, I listened to it, or rather, to her ! I 
 would give much to know that the worldly lot of 
 this gentle and amiable creature had been a happy 
 one. She often gently remonstrated with me for 
 putting her harpsichord out of tune by playing the 
 bells upon it ; but I was never in a serious scrape 
 with her, except once. I had insisted on taking 
 from the nursery maid the handle of the little girl's 
 garden carriage, with which I set off at full speed, 
 and had not run many yards before I overturned 
 the carriage, and rolled out the little girl. The 
 child cried like AHce Fell, and would not be 
 pacified. Luckily she ran to her sister, who let
 
 Some Recollections of Childhood. 29 
 
 me off with an admonition, and the exaction of a 
 promise never to meddle again with the child's 
 carriage. 
 
 Charles was fond of romances. The " Mysteries 
 of Udolpho," and all the ghost and gobHn stories 
 of the day, were his familiar reading. I cared little 
 about them at that time; but he amused me by 
 relating their grimmest passages. He was very 
 anxious that the Abbey House should be haunted, 
 but it had no strange sights or sounds, and no 
 plausible tradition to hang a ghost on. I had 
 very nearly accommodated him with what he 
 wanted. 
 
 The garden-front of the house was covered with 
 jasmine, and it was a pure delight to stand in the 
 summer twilight on the top of the stone steps in- 
 haling the fragrance of the multitudinous blossoms. 
 One evening, as I was standing on these steps 
 alone, I saw something Hke the white head-dress 
 of a tall figure advancing from the right-hand 
 grove, — the Dark Grove as we called it — and, after 
 a brief interval, recede. This, at anyrate, looked 
 awful. Presently it appeared again, and again 
 vanished. On which I jumped to my conclusion, 
 and flew into the parlour with the announcement 
 that there was a ghost in the Dark Grove. The 
 whole family sallied forth to see the phenomenon. 
 The appearances and disappearances continued. 
 All conjectured what it could be, but none could 
 divine. In a minute or two all the servants were 
 in the hall. They all tried their skill, and were
 
 30 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 all equally unable to solve the riddle. At last, the 
 master of the house leading the way, we marched 
 in a body to the spot, and unravelled the mystery. 
 It was a large bunch of flowers on the top of a tall 
 lily, waving in the wind at the edge of the grove, 
 and disappearing at intervals behind the stem of a 
 tree. My ghost, and the compact phalanx in which 
 we saUied against it, were long the subject of 
 merriment. It was a cruel disappointment to 
 Charles, who was obliged to abandon all hopes of 
 having the house haunted. 
 
 One day Charles was in disgrace with his elder 
 relation, who had exerted sufficient authority to 
 make him a captive in his chamber. He was pro- 
 hibited from seeing any one but me; and, of 
 course, a most urgent messenger was sent to me 
 express. I found him in his chamber, sitting by 
 the fire, with a pile of ghostly tales, and an accu- 
 mulation of lead, which he was casting into dumps 
 in a mould. Dumps, the inexperienced reader 
 must know, are flat circles of lead — a sort of petty 
 quoits — with which schoolboys amused themselves 
 half a century ago, and perhaps do still, unless the 
 march of mind has marched off with such vanities. 
 No doubt, in the "astounding progress of intellect," 
 the time will arrive when boys will play at philo- 
 sophers instead of playing at soldiers — will fight 
 with wooden arguments instead of wooden swords 
 — and pitch leaden syllogisms instead of leaden 
 dumps. Charles was before the dawn of this new 
 light. He had cast several hundred dumps, and
 
 Sojue Recollections of Childhood. 3 1 
 
 was still at work. The quibble did not occur to me 
 at the time ; but, in after years, I never heard of a 
 man in the dumps without thinking of my school- 
 fellow. His position was sufficiently melancholy. 
 His chamber was at the end of a long corridor. 
 He was determined not to make any submission, 
 and his captivity was Hkely to last till the end of 
 his holidays. Ghost stories, and lead for dumps, 
 were his stores and provisions, for standing the 
 siege of ennui. I think, with the aid of his sister, 
 I had some share in making his peace ; but such 
 \z the association of ideas, that, when I first read in 
 Lord Byron's Don Juan, 
 
 " I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
 And that's the reason I'm so melancholy ; " 
 
 the lines immediately conjured up the image of 
 poor Charles in the midst of his dumps and 
 spectres at the end of his own long gallery.
 
 CALIDORE: A FRAGMENT OF 
 A ROMANCE. [1816?] 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the great improve- 
 ments of machinery in this rapidly im- 
 proving age, which is so much wiser, 
 better, and happier than all that went before it, 
 every gentleman is not yet accommodated with the 
 convenience of a pocket boat. We may therefore 
 readily imagine that Miss Ap-Nanny and her sister 
 Ellen, the daughters of the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd, 
 were not a Httle astonished in a Sunday evening 
 walk on the sea shore, when a little skiff, which, by 
 the rapidity of its motion had attracted their atten- 
 tion while but a speck upon the waves, ran upon the 
 beach, from which emerged a very handsome young 
 gentleman, dressed not exactly in the newest 
 fashion, who, after taking down the sail and hauling 
 up the boat upon the beach, carefully folded it up 
 in the size of a prayer-book and transferred it to 
 his pocket. He did not notice the young ladies 
 till he had completed this operation, and when he
 
 Calidore. A Fragment of a Romance, 3 3 
 
 looked round and discovered them he seemed a 
 little confused, but made them a very courteous 
 bow in a fine but rather singular style of ancient 
 politeness. From the moment of his first landing, 
 and the commencement of the curious process of 
 folding up his boat, Miss Ap-Nanny had been 
 dying with curiosity, and had consulted her sister 
 Ellen as to the propriety of addressing the stranger, 
 having, however, fully made up her mind before- 
 hand as usual with young ladies when they ask 
 advice. 
 
 The inn was filled with picturesque tourists who 
 had arrived in various vehicles by the help of those 
 noble quadrupeds who confer so much dignity on 
 the insignificant biped, that if he venture to travel 
 without them and rest his reception on his own 
 merits the difference of his welcome may serve to 
 show him how much more of his imaginary im- 
 portance belongs to his horse than to himself. Our 
 traveller arriving alone and on foot was received 
 with half a courtesy by the landlady, and shown 
 into the common parlour where the incipient cold 
 of the autumnal evening was dispelled by an im- 
 mense turf fire, by which were sitting two elderly 
 gentlemen of the clerical profession, recumbent in 
 arm chairs, with their eyes half shut, and their legs 
 stretched out so that the points of their shoes came 
 in contact at the centre of the fender. Each 
 was smoking his pipe with contemplative gravity. 
 Neither spoke nor moved, except now and then as 
 
 C
 
 34 Calidorc : 
 
 if by mechanism, to fill his glass from the jug of 
 ale that stood between them on the table, and the 
 moment this good example was set by one the 
 other followed it instantaneously and automatically 
 as the two figures at St Dunstan's strike upon the 
 bell to the great delight of Cockneys, amazement 
 of rustics, and consolation of pickpockets. The 
 stranger made several attempts to draw them into 
 conversation, but could not succeed in extracting 
 more than a " hum " from either of them. At length 
 one of the reverend gentlemen, having buzzed the 
 jug, articulated, with slow and minute emphasis : 
 " Will you join in another jug ? " " Hum ! " said 
 the other. A violent rattling of copper ensued in 
 their respective coat pockets ; two equal quantities 
 of half-pence were deliberately counted down upon 
 the table ; the bell was rung, and the little, round, 
 Welsh waiting-maid carried out the money, and 
 replenished the jug in silence. They went on as 
 before till the liquor was exhausted, when it be- 
 came the other's turn to ask the question, and the 
 same eventful words, "Will you join in another 
 jug?" were repeated, with the same ceremonies and 
 the same results. Our traveller, in the meanwhile, 
 looked over his tablets of instruction. These two 
 reverend gentlemen were the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd 
 and the Rector of Bwlchpenbach. The rector per- 
 formed afternoon service at a chapel twenty miles 
 from his rectory, and Llanglasrhyd lying half-way 
 between them, he slept every Sunday night under 
 the roof of Gwyneth Owen, where his dearest friend,
 
 A Fragment of a Romance. 35 
 
 the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd, met him to smoke away 
 the evening. They had thus passed together every 
 Sunday evening for forty years, and during the 
 whole period had scarcely said ten words to each 
 other beyond the usual forms of meeting and part- 
 ing, and " Will you join in another jug?" Yet were 
 their meetings so interwoven with their habitual 
 comforts that either would have regarded the loss 
 of the other as the greatest earthly misfortune that 
 could have befallen him, and would never, perhaps, 
 have mustered sufticient firmness of voice to address 
 the same question, "Will you join in another jug?" 
 to any other human being. It may seem singular 
 to those who have heard the extensive form of 
 Welsh hospitality that the vicar did not invite the 
 rector to pass these evenings at his vicarage; but it 
 must be remembered that the Rector of Bwlchpen- 
 bach was every week at Llanglasrhyd in the way of his 
 business, and that the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd had no 
 business whatever to take him on any single occasion 
 to Bwlchpenbach ; therefore the balance of the con- 
 sumption of ale would have been entirely against the 
 vicar, and as they regularly drank three quarts each 
 at a sitting, or one hundred and fifty-six quarts in a 
 year, the Rector of Bwlchpenbach would have con- 
 sumed in forty years six thousand two hundred and 
 forty quarts of ale, without equivalent or compensa- 
 tion, at the expense of the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd, a 
 circumstance not to be thought of without vexation 
 of spirit. 
 
 Our traveller folded up his tablets, rung the bell,
 
 36 Calidore : 
 
 and inquired what he could have for supper, and 
 what wine was to be had ? The landlady entered 
 with a tempting list of articles, and enumerated 
 several names of wine. The stranger seemed per- 
 plexed, and at length said he would have them all, 
 for he liked to see a well -covered table, having 
 always been used to one. The landlady dropped 
 a double courtesy, and the reverend gentlemen 
 dropped their pipes ; the pipes broke, and the 
 odorous embers were scattered on the hearth. 
 
 When the supper smoked, and the wine sparkled 
 on the table, the stranger pressed the reverend 
 gentlemen to join him. They did not indeed 
 require much pressing, and assisted with great 
 industry in the demolition of his abundant banquet : 
 but still not a syllable could he extract from either 
 of them except that the Vicar of Llanglasrhyd, 
 when his heart was warmed with Madeira, invited 
 the rector and the young stranger to breakfast with 
 him the next morning at the vicarage, which the 
 latter joyfully accepted, as he very well by this time 
 understood that his lively and jovial companion 
 was the father of the beautiful creature who had 
 charmed him on the sea-shore. He sate from this 
 time in contented silence, contemplating the happy 
 meeting of the following morning while the rever- 
 end gentlemen sipped the liquid so far and only till 
 with their usual felicitous sympathy they vanished 
 at the same instant under the table. The landlady 
 and her household were summoned to their assist- 
 ance. The Vicar of Llanglasrhyd was carried home
 
 A Fragment of a Romance. 37 
 
 by the postillions, and the Rector of Bwlchpenbach 
 was put to bed by the ostler. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Allow me to hand you some toast : you must 
 have had a very pleasant sail yesterday. — Very 
 pleasant ! — Did you come far ? Very far. — From 
 Ireland perhaps. — Not from Ireland. — Then you 
 must have come a long way in such a small boat, 
 such a very small boat. — Not so very small : it is one 
 of our best sea boats. — Do you carry your best sea 
 boats in your waistcoat pockets ? Then I suppose 
 in your great-coat pockets you carry your ships of 
 the line. — But, dear me, sir, you must come from 
 a very strange place. — I come from a part of the 
 world which is known to the rest by the name of 
 Terra Incognita. I am not at liberty to say more 
 concerning it. — But, sir, if it is a fair question, what 
 has brought you to Wales ?— I have landed on this 
 shore by accident. My present destination is 
 I^ondon. I am to remain in this island twelve 
 months, and return with a wife and a philosopher. 
 — God bless me ! what can Terra Incognita want 
 with a philosopher, and how are you to take them 
 away ?--In the same boat that brought me. — Why, 
 who do you think will trust herself.? You would 
 like some more tea ? — Ellen, my dear, do you think 
 any lady would trust herself? — If she had love 
 enough, said Ellen. — Cream and sugar, said Miss 
 Ap-Nanny. — The boat is perfectly safe, said the 
 stranger, looking at Ellen. I could go through a 
 hurricane with it. — Love, to be sure, will do any- 
 
 5 9 1 ■% G
 
 38 Calidore : 
 
 thing, said Miss Ap-Nanny, but, Lord bless me ! I 
 may take an egg, and to be sure it would be worth 
 some risk just in the way of curiosity to see Terra 
 Incognita. They must be very strange people, 
 but what they can want of a philosopher I cannot 
 imagine. — I hope if you bring him this way you 
 will keep him muzzled, for my papa says they are 
 very terrible monsters, fiends of darkness and imps 
 of the devil. I would not trust myself in a boat 
 with one for the world. Would you, Ellen, my 
 dear?— I should not be much afraid, said Ellen, 
 smiling, if he were in the hands of a safe keeper. 
 — We have a philosopher or two among us already, 
 said the stranger, and they are by no means such 
 formidable animals as you seem to suppose. — But 
 my papa says so, said Miss Ap-Nanny. — I bow 
 acquiescence, said the stranger, but perhaps the 
 Welsh variety is a peculiarly fierce breed. — I am 
 happy to say there is not one in all Wales, said 
 Miss Ap-Nanny. — I hear they run tame in London, 
 said Ellen. — Then you are not so much afraid of 
 them as your sister, said the stranger. — Not quite, 
 said Ellen, smiling again, I think I would venture 
 into the same room with one even if he were not 
 in an iron cage. — Oh, fie, Ellen, said Miss Ap- 
 Nanny, that is what you call having liberal opinions. 
 I cannot imagine where you got them. I am sure 
 you did not learn them from me. Do you know, 
 sir, Ellen is very heterodox. My papa actually 
 detected her in the fact of reading a wicked book 
 called " Principles of Moral Science," which, with his
 
 A Fragnie7it of a Romance. 39 
 
 usual sweet temper, he put, without saying a word, 
 behind the fire. He says Hberal opinions are only 
 another name for impiety. — Dear, good man ! said 
 Mrs Ap-Nanny, opening her mouth for the first 
 time, he never was guilty of a liberal opinion in 
 the course of his life. 
 
 Sir, what can a young man of your figure — you 
 look like a courtier — mean by making love at first 
 sight to my daughter ? What can you mean, sir ? 
 Perhaps you have heard that she will have a 
 thousand pounds, and that may be a temptation. 
 — Money, said the stranger, is to me mere chaff; 
 and producing a bag from his pocket, and shaking 
 it by one corner, he scattered on the floor a pro- 
 fusion of gold. The Vicar, who had seen nothing 
 but paper money for twenty years, was astonished 
 at these yellow apparitions, and picking up one 
 inspected it with great curiosity. On one side 
 was the phenom.enon of a crowned head with a 
 handsome and intelligent face, and the legend 
 Arthurus Rex. On the reverse, a lion sleeping 
 at Neptune's feet, and the legend Redibo. — Here 
 is a foreign potentate, said the Reverend Dr Ap- 
 Nanny, whom I never remember to have heard of. 
 Pray, is he legitimate by the grace of God, or a 
 blasphemous and seditious usurper whom the 
 people have had the impudence to choose for 
 themselves? — He is very legitimate and has an 
 older title than any other being in the world. 
 — Then I reverence him, said the Vicar. Old
 
 40 Calidore : 
 
 Authority, sir, old Authority, there is nothing 
 like old Authority. But what do you want with 
 my daughter ? — Candidly, sir, said the stranger, I 
 am on a quest for a wife, and am so far inspired 
 by the grace of Venus, Cupid, and Juno, that I am 
 willing my quest should end where it begins — here. 
 — On a quest, exclaimed the Vicar ; Venus, Cupid, 
 and Juno ! Ah ! I see how it is. Rich, humoured, 
 and touched in the head. Pray, what do you 
 mean by Juno ? — Juno Pronuba, said the stranger, 
 the goddess of marriage. — I see, sir, you are 
 inclined to make a joke of both me and my 
 daughter. Sir, I must tell you this very un- 
 becoming levity. — My dear sir, I assure you. — Sir, 
 it is palpable. Would any man make a serious 
 proposal to a man of my cloth for his daughter, 
 and talk to him of the grace of Venus and Cupid 
 and Juno Pronuba, the goddess of marriage ? — I 
 swear to you, sir, said the stranger, earnestly, by 
 the sacred head of Pan. 
 
 When they approached the destined island they 
 were delighted to perceive that its aspect presented 
 a most promising diversity of mountain, valley, 
 and forest reposing in the sunshine of a delicious 
 climate. Two very singular persons were walking 
 on the seashore ; one in the appearance a young 
 and handsome man with a crown of vine-leaves on 
 his head ; the other a wild and singular figure in a 
 fine state of picturesque roughness with goat's 
 horns and feet and a laughing face. As the vessel
 
 A Fragment of a Romance. 41 
 
 fixed its keel in the shore and King Arthur and 
 his party landed, the two strangers approached 
 and inquired who they were, and whence they 
 came? — This, replied Merlin, is the great King 
 Arthur ; this is his fair queen, Guenevere : and I 
 am the potent Merlin : these are the illustrious 
 knights of the round tabic : and this is the King's 
 butler, Bedeverc. The butler, said the first stran- 
 ger, shall be welcome. And so shall the ladies, 
 said the second. But as to the rest of you, pursued 
 the first, we must know you a Httle better before 
 we accord you our permission to advance a step in 
 this island. I am Bacchus, and I, said the other, 
 am Pan. So, said Sir Launcelot, I find we have 
 to contend with the evil powers. If you mean us 
 by that appellation, said Bacchus, you will find us 
 too strong for you. This island is the retreat of 
 all the gods and goddesses, genii and nymphs, 
 who formerly reigned in Olympus, and dwelt in 
 the mountains and valleys of Greece and Italy. 
 Though we had not much need of mankind, we 
 had a great affection for them, and lived among 
 them on good terms and in an interchange of kind 
 offices. They regaled us with the odours of sacri- 
 fice, built us magnificent temples, and especially 
 showed their piety by singing and dancing, and 
 being always social and cheerful, and full of plea- 
 sure and life, which is the most gratifying appear- 
 ance that man can present to the gods. But after 
 a certain time they began to change most lament- 
 ably for the worse. They discontinued their
 
 42 Calidore : 
 
 sacrifices ; they broke our images, many of which 
 we had sate for ourselves ; they called us frightful 
 and cacophonous names — Beelzebub and Amaimon 
 and Astaroth : they plundered and demolished 
 our temples, and built ugly structures on their 
 ruins, where, instead of dancing and rejoicing as 
 they had been used to do, and delighting us with 
 spectacles of human happiness, they were eternally 
 sighing and groaning, and beating their breasts, 
 and dropping their lower jaws, and turning up the 
 whites of their eyes, and cursing each other and 
 all mankind, and chaunting such dismal staves 
 that we shut our eyes and ears, and, flying from 
 our favourite terrestrial scenes, assembled in a 
 body among the clouds of Olympus. Here we 
 held a council as to what was to be done for the 
 amendment of these perverted mortals; but Jupiter 
 informed us that necessity, his mistress, and that 
 of the world, compelled him to acquiesce for a 
 time in this condition of things, that mankind, who 
 had never been good for a great deal, were now 
 become so worthless, and withal so disagreeable, 
 that the wisest course we could adopt would be to 
 leave them to themselves and retire to an undis- 
 turbed island for which he had stipulated with the 
 fates. Here, then, we are, and have been for 
 ages. That mountain on which the white clouds 
 are resting is now Mount Olympus, and there 
 dwell Jupiter and the Olympian deities. In these 
 forests and valleys reside Pan and Silenus, the 
 Fauns and the Satyrs, and the small nymphs and
 
 A Fragment of a Romance. 43 
 
 genii. I divide my time between the two, for 
 though my home is Olympus, I have a m.ost 
 special friendship for Pan. Now I have only this 
 to say, that if you come here to make frightful 
 faces, chaunt long tunes, and curse each other 
 through the nose, I give you fair warning to depart 
 in peace : if not, we shall find no trouble in ex- 
 pelling you by force, as Jupiter will testify to you. 
 Jupiter gave the required testification by a peal of 
 thunder from Olympus. 
 
 Merlin and King Arthur fell on their knees, and 
 the rest of their party followed the example. Great 
 Bacchus and mighty Pan, said Merlin, pity our 
 ignorance and take us under your protection, for 
 if you banish us from this happy shore, our vessel 
 must wander over the seas for ever, like the Flying 
 Dutchman that is to be, and we are very ill 
 victualled for such a navigation. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 The first object of Calidore on arriving in Lon- 
 don was to change some of his gold Arthurs into 
 the circulating medium of the country, and on 
 making inquiry at his hotel, he was directed, for 
 this purpose, to a spacious stone building with high 
 walls and no windows. Alighting from his hackney- 
 coach, with a money-box in his hand, he wandered 
 through a labyrinth of paved courts and spacious 
 rooms filled with smoky-faced clerks and solid 
 globes of Jews, through some of which he had 
 great difficulty in forcing his way. After some 
 time, he discovered the office he wanted, pre-
 
 44 Calidore : 
 
 sented his gold, which was duly tried, weighed, 
 and carefully removed from his sight. The sum 
 was enounced with very distinct articulation, and a 
 piece of paper was given to him, with which he 
 was sent to another place. How would you like 
 it, sir ? said a little sharp-nosed man with a quill 
 behind his ear. — In the circulating medium of this 
 city, said Calidore. — But I mean, sir, in what por- 
 tions ? — In no portions : I wish to have it all at 
 once. — Thousands, sir? said the little man. — The 
 specified sum, sir, said Calidore. — The little man 
 put into his hand several shps of paper. — Well, sir ! 
 said Calidore, what am I to do with these? — 
 Whatever you please, sir, said the little man, 
 smiling. I wish I could say as much for myself. — 
 I am much obliged to you, said CaHdore ; and I 
 have no doubt you are an exceedingly facetious and 
 agreeable person ; but, at the same time, if you 
 would have the goodness to direct me where I can 
 
 receive my money Sir, said the little man, that 
 
 is your money. — This ! — Certainly, sir ; that. What 
 would you have ? — Gold coin, to be sure, said 
 Calidore. — Gold coin ! I am afraid, sir, you are a 
 disaffected man and a Jacobin, or you would not 
 ask for such a thing, when I have given you the 
 best money in the world. Pray, sir, look at it — 
 you are a stranger, perhaps — look at it, sir; that's all. 
 — Calidore looked at one of the pieces of paper, 
 and read aloud : I promise to pay to Mr Henry 
 Hare — One Thousand Pounds — John Figgin- 
 botham. — Well; sir ; and what have I to do with
 
 A Fragment of a Romance. 45 
 
 John Figginbotham's promise to pay a thousand 
 pounds to Henry Hare? — John Figginbotham, sir, 
 having made that promise, and put it upon that 
 paper, makes that paper worth a thousand pounds. 
 — To Henry Hare, said Cahdore. — To any one, 
 said the little man. You overlook the words : or 
 bearer. Now, sir, you are the bearer. — I under- 
 stand. John Figginbotham promises to pay me 
 a thousand pounds. — Precisely. — Then, sir, if you 
 will have the goodness to direct me to John 
 Figginbotham I will thank him to pay me directly. 
 — But, good God, sir ! you mistake the matter. — 
 Mistake, sir ! — Yes, sir ! John Figginbotham does 
 not pay ; he only signs. We pay : we, who are 
 here ; I and my chums. — Very well, sir ; then why 
 can you not pay me without all this circumlocution ? 
 — Sir, I have paid you. — Hov/, sir? — With those 
 notes, sir. Sir, these are promises to pay, made 
 by one Figginbotham. I wish these promises to be 
 performed. You send me round in a circle from 
 Hare to Figginbotham, and from Figginbotham to 
 yourself, and I am still as much in the dark as 
 ever, as to where I am to look for the performance 
 of their very liberal promises. — Oh ! the perform- 
 ance, sir, — very true sir, — as you say ; but, sir, 
 promises are of two kinds, those which are meant 
 to be performed, and those which are not, the 
 latter being forms used for convenience and dis- 
 patch of business. — Then, sir, these promises are 
 not meant to be performed. — Pardon me, sir, they 
 are meant to be performed, not literally, but in a
 
 46 Calidore : 
 
 manner. They used to be performed by giving 
 gold to the bearer, but that having been found 
 peculiarly inconvenient has been laid aside by Act 
 of Parliament ever since the year Ninety-Seven, and 
 we now pay paper with paper, which simplifies 
 business exceedingly. — And pray, sir, do these 
 promises to pay pass for realities among the people ? 
 — Certainly they do, sir; one of those slips of 
 paper which you hold in your hand will purchase 
 the labour of fifty men for a year. — John Figgin- 
 botham must be a person of very great con- 
 sequence, there is not much trouble I presume in 
 making one of these things. — Not much, sir. — 
 Then I suppose, sir, John Figginbotham has all the 
 labour of the country under his absolute disposal. 
 Assuredly this Figginbotham must be a great 
 magician, and profoundly skilled in magic and 
 demonology : for this is almost more than Merlin 
 could do, to make the eternal repetition of the 
 same promise pass for its eternal performance, 
 and exercise unlimited control over the lives and 
 fortunes of a whole nation, merely by putting his 
 name upon pieces of paper. However, since, 
 such is the case, I must try to make the best of the 
 matter : but if I find that these talismans of the 
 great magician Figginbotham do not act upon the 
 people as you give me to understand they will, 
 I shall take the liberty of blowing my bugle in his 
 enchanted castle, and in the meantime, sir, I 
 respectfully take leave of your courtly presence. 
 — Poor, deranged gentleman ! exclaimed the little
 
 A Fragmejit of a Romance. 47 
 
 man after Calidore was gone, did you ever hear a 
 man talk so in all your life, Mr Solomons ? — Very 
 much cracked, said Mr Solomons, very much 
 cracked in the head ; but seems to be sound in 
 the pocket, which is the better part of man.
 
 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 \Published in Oilier' s Miscellany, 1820.] 
 
 THE FOUR AGES OF POETRY. 
 
 Qui inter \\xc nutriuntur non magis sapere possunt, quam 
 bene olere qui in culina habitant. — Petronius. 
 
 ^^OETRY, like the world, may be said to 
 \il have four ages, but in a different order : 
 the first age of poetry being the age 
 of iron ; the second, of gold ; the third, of silver ; 
 and the fourth of brass. 
 
 The first, or iron age of poetry, is that in which 
 rude bards celebrate in rough numbers the exploits 
 of ruder chiefs, in days when every man is a 
 warrior, and when the great practical maxim of 
 every form of society, " to keep what we have and 
 to catch what we can," is not yet disguised under 
 names of justice and forms of law, but is the naked 
 motto of the naked sword, which is the only judge 
 and jury in every question oi ineuin and tuum. In 
 these days, the only three trades flourishing (besides 
 that of priest, which flourishes always) are those of 
 king, thief, and beggar : the beggar being, for the 
 most part, a king deject, and the thief a king
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 49 
 
 expectant. The first question asked of a stranger 
 is, whether he is a beggar or a thief :* the stranger, 
 in reply, usually assumes the first, and awaits a 
 convenient opportunity to prove his claim to the 
 second appellation. 
 
 The natural desire of every man to engross to 
 himself as much power and property as he can 
 acquire by any of the means which might makes 
 right, is accompanied by the no less natural desire 
 of making known to as many people as possible 
 the extent to which he has been a winner in this 
 universal game. The successful warrior becomes a 
 chief j the successful chief becomes a king: his 
 next want is an organ to disseminate the fame of 
 his achievements and the extent of his possessions ; 
 and this organ he finds in a bard, who is always 
 ready to celebrate the strength of his arm, being 
 first duly inspired by that of his liquor. This is 
 the origin of poetry, which, like all other trades, 
 takes its rise in the demand for the commodity^ 
 and flourishes in proportion to the extent of the 
 market. 
 
 Poetry is thus in its origin panegyrical. The 
 first rude songs of all nations appear to be a sort 
 of brief historical notices, in a strain of tumid 
 hyperbole, of the exploits and possessions of a few 
 pre-eminent individuals. They tell us how many 
 battles such an one has fought, how many helmets 
 he has cleft, how many breastplates he has pierced, 
 how many widows he has made, how much land he 
 
 * See the Odyssey, passim : and Thucydides, I. 5. 
 
 D
 
 50 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 has appropriated, how many houses he has de- 
 molished for other people, what a large one he has 
 built for himself, how much gold he has stowed 
 away in it, and how liberally and plentifully he 
 pays, feeds, and intoxicates the divine and im- 
 mortal bards, the sons of Jupiter, but for whose 
 everlasting songs the names of heroes would 
 perish. 
 
 This is the first stage of poetry before the inven- 
 tion of written letters. The numerical modulation 
 is at once useful as a help to memory, and pleasant 
 to the ears of uncultured men, who are easily 
 caught by sound : and, from the exceeding flexi- 
 bility of the yet unformed language, the poet does 
 no violence to his ideas in subjecting them to the 
 fetters of number. The savage, indeed, lisps in 
 numbers, and all rude and uncivilised people 
 express themselves in the manner which we call 
 poetical. 
 
 The scenery by which he is surrounded, and the 
 superstitions which are the creed of his age, form 
 the poet's mind. Rocks, mountains, seas, unsub- 
 dued forests, unnavigable rivers, surround him 
 with forms of power and mystery, which ignorance 
 and fear have peopled with spirits, under multi- 
 farious names of gods, goddesses, nymphs, genii, 
 and daemons. Of all these personages marvellous 
 tales are in existence : the nymphs are not in- 
 different to handsome young men, and the gentle- 
 men-genii arc much troubled and very troublesome 
 with a propensity to be rude to pretty maidens :
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 5 1 
 
 the bard, therefore, finds no difficulty in tracing 
 the genealogy of his chief to any of the deities in 
 his neighbourhood with whom the said chief may 
 be most desirous of claiming relationship. 
 
 In this pursuit, as in all others, some, of course, 
 will attain a very marked pre-eminence ; and these 
 will be held in high honour, like Demodocus in 
 the Odyssey, and will be consequently inflated 
 with boundless vanity, like Thamyris in the Iliad. 
 Poets are as yet the only historians and chroniclers 
 of their time, and the sole depositories of all the 
 knowledge of their age; and though this know- 
 ledge is rather a crude congeries of traditional 
 phantasies than a collection of useful truths, yet, 
 such as it is, they have it to themselves. They 
 are observing and thinking, while others are 
 robbing and fighting : and though their object be 
 nothing more than to secure a share of the spoil, 
 yet they accomplish this end by intellectual, not 
 by physical power : their success excites emulation 
 to the attainment of intellectual eminence : thus 
 they sharpen their own wits and awaken those of 
 others, at the same time that they gratify vanity 
 and amuse curiosity. A skilful display of the little 
 knowledge they have gains them credit for the 
 possession of much more which they have not. 
 Their familiarity with the secret history of gods 
 and genii obtains for them, without much difficulty, 
 the reputation of inspiration ; thus they are not 
 only historians, but theologians, moralists, and 
 legislators : delivering their oracles ex cathedra,
 
 52 Calidore^ and Miscellanea. 
 
 and being indeed often themselves (as Orpheus 
 and Amphion) regarded as portions and emana- 
 tions of divinity : building cities with a song, and 
 leading brutes with a symphony ; which are only 
 metaphors for the faculty of leading multitudes by 
 the nose. 
 
 The golden age of poetry finds its materials in 
 the age of iron. This age begins when poetry 
 begins to be retrospective ; when something like a 
 more extended system of civil polity is estabHshed , 
 when personal strength and courage avail less to 
 the aggrandizing of their possessor, and to the 
 making and marring of kings and kingdoms, and 
 are checked by organised bodies, social institutions, 
 and hereditary successions. Men also live more in 
 the light of truth and within the interchange of 
 observation ; and thus perceive that the agency of 
 gods and genii is not so frequent among them- 
 selves as, to judge from the songs and legends of 
 the past time, it was among their ancestors. From 
 these two circumstances, really diminished personal 
 power, and apparently diminished familiarity with 
 gods and genii, they very easily and naturally 
 deduce two conclusions : ist. That men are de- 
 generated, and 2nd, That they are less in favour 
 with the gods. The people of the petty states and 
 colonies, which have now acquired stability and 
 form, which owed their origin and first prosperity 
 to the talents and courage of a single chief, mag- 
 nify their founder through the mists of distance 
 and tradition, and perceive him achieving wonders
 
 TJie Four Ages of Poetry. 53 
 
 with a god or goddess always at his elbow. They 
 find his name and his exploits thus magnified and 
 accompanied in their traditionary songs, which are 
 their only memorials. All that is said of him is in 
 this character. There is nothing to contradict it. 
 The man and his exploits and his tutelary deities 
 are mixed and blended in one invariable associa- 
 tion. The marvellous, too, is very much like a 
 snow-ball : it grows as it rolls downward, till the 
 little nucleus of truth, which began its descent 
 from the summit, is hidden in the accumulation of 
 superinduced hyperbole. 
 
 When tradition, thus adorned and exaggerated, 
 has surrounded the founders of families and states 
 with so much adventitious power and magnificence, 
 there is no praise which a living poet can, without 
 fear of being kicked for clumsy flattery, address to 
 a living chief, that will not still leave the impres- 
 sion that the latter is not so great a man as his 
 ancestors. The man must, in this case, be praised 
 through his ancestors. Their greatness must be 
 established, and he must be shown to be their 
 worthy descendant. All the people of a state are 
 interested in the founder of their state. All states 
 that have harmonised into a common form of 
 society, are interested in their respective founders. 
 All men are interested in their ancestors. All men 
 love to look back into the days that are past. In 
 these circumstances traditional national poetry is 
 reconstructed and brought, like chaos, into order 
 and form. The interest is more universal : under-
 
 54 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 standing is enlarged : passion still has scope and 
 play : character is still various and strong : nature 
 is still unsubdued and existing in all her beauty 
 and magnificence, and men are not yet excluded 
 from her observation by the magnitude of cities, 
 or the daily confinement of civic life : poetry is 
 more an art : it requires greater skill in numbers, 
 greater command of language, more extensive and 
 various knowledge, and greater comprehensiveness 
 of mind. It still exists without rivals in any other 
 department of literature ; and even the arts, paint- 
 ing and sculpture certainly, and music probably, 
 are comparatively rude and imperfect. The whole 
 field of intellect is its own. It has no rivals in 
 history, nor in philosophy, nor in science. It is 
 cultivated by the greatest intellects of the age, and 
 listened to by all the rest. This is the age of 
 Homer, the golden age of poetry. Poetry has now 
 attained its perfection : it has attained the point 
 which it cannot pass : genius therefore seeks new 
 forms for the treatment of the same subjects : 
 hence the lyric poetry of Pindar and Alcseus, and 
 the tragic poetry of ^schylus and Sophocles. 
 The favour of kings, the honour of the Olympic 
 crown, the applause of present multitudes, all that 
 can feed vanity and stimulate rivalry, await the 
 successful cultivator of this art, till its forms become 
 exhausted, and new rivals arise around it in new 
 fields of literature, which gradually acquire more 
 influence as, with the progress of reason and 
 civilisation, facts become more interesting than
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 55 
 
 fiction : indeed, the maturity of poetry may be 
 considered the infancy of history. The transition 
 from Homer to Herodotus is scarcely more re- 
 markable than that from Herodotus to Thucydides : 
 in the gradual dereliction of fabulous incident and 
 ornamented language, Herodotus is as much a 
 poet, in relation to Thucydides, as Homer is in 
 relation to Herodotus. The history of Herodotus 
 is half a poem : it was written while the whole 
 field of literature yet belonged to the Muses, and 
 the nine books of which it was composed were 
 therefore of right, as well of courtesy, superin- 
 scribed with their nine names. 
 
 Speculations, too, and disputes, on the nature 
 of man and of mind ; on moral duties and on 
 good and evil ; on the animate and inanimate 
 components of the visible world ; begin to share 
 attention with the eggs of Leda and the horns of 
 Id, and to draw off from poetry a portion of its 
 once undivided audience. 
 
 Then comes the silver age, or the poetry of 
 civilised life. This poetry is of two kinds, imita- 
 tive and original. The imitative consists in re- 
 casting, and giving an exquisite polish to the 
 poetry of the age of gold : of this Virgil is the 
 most obvious and striking example. The original 
 is chiefly comic, didactic, or satiric : as in Men- 
 ander, Aristophanes, Horace, and Juvenal. The 
 poetry of this age is characterised by an exquisite 
 and fastidious selection of words, and a laboured 
 and somewhat monotonous harmony of expression :
 
 56 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 but its monotony consists in this, that experience 
 having exhausted all the varieties of modulation, 
 the civilised poetry selects the most beautiful, and 
 prefers the repetition of these to ranging through 
 the variety of all. But the best expression being 
 that into which the idea naturally falls, it requires 
 the utmost labour and care so to reconcile the in- 
 flexibility of civilised language and the laboured 
 polish of versification with the idea intended to be 
 expressed, that sense may not appear to be sacri- 
 ficed to sound. Hence numerous efforts and rare 
 success. 
 
 This state of poetry is, however, a step towards 
 its extinction. Feeling and passion are best painted 
 in, and roused by, ornamental and figurative lan- 
 guage ; but the reason and the understanding are 
 best addressed in the simplest and most unvar- 
 nished phrase. Pure reason and dispassionate 
 truth would be perfectly ridiculous in verse, as we 
 may judge by versifying one of Euclid's demonstra- 
 tions. This will be found true of all dispassionate 
 reasoning whatever, and of all reasoning that re- 
 quires comprehensive views and enlarged combina- 
 tions. It is only the more tangible points of 
 morality, those which command assent at once, 
 those which have a mirror in every mind, and in 
 which the severity of reason is warmed and ren- 
 dered palatable by being mixed up with feeling and 
 imagination, that are applicable even to what is 
 called moral poetry : and as the sciences of morals 
 and of mind advance towards perfection, as they
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 57 
 
 become more enlarged and comprehensive in their 
 views, as reason gains the ascendancy in them 
 over imagination and feehng, poetry can no longer 
 accompany them in their progress, but drops into 
 the background, and leaves them to advance alone. 
 
 Thus the empire of thought is withdrawn from 
 poetry, as the empire of facts had been before. In 
 respect of the latter, the poet of the age of iron 
 celebrates the achievements of his contempo- 
 raries ; the poet of the age of gold celebrates the 
 heroes of the age of iron ; the poet of the age of 
 silver re-casts the poems of the age of gold : we 
 may here see how very light a ray of historical 
 truth is sufficient to dissipate all the illusions of 
 poetry. We know no more of the men than of the 
 gods of the Iliad ; no more of Achilles than we do 
 of Thetis ; no more of Hector and Andromache 
 than we do of Vulcan and Venus : these belong 
 altogether to poetry \ history has no share in them ; 
 but Virgil knew better than to write an epic about 
 Caesar ; he left him to Livy \ and travelled out of 
 the confines of truth and history into the old 
 regions of poetry and fiction. 
 
 Good sense and elegant learning, conveyed in 
 polished and somewhat monotonous verse, are the 
 perfection of the original and imitative poetry of 
 civilised life. Its range is limited, and when ex- 
 hausted, nothing remains but the cramhe repetita of 
 commonplace, which at length becomes thoroughly 
 wearisome, even to the most indefatigable readers 
 of the newest new nothings.
 
 5 S Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 It is now evident that poetry must either cease 
 to be cultivated, or strike into a new path. The 
 poets of the age of gold have been imitated and 
 repeated till no new imitation will attract notice : 
 the limited range of ethical and didactic poetry is 
 exhausted : the associations of daily life in an 
 advance'd stute of society are of very dry, metho- 
 dical, un-poetical matter-of-fact : but there is always 
 a multitude of listless idlers, yawning for amuse- 
 ment, and gaping for novelty : and the poet 
 makes it his glory to be foremost among their 
 purveyors. 
 
 Then comes the age of brass, which, by reject- 
 ing the polish and the learning of the age of silver, 
 and taking a retrograde strike to the barbarisms 
 and crude traditions of the age of iron, professes to 
 return to nature and revive the age of gold. This 
 is the second childhood of poetry. For the com- 
 prehensive energy of the Homeric Muse, which, 
 by giving at once the grand outline of things, pre- 
 sented to the mind a vivid picture in one or two 
 verses, inimitable alike in simphcity and magni- 
 ficence, is substituted a verbose and minutely-de- 
 tailed description of thoughts, passions, actions, 
 persons, and things, in that loose rambling style of 
 verse, which any one may write, stans pede in uno, 
 at the rate of two hundred lines in an hour. To 
 this age may be referred all the poets who flourished 
 in the decline of the Roman Empire. The best 
 specimen of it, though not the most generally 
 known, is the Dionysiaca of Nonnus, which con-
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry, 59 
 
 tains many passages of exceeding beauty in the 
 midst of masses of amplification and repetition. 
 
 The iron age of classical poetry may be called 
 the barbaric of the golden, the Homeric ; the silver, 
 the Virgilian ; and the brass, the Nonnic. 
 
 Modern poetry has also its four ages : but " it 
 wears its rue with a difference." 
 
 To the age of brass in the ancient world suc- 
 ceeded the dark ages, in which the light of the 
 Gospel began to spread over Europe, and in which, 
 by a mysterious and inscrutable dispensation, the 
 darkness thickened with the progress of the light. 
 The tribes that overran the Roman Empire brought 
 back the days of barbarism, but with this differ- 
 ence, that there were many books in the world, 
 many places in which they were preserved, and 
 occasionally some one by whom they were read, 
 who indeed (if he escaped hemg burned pour I' a/nour 
 de Z>;Vz/;) generally lived an object of mysterious fear, 
 with the reputation of magician, alchymist, and as- 
 trologer. The emerging of the nations of Europe 
 from this superinduced barbarism, and their settling 
 into new forms of polity, was accompanied, as the 
 first ages of Greece had been, with a wild spirit of 
 adventure, which, co-operating with new manners 
 and new superstitions, raised up a fresh crop of 
 chimceras, not less fruitful, though far less beauti- 
 ful, than those of Greece. The semi-deification 
 of women by the maxims of the age of chivalry, 
 combining with these new fables, produced the 
 romance of the middle ages. The founders of the
 
 6o Calidoi'c^ and Miscellanea. 
 
 new line of heroes took the place of the demi-gods f 
 of Grecian poetry. Charlemagne and his Paladins, 
 Arthur and his knights of the round table, the 
 heroes of the iron age of chivalrous poetry, were 
 seen through the same magnifying mist of distance, 
 and their exploits were celebrated with even more 
 extravagant hyperbole. These legends, combined 
 with the exaggerated love that pervades the songs 
 of the troubadours, the reputation of magic that 
 attached to learned men, the infant wonders of 
 natural philosophy, the crazy fanaticism of the 
 crusades, the power and privileges of the great 
 feudal chiefs, and the holy mysteries of monks and 
 nunSj formed a state of society in which no two 
 laymen could meet without fighting, and in which 
 the three staple ingredients of lover, prize-fighter, 
 and fanatic, that composed the basis of the charac- 
 ter of every true man, were mixed up and diversi- 
 fied, in different individuals and classes, with so 
 many distinctive excellencies, and under such an 
 infinite motley variety of costume, as gave the range 
 of a most extensive and picturesque field to the 
 two great constituents of poetry, love and battle. 
 
 From these ingredients of the iron age of modern 
 poetry, dispersed in the rhymes of minstrels and 
 the songs of the troubadours, arose the golden age, 
 in which the scattered materials were harmonised 
 and blended about the time of the revival of learn- 
 ing ; but with this peculiar difference, that Greek 
 and Roman literature pervaded all the poetry of 
 the golden age of modern poetry, and hence re-
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 6 1 
 
 suited a heterogeneous compound of all ages and 
 nations in one picture ; an infinite licence, which 
 gave to the poet the free range of the whole field 
 of imagination and memory. This was carried 
 very far by Ariosto, but farthest of all by Shake- 
 speare and his contemporaries, who used time and 
 locality merely because they could not do without 
 them, because every action must have its when 
 and where ; but they made no scruple of deposing 
 a Roman Emperor by an Italian Count, and send- 
 ing him off in the disguise of a French pilgrim to 
 be shot with a blunderbuss by an English archer. 
 This makes the Old English drama very pictur- 
 esque, at any rate, in the variety of costume, and 
 very diversified in action and character : though 
 it is a picture of nothing that ever was seen on 
 earth except a Venetian carnival. 
 
 The greatest of English poets, Milton, may be 
 said to stand alone between the ages of gold and 
 silver, combining the excellencies of both ; for 
 with all the energy, and power, and freshness of 
 the first, he united all the studied and elaborate 
 magnificence of the second. 
 
 The silver age succeeded ; beginning with 
 Dryden, coming to perfection with Pope, and 
 ending with Goldsmith, Collins, and Gray. 
 
 Cowper divested verse of its exquisite polish ; 
 he thought in metre, but paid more attention to 
 his thoughts than his verse. It would be difficult 
 to draw the boundary of prose and blank verse 
 between his letters and his poetry.
 
 62 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 The silver age was the reign of authority ; but 
 authority now began to be shaken, not only in 
 poetry but in the whole sphere of its dominion. 
 The contemporaries of Gray and Cowper were 
 deep and elaborate thinkers. The subtle scepti- 
 cism of Hume, the solemn irony of Gibbon, the 
 daring paradoxes of Rousseau, and the biting 
 ridicule of Voltaire, directed the energies of four 
 extraordinary minds to shape every portion of 
 the reign of authority. Inquiry was roused, the 
 activity of intellect was excited, and poetry came 
 in for its share of the general result. The 
 changes had been rung on lovely maid and 
 sylvan shade, summer heat and green retreat, 
 waving trees and sighing breeze, gentle swains 
 and amorous pains, by versifiers who took them 
 on trust, as meaning something very soft and 
 tender, without much caring what : but with this 
 general activity of intellect came a necessity for 
 even poets to appear to know something of what 
 they professed to talk of Thomson and Cowper 
 looked at the trees and hills which so many ingeni- 
 ous gentlemen had rhymed about so long without 
 looking at them at all, and the effect of the opera- 
 tion on poetry was like the discovery of a new 
 world. Painting shared the influence, and the 
 principles of picturesque beauty were explored by 
 adventurous essayists with indefatigable pertina- 
 city. The success which attended these experi- 
 ments, and the pleasure which resulted from them, 
 had the usual effect of all new enthusiasms, that
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 63 
 
 of turning the heads of a few unfortunate persons, 
 the patriarchs of the age of brass, who, mistaking 
 the prominent novelty for the all-important totality, 
 seem to have ratiocinated much in the following 
 manner : " Poetical genius is the finest of all things, 
 and we feel that we have more of it than any one 
 ever had. The way to bring it to perfection is to 
 cultivate poetical impressions exclusively. Poetical 
 impressions can be received only among natural 
 scenes : for all that is artificial is anti-poetical. 
 Society is artificial, therefore we will live out of 
 society. The mountains are natural, therefore we will 
 live in the mountains. There we shall be shining 
 models of purity and virtue, passing the whole day in 
 the innocent and amiable occupation of going up 
 and down hill, receiving poetical impressions, and 
 communicating them in immortal verse to admiring 
 generations.'' To some such perversion of intellect 
 we owe that egregious confraternity of rhymesters, 
 known by the name of the Lake Poets; who 
 certainly did receive and communicate to the 
 world some of the most extraordinary poetical 
 impressions that ever were heard of, and ripened 
 into models of public virtue, too splendid to need 
 illustration. They wrote verses on a new principle ; 
 saw rocks and rivers in a new light ; and remaining 
 studiously ignorant of history, society, and human 
 nature, cultivated the phantasy only at the expense 
 of the memory and the reason \ and contrived, 
 though they had retreated from the world for 
 the express purpose of seeing Nature as she
 
 64 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 was, to see her only as she was not, converting the 
 land they lived in into a sort of fairy -land, which 
 they peopled with mysticisms and chim^eras. This 
 gave what is called a new tone to poetry, and con- 
 jured up a herd of desperate imitators, who have 
 brought the age of brass prematurely to its dotage. 
 
 The descriptive poetry of the present day has 
 been called by its cultivators a return to nature. 
 Nothing is more impertinent than this pretension. 
 Poetry cannot travel out of the regions of its birth, 
 the uncultivated lands of semi-civilised men. Mr 
 Wordsworth, the great leader of the returners to 
 nature, cannot describe a scene under his own 
 eyes without putting into it the shadow of a Danish 
 boy or the living ghost of Lucy Gray, or some 
 similar phantastical parturition of the moods of 
 his own mind. 
 
 In the origin and perfection of poetry, all the 
 associations of life were composed of poetical 
 materials. With us it is decidedly the reverse. 
 We know, too, that there are no Dryads in Hyde- 
 park nor Naiads in the Regent's-canal. But bar- 
 baric manners and supernatural interventions are 
 essential to poetry. Either in the scene, or in the 
 time, or in both, it must be remote from our 
 ordinary perceptions. AVhile the historian and the 
 philosopher are advancing in, and accelerating, 
 the progress of knowledge, the poet is wallowing 
 in the rubbish of departed ignorance, and raking 
 up the ashes of dead savages to fmd gewgaws and 
 rattles for the grown babies of the age. Mr Scott
 
 Tlie Four Ages of Poetry. 65 
 
 digs up the poachers and cattle-stealers of the 
 ancient border. Lord Byron cruises for thieves 
 and pirates on the shores of the Morea and among 
 the Greek islands. Mr Southey wades through 
 ponderous volumes of travels and old chronicles, 
 from which he carefully selects all that is false, 
 useless, and absurd, as being essentially poetical ; 
 and when he has a commonplace book full of 
 monstrosities, strings them into an epic. Mr 
 Wordsworth picks up village legends from old 
 women and sextons 3 and Mr Coleridge, to the 
 valuable information acquired from similar sources, 
 superadds the dreams of crazy theologians and the 
 mysticisms of German metaphysics, and favours 
 the world with visions in verse, in which the 
 quadruple elements of sexton, old woman, Jeremy 
 Taylor, and Emanuel Kant are harmonised into 
 a delicious poetical compound. Mr Moore pre- 
 sents us with a Persian, and Mr Campbell with a 
 Pennsylvanian tale, both formed on the same 
 principle as Mr Southey's epics, by extracting 
 from a perfunctory and desultory perusal of a 
 collection of voyages and travels all that useful 
 investigation would not seek for and that common 
 sense would reject. 
 
 These disjointed relics of tradition and frag- 
 ments of second-hand observation, being woven 
 into a tissue of verse, constructed on what Mr 
 Coleridge calls a new principle (that is, no prin- 
 ciple at all), compose a modern-antique compound 
 of frippery and barbarism, in which the puling 
 
 B
 
 66 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 sentimentality of the present time is grafted on the 
 misrepresented ruggedness of the past into a 
 heterogeneous congeries of unamalgamating man- 
 ners, sufficient to impose on the common readers 
 of poetry, over whose understandings the poet of 
 this class possesses that commanding advantage, 
 which, in all circumstances and conditions of life, 
 a man who knows something, however little, always 
 possesses over one who knows nothing. 
 
 A poet in our times is a semi-barbarian in a 
 civilised community. He lives in the days that 
 are past. His ideas, thoughts, feelings, associa- 
 tions, are all with barbarous manners, obsolete 
 customs, and exploded superstitions. The march 
 of his intellect is like that of a crab, backward. 
 The brighter the light diffused around him by the 
 progress of reason, the thicker is the darkness of 
 antiquated barbarism, in which he buries himself 
 like a mole, to throw up the barren hillocks of his 
 Cimmerian labours. The philosophic mental tran- 
 quillity which looks round with an equal eye on all 
 external things, collects a store of ideas, discrimi- 
 nates their relative value, assigns to all their proper 
 place, and from the materials of useful knowledge 
 thus collected, appreciated, and arranged, forms 
 new combinations that impress the stamp of their 
 power and utility on the real business of life, is 
 diametrically the reverse of that frame of mind 
 which poetry inspires, or from which poetry can 
 emanate. The highest inspirations of poetry are 
 resolvable into three ingredients : the rant of un-
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry. 6y 
 
 regulated passion, the whining of exaggerated feel- 
 ing, and the cant of factitious sentiment : and can 
 therefore serve only to ripen a splendid lunatic like 
 Alexander, a puling driveller like Werter, or a 
 morbid dreamer like Wordsworth. It can never 
 make a philosopher, nor a statesman, nor in any 
 class of life an useful or rational man. It cannot 
 claim the slightest share in any one of the comforts 
 and utilities of life of which we have witnessed so 
 many and so rapid advances. But though not 
 useful, it may be said it is highly ornamental, and 
 deserves to be cultivated for the pleasure it yields. 
 Even if this be granted, it does not follow that a 
 writer of poetry in the present state of society is 
 not a waster of his own time, and a robber of that 
 of others. Poetry is not one of those arts which, 
 like painting, require repetition and multiplication, 
 in order to be diffused among society. There are 
 more good poems already existing than are suffi- 
 cient to employ that portion of life which any mere 
 reader and recipient of poetical impressions should 
 devote to them, and these having been produced 
 in poetical times, are far superior in all the charac- 
 teristics of poetry to the artificial reconstructions 
 of a few morbid ascetics in unpoetical times. To 
 read the promiscuous rubbish of the present time 
 to the exclusion of the select treasures of the past, 
 is to substitute the worse for the better variety of 
 the same mode of enjoyment. 
 
 But in whatever degree poetry is cultivated, it 
 must necessarily be to the neglect of some branch
 
 68 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 of useful study : and it is a lamentable spectacle to 
 see minds, capable of better things, running to seed 
 in the specious indolence of these empty aimless 
 mockeries of intellectual exertion. Poetry was the 
 mental rattle that awakened the attention of in- 
 tellect in the infancy of civil society : but for the 
 maturity of mind to make a serious business of the 
 playthings of its childhood, is as absurd as for a 
 full-grown man to rub his gums with coral, and 
 cry to be charmed to sleep by the jingle of silver 
 bells. 
 
 As to that small portion of our contemporary 
 poetry, which is neither descriptive, nor narrative, 
 nor dramatic, and which, for want of a better 
 name, may be called ethical, the most distinguished 
 portion of it, consisting merely of querulous, egotis- 
 tical rhapsodies, to express the writer's high dis- 
 satisfaction with the world and everything in it, 
 serves only to confirm what has been said of the 
 semi-barbarous character of poets, who from sing- 
 ing dithyrambics and " lo Triumphe," while society 
 was savage, grow rabid, and out of their element 
 as it becomes polished and enlightened. 
 
 Now, when we consider that it is not to the 
 thinking and studious, and scientific and philo- 
 sophical part of the community, not to those whose 
 minds are bent on the pursuit and promotion of 
 permanently useful ends and aims, that poets 
 must address their minstrelsy, but to that much 
 larger portion of the reading public, whose minds 
 are not awakened to the desire of valuable know-
 
 The Four Ages of Poetry, 69 
 
 ledge, and who are indifferent to anything beyond 
 being charmed, moved, excited, affected, and 
 exalted : charmed by harmony, moved by senti- 
 ment, excited by passion, affected by pathos, and 
 exalted by sublimity : harmony, which is language 
 on the rack of Procrustes ; sentiment, which is 
 canting egotism in the mask of refined feeling ; 
 passion, which is the commotion of a weak and 
 selfish mind ; pathos, which is the whining of an 
 unmanly spirit ; and sublimity, which is the infla- 
 tion of an empty head : when we consider that the 
 great and permanent interests of human society 
 become more and more the main-spring of intel- 
 lectual pursuit ; that in proportion as they become 
 so, the subordinacy of the ornamental to the useful 
 will be more and more seen and acknowledged \ 
 and that therefore the progress of useful art and 
 science, and of moral and political knowledge, will 
 continue more and more to withdraw attention 
 from frivolous and unconducive, to solid and con- 
 ducive studies: that therefore the poetical audience 
 will not only continually diminish in the propor- 
 tion of its number to that of the rest of the reading 
 public, but will also sink lower and lower in the 
 comparison of intellectual acquirement : when we 
 consider that the poet must still please his audi- 
 ence, and must therefore continue to sink to their 
 level, while the rest of the community is rising 
 above it : we may easily conceive that the day is 
 not distant, when the degraded state of every 
 species of poetry will be as generally recognised as
 
 70 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 that of dramatic poetry has long been : and this 
 not from any decrease either of intellectual power, 
 or intellectual acquisition, but because intellectual 
 power and intellectual acquisition have turned 
 themselves into other and better channels, and 
 have abandoned the cultivation and the fate of 
 poetry to the degenerate fry of modern rhymesters, 
 and their Olympic judges, the magazine critics, 
 who continue to debate and promulgate oracles 
 about poetry, as if it were still what it was in the 
 Homeric age, the all-in-all of intellectual progres- 
 sion, and as if there were no such things in exist- 
 ence as mathematicians, astronomers, chemists, 
 moralists, metaphysicians, historians, politicians, 
 and political economists, who have built into the 
 upper air of intelligence a pyramid, from the 
 summit of which they see the modern Parnassus 
 far beneath them, and, knowing how small a place 
 it occupies in the comprehensiveness of their 
 prospect, smile at the little ambition and the cir- 
 cumscribed perceptions with which the drivellers 
 and mountebanks upon it are contending for the 
 poetical palm and the critical chair.
 
 HOR.E DRAMATICS. 
 
 No. I. 
 [Published in Fraser's Magazine, 1852, vol. xlv. No. cclxvii,] 
 
 ^^OETHE, we think — for we cannot cite 
 ^~" chapter and verse — says somewhere some- 
 thing to this effect — that the reaUties of 
 life present little that is either satisfactory or hope- 
 ful ; and that the only refuge for a mind which 
 aspires to better views of society, is in the idealities 
 of the theatre. 
 
 Without going to the full extent of this opinion, 
 we may say, that the drama has been the favourite 
 study of this portion of our plurality, and has fur- 
 nished to us, on many and many occasions, a 
 refuge of light and tranquillity from the storms and 
 darkness of every-day life. 
 
 It is needless to look further than to the 
 Athenian theatre and Shakspeare, to establish the 
 position that the drama has combined the highest 
 poetry with the highest wisdom ; neither is it 
 necessary to show that the great masters of the art 
 have a long train of worthy followers, partially 
 familiar to all who look to dramatic literature for
 
 72 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 amusement alone, and more extensively as to those 
 who make it a subject of study. 
 
 Still there are many excellent dramas compara- 
 tively little known ; much valuable matter bearing 
 on the drama, remaining to be developed; and 
 many dramatic questions, which continue to be 
 subjects of controversy, and offer topics of inter- 
 esting discussion. 
 
 It is our purpose to present our views of some 
 of these subjects, in the form of analyses or criti- 
 cisms ; not following any order of chronology or 
 classification, but only that in which our readings 
 or reminiscences may suggest them. 
 
 QUEROLUS ; or, THE BURIED TREASURE. 
 
 A ROMAN COMEDY OF THE THIRD CENTURY. 
 
 This comedy, which, from internal evidence, is 
 assignable to the age of Diocletian and Maximian, 
 is the only Roman comedy which, in addition to 
 the remains of Plautus and Terence, has escaped 
 the ravages of time. It is not only on this 
 account a great literary curiosity, but it is in itself 
 a very amusing and original drama. It is little 
 known in this country. 
 
 The first editors of this comedy had access to 
 several manuscript copies of it. The last editor 
 had access to two : the Codex Vossianus, now in 
 the library at Leyden, in the margin of which
 
 Horcs DramaticcB. 73 
 
 Vossius had written the various readings of another, 
 the Codex Pithoei ; and the Codex Parisinus, now 
 in the hbrary at Paris, a manuscript apparently of 
 the eleventh century. 
 
 The first printed edition was edited by P. 
 Danielis, in 1564. The second edition was edited 
 by Rittershusius, and printed by Commelinus, in 
 1595. The third edition was pubHshed by Pareus, 
 at the end of his edition of Plautus, in 1619. The 
 fourth and last edition is that of Klinkhamer, pub- 
 lished at Amsterdam in 1829. Of these editions, 
 the first, third, and fourth are in the British 
 Museum ; the second and fourth are in our posses- 
 sion.* 
 
 We have thus had the opportunity of consulting 
 all the editions of the work. The first edition was 
 inaccessible to Klinkhamer. The second edition 
 contains all that is important in the first, with much 
 that is not in any other ; including a long poem by 
 Vitalis Blesensis, a writer of the middle ages, in 
 which the story is narrated in elegiac verse : the 
 author professing, that he now does for a second 
 comedy of Plautus what he had previously done for 
 his Aviphitryo7i. The author of the comedy is, 
 however, as we shall subsequently notice, innocent 
 of its ascription to Plautus. 
 
 In the first three editions, the text was printed as 
 
 * The play has since been edited by Peiper, 1575, and very 
 elaborately and with a French prose translation by Havet, 
 in the Bibliotheque dc 1' Ecole des liautes Etudes. Paris, 
 J880-1.— G.
 
 74 Calidorey and Miscellanea. 
 
 prose. Klinkamer recognised the traces of metre, 
 and arranged the whole into verse, printing the 
 prose text on the left-hand pages, and the metrical 
 arrangement on the right. The task is executed 
 with much skill, and little arbitrary change. In 
 this portion of his work, as indeed in the whole of 
 it, he derived great advantage from having been 
 the pupil of D. J. Van Lennep,* at whose instiga- 
 tion he undertook the edition. The result is, a 
 most agreeable reading, of which we regretted to 
 come to the close. 
 
 This play is called Querolus, sive Aulularia — 
 " Querolus, or the Comedy of the Aula, or Olla,^' 
 a large covered pot or vessel of any kind, which is 
 in this case the depository of a treasure. The 
 dramatis personce are — 
 
 Lar Familiaris. 
 Querolus. 
 Mandrogerus. 
 Sardanapalus. 
 
 SyCOI'HANTA. 
 PANTOLABUS.t 
 
 Arbiter. 
 
 Plautus's comedy of Auhdaria (the basis of 
 
 * The learned and accomplished editor of Terentimius 
 Maurus, He completed the edition which Santenius had 
 begun. 
 
 tThe MSS. and editions have all " Pantomalus," a bar- 
 barous composite, suitable, no doubt, to the age, but not to 
 so correct and elegant a writer as the author of this comedy. 
 *' Pantolabus " is classical (see Hor. Sat. i. 8, ii) ; and Take- 
 all suits the character in question better than All-bad. [This 
 very ingenious emendation is not noticed by subsequent 
 editors, who seem to be unacquainted with Peacock's essay. 
 -G.]
 
 HorcB DraniaticcB. 75 
 
 Moli^re's L'Avare) takes its name from a similar 
 subject ; but there is nothing in common between 
 the comedies, excepting the buried treasure, the 
 title, and the circumstances of the prologue being 
 spoken by the household deity, the Lar Familiaris. 
 
 In Plautus's prologue, the Lar tells the audience, 
 that the heads of the families had been a succes- 
 sion of misers, one of whom had buried a treasure, 
 the secret of which he had not the heart, even 
 when dying, to reveal to his son ; that the son had 
 lived and died poor and parsimonious, and had 
 shown no honour to him, the Lar ; in consequence 
 of which he had done nothing towards aiding him 
 to discover the buried treasure : that the grandson, 
 the present pater familias, was no better than his 
 predecessors ; but that he had a daughter who was 
 very pious towards her household deity ; on which 
 account he had led the father to the discovery of 
 the treasure, in order that the daughter might have 
 a dowry. 
 
 The comedy of Querolus has no female character, 
 and the hero does not appear to have a family. The 
 Lar tells the audience, that Euclio, the father of 
 Querolus, going abroad on business, had buried a 
 treasure before the domestic altar; that, dying 
 abroad, he had entrusted the secret to Mandro- 
 gerus, and had given him a letter to Querolus, 
 enjoining his son to divide the treasure with his 
 friend Mandrogerus, as a reward for faithfully de- 
 livering the message ; that Mandrogerus had made 
 a scheme for getting surreptitious possession of the
 
 76 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 whole; that he, the Lar, would frustrate this scheme, 
 and take care that the treasure should go to its 
 right owner, whom he describes as not bad, but 
 ungrateful. 
 
 The first scene consists of a dialogue between 
 Querolus and the Lar. Querolus enters, complain- 
 ing of Fortune, when the Lar presents himself 
 before him. 
 
 Qucr. Oh, Fortune ! — oh, blind Fortune ! impious Fate ! 
 
 Lar. Hail, Querolus ! 
 
 Quer, What wouldst thou with me, friend ? 
 
 I owe thee nothing, nor have stolen goods 
 
 Of thine in my possession. 
 Lar. Be not angry. 
 
 Stay ; I must talk with thee. 
 Quer. I have no leisure. 
 
 Lar. Stay, for thou must. 'Tis I, whom thou hast called 
 
 In terms of accusation. 
 Quer. I accused 
 
 Fortune and Fate. 
 Lar. I am thy household god, 
 
 Whom thou call'st Fate and Fortune. 
 Quer. It is strange. 
 
 I know not what to think ; but this appears 
 
 One of the Genii or the Mysteries. 
 
 His robe is white, and radiance is around him. 
 Lar. Though thy complaint is baseless, Querolus, 
 
 I am moved by it, and have come to render, 
 
 What never Lar to mortal did before. 
 
 The reason of thy state. Now, tell thy grievances. 
 Quer. The day would not be long enough. 
 Lar. Well, briefly : 
 
 A few ; the heaviest. 
 Quer. One only question 
 
 Resolve me : wherefore do the unjust thrive, 
 
 And the just suffer ?
 
 Horce Dramaticcs. yy 
 
 The Lar proceeds to interrogate Querolus, as to 
 his right to include himself in the latter class ; and 
 having led him to confess himself guilty of robbing 
 orchards as a boy, of perjuring himself as a lover, 
 of intriguing with his neighbour's wife as a man, 
 and of sundry other peccadilloes, which society 
 tolerates and justice condemns, he concludes that 
 he has no right to look on himself as an egregious 
 specimen of injured virtue. 
 
 Querolus, nevertheless, insists that much worse 
 men are much better off. He has suffered by a 
 false friend ; his father has left him nothing but his 
 poor house and land ; he has a slave, Pantolabus, 
 who does nothing but eat and drink enormously ; 
 his last crops were destroyed by a storm ; he has a 
 bad neighbour. To all which the Lar answers : 
 Many fathers have not even left either house or 
 land : others have had many false friends, many 
 drunken slaves, many bad neighbours : he is well 
 enough with only one of each. Querolus specifies 
 somebody who abounds in worldly comforts. But, 
 says the Lar, he has an incurable malady. How is 
 your own health } Querolus is quite well. The Lar 
 asks. Would you change conditions ? Is not health 
 the first of blessings ? Querolus admits that he is 
 the best off of the two; but still insists that, though 
 positively it is well with him, it is ill, comparatively 
 with others. The Lar then gives him his choice of 
 conditions. Querolus first desires military glory ; 
 then civil honours. The difficulties and troubles 
 of both being shown, he rejects both, and desires
 
 78 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 a private life of affluence, in which his riches may 
 give him sufficient authority to domineer over his 
 neighbours. The Lar tells him, that if he wishes 
 to live where public law has no authority, he had 
 better go to the Loire, where every man is judge 
 in his own cause, and the stronger writes his de- 
 crees with a cudgel on the bones and skin of the 
 weaker. 
 
 This passage, Klinkhamer is of opinion, relates 
 to the Bagaudce, who, about the end of the reign 
 of Diocletian, established in that portion of Gaul 
 one of the earliest combinations of Socialism and 
 Lynch law : not without dreadful provocation from 
 the cruelties and extortions of the Roman rulers : 
 and were with difficulty reduced to submission, after 
 a war of some years, by the Emperor Maximian.* 
 The history of this Bagaudic war may be read in 
 Gibbon, chap. xiii. Querolus, not without a 
 sarcastic reflection on the innocence and happi- 
 ness of sylvan life, renounces the offered share 
 in this forest republic : goes through a series of 
 wishes for different states of life, each of which, 
 with the conditions attached to it, he successively 
 rejects : then comes to persons, whose position he 
 would like to occupy. 
 
 * Other editors assign the Querolus to the early part of 
 the fifth century, identifying the Rutilius, to whom it is 
 dedicated, with the poet Claudius Rutilius Numatianus, and 
 pointing out that the Bagaudie continued to be more or less 
 troublesome for two hundred years. The mention of the 
 solidus, first coined by Constantine, seems a conclusive 
 argument against Klinkh'amcr's date. — G,
 
 Hor(2 DrainaticcB. 79 
 
 Quer. Give me at least the money-chests of Titius. 
 
 Lar. Yes, with his gout. 
 
 Quer. No gout. 
 
 Lar. Nor money-chests. 
 
 Quer. Why, give me, then, the troop of dancing-girls, 
 
 Which the new-come old usurer has brought with 
 him. 
 Lar. Take the whole chorus : take Cytheris, Paphia, 
 
 Briseis : with the weight of Nestor's years. 
 Quer. Ha ! ha ! and wherefore ? 
 Lar. The old usurer has it. 
 
 The years and dancing-girls must go together. 
 Quer. This will not do. Well, give me impudence.* 
 Zar. Be impudent, and dominate the forum : 
 
 But with the loss of wisdom. 
 Quer. Why ? 
 
 Lar. The impudent 
 
 Are never wise. 
 Quer. W^hy, then, are no men happy ? 
 
 Lar. Some are : not those you think so. 
 Quer. If I show you 
 
 One rich and healthy too, is he not happy ? 
 Lar. You see the healthy body : not the mind : 
 
 That may be sick with envy, hope, or fear, 
 
 Ambition, avarice unsatisfied. 
 
 The face shows not the heart. What if, in public 
 
 Joyous, he mourns at home ? Loves not his wife ? 
 
 Or loves too much, and dies with jealousy? 
 
 Querolus gives up the discussion, and leaves his 
 fate to his Lar. The Lar tells him, he shall be 
 rich in spite of himself; he shall do all in his 
 power to send away his good luck, but it shall 
 
 * Querolus seems to have thought with Butler : 
 " He that has but impudence 
 To all things has a just pretence."
 
 8o Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 force itself upon him : with several other ambigui- 
 ties of prophecy, over which he leaves Querolus 
 marvelling. Querolus, after a soliloquy, in which 
 he expresses his perplexity, goes on. 
 
 Mandrogerus enters, with Sycophanta and Sar- 
 danapalus. Mandrogerus has laid a scheme for 
 getting possession of the buried treasure, without 
 giving any portion of it to Querolus, and has 
 selected the other two knaves as his instruments. 
 
 Mandrogerus exults in his anticipated success. 
 But Sycophanta has had a dream of bad omen : 
 
 Syc. I saw last night the treasure, which we hope 
 To get into our hands. 
 
 Mand. What then ? 
 
 Syc. I saw 
 
 Pieces of gold : but only as a glimpse, 
 Through barbed hooks and rings, and little chains. 
 
 Mand. Didst thou not dream of fetters too, and lashes ? 
 
 Sard. Oh, inauspicious dreamer ! I explode thee. 
 And thy ill omens. I had my dream too : 
 'Twas of a funeral. 
 
 Mand. The gods prosper thee ! 
 
 Sard. We paid the last rites to I know not whom. 
 
 Mand. 'Tis well. 
 
 Sard. And wept the dead, although a stranger. 
 
 Mand. These arc good signs : dreams go by contraries : 
 Funerals show joy : and tears belong to laughter. 
 I also had my dream. I know not who 
 Told me, the fates assigned to none but me. 
 To find the buried gold : but it should profit me, 
 Only so much as I might swallow from it. 
 
 Syc. Most admirable dream ! What other use 
 
 Can we have for it, but to eat and drink it ? 
 
 They proceed to reconnoitre the locality, ac-
 
 Horcs Dramatical. 8 1 
 
 cording to the indications received from Euclio : a 
 little temple : a silversmith's shop : a lofty house 
 with oaken doors. They remark that the upright 
 bars are wide apart, and not defended with tenter- 
 hooks ; showing an inhabitant who has nothing to 
 fear from thieves. Mandrogerus then inquires, if 
 they exactly remember the description of the in- 
 terior. They repeat it accordingly. The portico 
 on the right hand of the entrance. Three little 
 images in the sacrariui/i* An altar in the middle. 
 The gold before the altar. So far all is right. 
 They thoroughly understand their parts. The 
 business of ]\Iandrogerus is to divine. That of the 
 other two is to lie. Mandrogerus goes out to 
 abide his time. His accomplices watch the coming 
 of Querolus, who enters well-disposed, by his pre- 
 vious interview with the Lar, to credulity in super- 
 natural matters. They stand aside, pretending 
 not to see him, and talking as if they did not mean 
 to be heard. He catches some sounds which in- 
 duce him to listen. 
 
 Sard. I have known magi and astrologers ; 
 
 But never one like this. Soon as he sees you, 
 He calls you by your name : expounds your parents, 
 Slaves, family : the history of your life : 
 All you have done, and will do. 
 
 Qiter. (apart. ) This must be 
 
 A man worth seeing. 
 
 * Sacrarium here signifies a place set apart to sacred pur- 
 poses in a private dwelling. The nearest corresponding 
 modern term is oratory. 
 
 F
 
 82 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Sard. 
 
 Let us lose no time 
 
 
 In seeking him. 
 
 Syc. 
 
 I would most willingly ; 
 
 
 But, at this moment, I have not the leisure. 
 
 Quer. 
 
 I would fain seek him too. Hail, friends. 
 
 Syc. 
 
 We answer 
 
 
 Thy friendly salutation. 
 
 Quer. 
 
 Is your talk 
 
 
 Of secrets ? 
 
 Sard. 
 
 Secrets to the general ; 
 
 
 Not to the wise. 
 
 Qtter. 
 
 I seemed to catch a mention 
 
 
 Of some great magus. 
 
 Sard. 
 
 One most wonderful 
 
 
 In divination. Who, or whence, I know not. 
 
 Quer. 
 
 Is he so deep in art ? 
 
 Sard. 
 
 Most absolute : 
 
 
 Wherefore, I pray you, vSycophanta, come 
 
 
 Straightway to visit him. 
 
 Syc. 
 
 I have friends at home. 
 
 
 Awaiting me on urgent business. 
 
 Sardanapalus over-rules Sycophanta's objections. 
 Querolus entreats to be of their party. They make 
 many difficulties, and at last consent. Sycophanta 
 suggests to Sardanapalus, that the astrologer may 
 be an impostor ; and, anticipating all the scruples 
 that Querolus might have raised, completes the 
 conquest of his confidence. While they are dis- 
 cussing, Mandrogerus most opportunely comes in 
 sight, walking slowly onward, in profound medita- 
 tion. They stop him, and respectfully request to 
 be permitted to consult him, and imbibe some 
 portion of his wisdom. He answers, like one over- 
 flowing with it, and most bountiful in its distribu-
 
 HorcE Dramatical. 83 
 
 tion, that he is at leisure, and will answer any 
 questions they please to ask. 
 
 They begin with questions, respecting the powers 
 to be propitiated; the offerings to be made to 
 them ; the secondary instruments through which 
 they deliver their oracles : stars ; celestial and 
 terrestrial prodigies ; consecrated animals ; harpies, 
 geese, and cynocephali : a very curious enumera- 
 tion of powers, never otherwise than malevolently 
 exerted, unless under the influence of abundant 
 gifts and sacrifices, though it is not the god himself 
 who exacts them, but his door-keeper : in all which, 
 while popular superstitions are obviously and 
 ostensibly, Klinkhamer thinks the corruptions and 
 oppressions of the several authorities of the state 
 are covertly satirised. 
 
 Sycophanta receives this exposition as thoroughly 
 discouraging all application to the powers in ques- 
 tion ; and solicits an explanation of some more 
 simple method of solving the mysteries of destiny. 
 
 Mand. First, much depends upon the natal hour, 
 Whether a man be born to a good fate : 
 Next, by propitiation of the Genii, 
 Who govern Fate's decrees, to make that good 
 Which at the first was ill : by their kind power. 
 If Evil Fortune dwell within the walls. 
 She may be charmed, and bound, and carried forth. 
 
 Quer. This were most excellent ; but that we may 
 With confidence obey you, having told us 
 Much that you know, tell something that you know 
 not. 
 
 Mand. Assuredly, I know none of you three, 
 By any previous knowledge.
 
 84 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Sard. That is certain. 
 
 Mattd. First, then, to thee. Thy name is Sardanapalus : 
 
 Poor and low-bom. 
 Sard. 'Tis so. 
 Maiid. A poor man's child. 
 
 Mocked with a royal name. 
 Sard. . I can't deny it. 
 
 Maud. An idler and a glutton : petulant : 
 
 Calamitous thyself, and a calamity 
 
 To all who know thee. 
 Sard. Eh ! Mandrogerus ! 
 
 I did not ask thee to proclaim my vices. 
 Mand. I may not lie. What hast thou more to ask ? 
 Sard. I have heard too much already. If thou hast 
 
 Aught more, reserve it for my private hearing. 
 Syc. Now to my turn, Mandrogerus : tell my fortune : 
 
 So much of it as may be good : no more. 
 Mand. I must begin from the beginning : Thou 
 
 Art Sycophanta, and of noble birth. 
 Syc. 'Tis true. 
 
 Mand. A worthless subject from the first. 
 
 Syc. Alas ! 
 Mand. Pressed down by wrongs, compassed by perils 
 
 From steel, and fire, and water. 
 Syc. It would seem 
 
 That thou hadst lived with me. 
 Mand. Nought of thy own 
 
 Is left to thee : but much of other men's.* 
 Syc. Too much : too much. Pray favour me no further. 
 
 Turn to this worthy man. 
 Mand. Step forward, friend : 
 
 Thy name is Querolus. 
 Quer. 'Tis even so. 
 
 Mand. What is the hour ? Between the sixth and seventh, 
 Quer. Nothing escapes him : he propounds his question 
 
 * Acs aliemiin. Debt.
 
 HorcB Dramaticcs. 85 
 
 And straightway answers it, like a clepsydra.* 
 Maiid. Mars now is trigon. Saturn looks to Venus. 
 
 Jupiter is quadrate. Mercury is wroth with him. 
 
 The sun is round. The moon is in her spring, t 
 
 I have combined thy genealogy, 
 
 Querolus. Evil Fortune presses thee. 
 Qjier. It is too true. 
 Mand. Thy father left Ihec nothing. 
 
 Thy friends give nothing. Thou hast a bad neigh- 
 bour ; 
 
 A worthless slave. 
 Quer. 'Tis so. 
 
 Mand. His name Pantolabus. 
 
 Thou hast another slave : his name is Zeta. 
 Quer. . 'Tis manifest. 
 
 Syc. Divine astrologer ! 
 
 Mand. Shall I describe thy house ? Full well thou knowest 
 
 I ne'er was in it. 
 Quer. I would gladly hear. 
 
 Mand. Entering, the portico is on the right ; 
 
 And the sacrarium opposite. 
 Quer. Exactly. 
 
 Mand. In the sacrarium are three little statues : 
 
 One of the household God ; two of the Genii. % 
 Quer. Thou hast proved thy knowledge. Now produce the 
 remedy 
 
 Of my ill fortune. 
 Mand. That is quickly done ; 
 
 Without delay or cost. Is the sacrarium 
 
 Secret and solitary ? 
 
 * Clepsydra : a water-clock, by which time was measured, 
 as by an hour-glass. 
 
 t Peacock has evidently not grasped the technical signifi- 
 cation of saltn, any more than the French translator who 
 renders it danse. The meaning is that the moon is increas- 
 ing in light. — G. 
 
 X The Genius Loci : and the Genius Domini.
 
 86 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Quer. Even so. 
 
 Mand. Nothing concealed there ? 
 
 Qiier. Nothing there at all ; 
 
 Except the images. 
 Mand. There must be performed 
 
 A solemn rite : but thee and every one 
 
 That rite excludes. 
 Qtier. So be it. 
 
 Mand. ' And by strangers 
 
 The rite must be performed. 
 Quer. So let it be. 
 
 Mand. Could we find any on so short a notice : — 
 
 'Twere well and opportune, if these would aid us. 
 
 The two knaves, on the invitation of Querolus, 
 very obligingly promise their assistance : and 
 Querolus desires Pantolabus to run for his friend 
 and neighbour, the Arbiter.* Mandrogerus, who 
 does not like this sort of witness, urges Querolus 
 not to delay. The hour is auspicious. The com- 
 bination of stars is most promising. Mandrogerus 
 asks Querolus if he has an empty box. Querolus 
 replies, he is too well provided with empty boxes. 
 One will be necessary, says Mandrogerus, to carry 
 out the lustrum. '\ And they go in to perform 
 their ceremonies. 
 
 The next scene brings in Pantolabus, who in- 
 
 * Arbiter. The Arbiter was a magistrate, whose especial 
 duty was the determination and apportionment of inherit- 
 ances. He is sent for by Querolus, only as a friend : but in 
 the concluding scene, his peculiar office is brought into play. 
 
 t The lustrum is the residue of the purification, in which 
 residue, the evil or pollution to be removed, is absorbed and 
 included.
 
 Hor<B Draviaticco. 87 
 
 dulges himself in a long soliloquy ; first complain- 
 ing of his master's unreasonableness in objecting 
 to petty thefts and waste of property : in keeping 
 strict accounts, and requiring the full change of 
 his money : in begrudging his domestics their own 
 quantities of sleep and wine: in requiring them, 
 when he gives them holidays, to return to their 
 day : in storming, if he sees finger-marks on his 
 drinking-cups : in discovering immediately, if an 
 amphora has been cracked and sealed up again, or 
 if an abstracted portion of wine has been replaced 
 by water : in detecting abrasions of silver and gold. 
 And his friend the Arbiter is worse than himself. 
 He gives half-allowance of food and double allow- 
 ance of work. Querolus feeds his household well, 
 and is not exacting of hard labour. He is the 
 best of the two, but too much given to scolding, 
 and too liberal with his whip. But the life of 
 domestic slaves is not so bad as some think. 
 They are thought drowsy and stupid, because they 
 sleep in the day. But this they do, because they 
 keep it up at night. The night is their day. 
 Then they bathe, then they feast, then they enjoy 
 themselves. The worst of thieves are masters, who 
 sit up late themselves, and steal part of the night 
 from their servants. In many respects, the master 
 is their servant. He has to find the revenue, they 
 have to consume it. 
 
 He then fancies he hears his master calling, to 
 know why he loiters; and thinking it very hard 
 that he cannot take his own time about his errand,
 
 88 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 utters a string of maledictions, and takes his 
 departure. 
 
 Now come in the three rogues, and Querolus 
 with the box. 
 
 Mand. Lay down the burthen. Thou hast done enough 
 To satisfy religion, in thyself 
 Aiding to bear 111 Fortune out of doors, 
 
 Quer. Thy art is mighty. What a sudden weight 
 
 Has come into this box ! 'Twas light for one, 
 And now o'erburthens two. 
 
 Majid. Dost thou not know 
 
 Nothing is heavier than Evil Fortune ? 
 
 Quer. Too well I know it. 
 
 Mand. The Gods favour thee. 
 
 No house was ever purified as thine is. 
 All the bad luck it held is here made fast. 
 We'll bear it to the river's deepest pool, 
 Where its own weight shall send it to the bottom. 
 But Evil Fortune, even from that depth, 
 May rise to trouble thee. Therefore observe, 
 To keep thy doors close bolted night and day, 
 Till three days end. Admit nor friends nor kindred : 
 Not even Good Fortune, shouldst thou hear her 
 
 knocking. 
 That period past, thy house is clear for ever. 
 
 Quer. I shall observe. 
 
 Mand. Shut close. Bars, locks, and chains. 
 
 Quer, No fastening shall be spared. Farewell, great 
 Master. 
 
 The accomplices are now in undisturbed pos- 
 session of their prize. They had kept Querolus 
 out of the sacrarium, while they whipped the urn 
 into the box ; and now determine on proceeding 
 to a solitary spot on the river-side, where they may
 
 HorcB Dramaticce. 89 
 
 break up the vessel, and after abstracting the 
 treasure, sink the fragments in some unfathomable 
 pool. 
 
 These being gone, Pantolabus comes in with the 
 Arbiter, In reply to some inquiries of the Arbiter 
 concerning his master, Pantolabus thanks him for 
 the good advice he gives, and the good example 
 he sets, to Querolus, in relation to the treatment 
 of servants. 
 
 Pant. Would that he had your manners : were as 'gracious. 
 
 Indulgent, patient, kind, as you with yours. 
 Arb. I take your praise, Pantolabus, at its value : 
 
 You do me too much honour. 
 Pa7it. We all know you, 
 
 And give you all the thanks you so well merit. 
 
 Would all we have wished for you might betide you ! 
 Arb. And may you feel, in your own bones and skins, 
 
 Whatever favours you would shower on me. 
 
 Pantolabus excuses himself from any double 
 meaning. The Arbiter is satisfied. He expresses 
 his surprise at finding the doors closed. They 
 knock, and call, and receive no answer. Pantola- 
 bus conducts him to a small back-door, which, 
 even if that be also closed, he knows how to open. 
 
 The accomplices return, full of lamentation and 
 superstitious terror. They had dug up, and carried 
 off, a funeral urn. 
 
 Mand. Oh me, unhappy ! 
 
 Syc. Oh me, miserable ! 
 
 Sard. Oh me, most miserable, naked and shipwrecked ! 
 
 Mand. Oh, Sycophanta ! 
 
 Syc. Oh, Sardanapalus !
 
 90 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Sard. Oh, great Mandrogerus — father and master ! 
 
 Unhappy comrades, veil your heads in mourning. 
 This is much worse than to have lost a man. 
 This is the loss of losses.* Where are now 
 Your hopes of power and wealth? All turned to ashes. 
 False hope has barbed the sting of poverty. 
 
 Maud. Lay down, poor friends, your melancholy burthen. 
 Our tears are due to this cinereal urn. 
 Oh, most false treasure ! have I followed thee 
 Through seas and winds ? Made prosperous naviga- 
 tion? 
 Magic and mathematics have I studied. 
 That buried men might cheat me ? And expounded 
 Their fate to others, ignorant of my own ? 
 Here is a buried father. I, who wept not 
 My own, now mourn a stranger's. Querolus 
 Mourns not, to whom alone this grief is due. 
 
 Sard. Oh, cruel treasm-e ! What was the disease 
 
 That carried thee from life ? What funeral pyre 
 Turned thee to ashes? Us, thy expectant heirs, 
 Why hast thou disinherited, oh treasure ? 
 Whether shall we, cut off without a sesterce. 
 Now bend our steps ? 
 
 Mand. Look to the urn once more. 
 
 Read over the inscription. 
 
 Sard. Funeral relics 
 
 I cannot touch : nothing I dread so deeply. 
 
 Syc. Thou hast a timid soul, Sardanapalus. 
 
 * — majore domus gemitu, majore tumultu, 
 Planguntur nummi, quam funera. Nemo dolorem 
 Fingit in hoc casu, vestem deducere summam 
 Contentus, vexare oculos humore coacto. 
 Ploratur lacrimis amissa pecunia veris. 
 
 Juv. xiii. 130-134. 
 Feigned sorrow oft in funeral rites appears ; 
 The loss of gold is wept with real tears.
 
 HorcB DraniaticcB. 9 1 
 
 {Reads) Here Lies Trierinus, vSon of Tri- 
 
 CIPITINUS, 
 
 Deposited and Buried. Oh me, miserable ! 
 
 My heart is in my throat. The smell of gold, 
 
 I have heard, is always sweet : * but this is redolent 
 
 Of dire aromata ; t even through the mass 
 
 Of treacherous lead, J that covers down the ashes. 
 Mand. So well perfumed, the dead has been much honoured. 
 Syc. Had I but listened to the magpie's warning, 
 
 I had not fall'n in this calamity. 
 Sard. Nor I, had I obeyed the admonition 
 
 Given me this morning by a crop-tailed dog. 
 Mand, What admonition? 
 Sard. As I left the house, 
 
 He ran between my legs, and tripped me backward. 
 Marid. What had I done to thee, old Euclio, 
 
 Thou shouldst deride me in thy life and death ? 
 Syc. What shall we do now ? 
 Mand. What remains to us, 
 
 But to revenge ourselves on Euclio's son, 
 
 And make us pastime of his credulous fear ? 
 
 Peep in, and mark. Take care he sees you not. 
 Sard. He and his men are ranged within the doors, 
 
 All armed with rods and cudgels. 
 Mand. Keeping guard 
 
 'Gainst Evil Fortune. Now approach, and frighten 
 them. 
 
 Say thou art she, and threaten to break in. 
 
 * -. Lucri bonus est odor ex re 
 
 Qualibet. Juv. xiv. 204, 5. 
 
 Alluding to the well-known anecdote of Vespasian. — 
 Sueton, Vesp. 23. 
 
 t Alluding to the sweet herbs which it was customary to 
 lay over the ashes ; and which may have been placed in the 
 urn by Euclio, to increase the deception. 
 
 X The lead was well imagined, to give probability to the 
 apparent weight,
 
 92 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Sard. Ho ! Querolus ? 
 
 Quer. Who calls ? 
 
 Sard. Quick ! let me in. 
 
 Quer. For what ? 
 
 Sard. That I may enter my old quarters. 
 
 Quer. Zeta ! Pantolabus ! stand by the doors, 
 
 Hence, Evil Fortune ! whither the Great Master 
 
 Conveyed thee. 
 Sard. He predicted my return ; 
 
 And I am here. 
 Quer. Wert thou Good Fortune even, 
 
 Thou shouldst not enter. 
 Mand. Thunder at the door. 
 
 To draw the men aside, while through the window 
 
 We cast this funeral urn. Oh, Querolus ! 
 
 Receive the treasure which old Euclio left thee, 
 
 Such wealth be ever thine, and such thy children's. 
 
 Now, all on board, lest from this sacrilege 
 
 Arise some peril to our liberties. 
 
 They make off accordingly ; but Sardanapalus 
 cannot be satisfied, unless he enjoys the terror of 
 Querolus, on receiving through his window a visit 
 from the dead. He puts his ear to the door. He 
 is astounded by shouts of joy and the jingling of 
 gold. The broken urn has scattered its contents 
 on the floor. He hastens back to his comrades ; 
 thinking that if he remains, he may be apprehended 
 for a thief, without having the pleasure of their 
 company. 
 
 The Lar enters again : — 
 
 Lar. The urn has yielded up its weight of gold ; 
 Rendered true faith to its depositor ; 
 Deluded the deluders ; robbed the thieves,
 
 Horm DramaticcB. 93 
 
 The simulated death gives the son life, 
 
 Restoring what the living father hid. 
 
 Hence let men learn, that none may win or lose. 
 
 But by the will of a divinity.* 
 
 My office is absolved to Querolus ; 
 
 But now that thief and cheat, Mandrogerus, 
 
 Will I draw thither, to put forth his claim 
 
 To half the treasure, on old Euclio's letter. 
 
 Where he shall find himself in deep dilemma, 
 
 And bear the burthen of his own misdeed. 
 
 Querolus, and his friend the Arbiter, enter, discuss- 
 ing the circumstances of the buried treasure, the 
 provident device of EucHo, the singular modes of 
 abstraction and restoration. Mandrogerus enters, 
 and after some preliminary, presents the letter. 
 Querolus reads it : 
 
 ' Euclio bids health to his son, Querolus. 
 
 Dreading to trust a stranger, or a slave, 
 
 I send my faithful friend, Mandrogerus, 
 
 To show thee, without fraud, what I have left thee. 
 
 This being done, give him one half the treasure. 
 
 In compensation of his faith and pains.' 
 
 Quo: You were, abroad, my father's friend and comrade ? 
 
 Mand. The letter shows it. 
 
 Quer. Show me, then, the treasure 
 
 Which we are to divide. 
 
 Mand. I have delivered it 
 
 Untouched to you. 
 
 Qucr. Indeed ! 
 
 Maiid. Do you deny it ? 
 
 Quer. Tome? an untouched treasure? Why, what treasure? 
 
 Mand. That which your father left. 
 
 * There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew them how we may.
 
 94 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Quer. Where is it, then ? 
 
 Here is the Arbiter, to make partition. 
 Aland. I say 'tis in your hands. 
 Quer. From yours ? 
 
 Maud. From mine. 
 
 Quer. 'Twas in your hands, then ? 
 Aland. Yes, and might have stay'd there : 
 
 The whole : I only claim my honest share. 
 Quer. You stir not hence until you render it. 
 Jlland. Why, I have rendered it. 
 
 Quer. To wrhom ? When ? How ? 
 
 Aland. To-day. Here. Through the window. 
 Quer. Whence, then, came it ? 
 
 Mand. From the sacrarium. 
 Quer. How went it thence ? 
 
 Aland. Out through the door. You bore it out yourself. 
 Quer. You were to show it to me without fraud. 
 
 But this is idle talk. The thing appears not. 
 
 Where is this treasure ? 
 Aland. I have given it to thee. 
 
 I swear by all the gods. 'Twas in an urn. 
 
 I pitched it through the window. 
 Quer. Brave confession ! 
 
 This, then, is he, oh worthy Arbiter ! 
 
 Who hurled into my house that funeral urn. 
 
 I'autolabus, the fragments. — Can you read 
 
 What here is written ? 
 Aland. I have read, and read it. 
 
 " Here lies Trierinus, son of Tricipitinus, 
 Deposited and buried." 
 
 Quer. Not content 
 
 With failing in your duty to the living, 
 You have made sport and mockery of the dead ; 
 Broken into the tomb ; dug up the ashes ; 
 Borne them abroad into the public way ; 
 Stolen the treasure which was buried with them ;
 
 HorcB DramaticcB. 95 
 
 And hurled the fatal relics through the window, 
 To scatter on the floor, and thus pollute 
 The house thou first hadst plundered. 
 Mand, Fare thee well. 
 
 I seek no more. Fortune abandons me. 
 
 Querolus, however, will not let him go. They 
 examine and cross-examine him ; threaten to take 
 him to the prsetor ; but give him the choice of the 
 charge which they shall make against him, whether 
 it shall be for robbery or sacrilege. He tries a 
 defence on each charge severally, and gives up 
 both points in despair, leaving it to them to charge 
 him with whichever they please — either the theft, 
 which he could not commit, or the sacrilege, which 
 he would not have committed. But he throws 
 himself on their mercy, and only entreats to be 
 allowed to depart. The Arbiter now intercedes 
 for him, as having been really, however unfaith- 
 fully, the means of Querolus's wealth. And 
 Querolus, who had been previously disposed to be 
 generous towards him, agrees to give him main- 
 tenance, and receive him into his household. 
 
 Sycophanta and Sardanapalus then present them- 
 selves. They solicit a small participation in 
 Querolus's bounty. They are aware, that one 
 house does not take three hungry idlers ; but they 
 implore a moderate donation, to speed them on 
 another quest. Querolus replies : 
 
 Let the beaten parasite 
 Have compensation for his injuries.
 
 96 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 And immediately follows a sort of epilogue, in 
 the form of a senatus-consultum, fixing a tariff of 
 compensation for torn clothes, bruises, broken 
 bones, and all other forms of injury to which para- 
 sites are liable. This was most probably subjoined 
 as an exposition of Querolus's last words. 
 
 In this view of the conclusion, we follow the old 
 reading : Mercedem vulnerum victus recipiat Para- 
 situs. In convivio si fiierit vesfe discissus, &c. 
 Klinkhiimer terminates the comedy thus : 
 
 vulnerum mercedem victus recipiat. 
 
 Pauca desiderantur. 
 
 And after some preliminary, presents the final 
 passage as a pannus assutus : 
 
 Parasitus. In convivio si fuerit, &c. 
 
 Three of the editors of this comedy, and many 
 other writers, have spoken of it in the highest 
 terms of praise. Gruter and Pareus disparaged it. 
 Cannegetier thinks that " none can disparage it 
 but those who do not understand it." The ill- 
 humour of Gruter and Pareus appears to have 
 been excited chiefly from the MSS. bearing on the 
 title Plauti Querolus ; but this was not the fault of 
 the author, who speaks of himself as treading in 
 Plautus's steps. The assignment of the authorship 
 to Plautus must have been very ancient, for 
 Servius, in his Commentary on Virgil (^n. Hi. 
 226), cites it as Plauti Querolus.
 
 Horce Dramaticos. 97 
 
 Danielis calls it " a comedy, not less remarkable 
 as a singular relic of antiquity, than admirable from 
 the novelty of its argument." Rittershusius says, 
 this comedy " requires no eulogium from him, 
 being sufficiently recommended by its wonderful 
 variety of argument, the gravity of its sentences, 
 and the elegance of its comic diction." Klink- 
 hamer concurs in these estimates, and adds the 
 commendation of exemplary propriety and mo- 
 desty. He expresses his surprise, that a work so 
 well worthy to be generally read should have been 
 left to lurk in the libraries of the curious. 
 
 Barthius panegyrizes " the simple elegance and 
 acute sense of the colloquies, and their excellent 
 adaptation to the several characters of the 
 speakers — adding, that "the more it is read, 
 the more its sense and eloquence will be per- 
 ceived." 
 
 Klinkhamer's pains on this comedy have been 
 worthily and successfully bestowed. We feel 
 grateful to him, for the form in which he has pre- 
 sented it to us ; and shall be highly gratified if our 
 readers shall derive, from our necessarily limited 
 exposition, any portion of the pleasure which we 
 have received from the work itself.
 
 98 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 [Published in Fraser's Magazine for April 1852.] 
 
 THE PHAETHON OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 It had long been known that there existed in 
 the hbrary at Paris a manuscript called the Codex 
 Claromontanus, containing an inedited fragment, 
 or fragments, of Euripides ; and many reclama- 
 tions on the subject had been uttered from Ger- 
 many, but without any result, till Immanuel Bekker, 
 passing through Paris, transcribed it, and commu- 
 nicated it to Hermann, who subsequently received 
 from H. Hasius a copy representing the MS. ac- 
 cording to the exact trace of the letters. Fortified 
 with this indispensable basis of correction, Her- 
 mann revised and edited the contents of the MS. 
 with his own emendations in 182 1 ; and thus 
 brought the world acquainted with two large frag- 
 ments of the Phaethon.* Immediately on their 
 
 * Twelve years ago, we received the following note from a 
 classical friend, who was not at the time aware of Hermann's 
 publication : — 
 
 " What is the Merops of Eripides about? Of 
 
 the Greek MSS. in the King's Library at Paris — which any- 
 body may examine for asking — No. 107 contains St Paul's 
 Epistles, and two leaves at least, ff. 162-3, are obviously 
 Palimpsest. The two leaves consist of four pages, and each 
 page of two columns of the original writing, which is in large 
 letters, and comprises a portion of the Merops of Euripides. 
 At the rate of only twenty-five lines in a column, there are 
 two hundred verses : what a noble fragment !
 
 Hor<z Dramaticce. 99 
 
 publication, he transmitted a copy to Goethe, who, 
 being struck by their extraordinary beauty, ar- 
 ranged them, and the previously known fragments 
 of the same tragedy, according to his own view of 
 their proper order \ translated them into verse, 
 fining up a few of the lacuncB with additions of his 
 own J and connected the series by an analytical 
 exposition of the probable progress of the drama. 
 
 " The second writing is of the fifth century. If we allow 
 the first waiting to be only a little more than half as old 
 again, it may be the autograph of the Tragedian himself. 
 But you will know the poet's hand, when you see it ! 
 
 ".This information was given about a century ago by 
 MontfaucoD, who adds, that in the margin may plainly be 
 seen several times, Merops, Chorus, and depa-n-ajv — the 
 names of the interlocutors. This he relates as a matter of 
 mere curiosity, not having any idea how easily erased writing 
 may be restored and read. So his examination was cursory 
 (there was no motive then to make any other), and a careful 
 search will probably discover many more than two rescribed 
 leaves. 
 
 " The information of Montfaucon has not been noticed, I 
 believe, by any person, except one Bruns, a learned German, 
 who cried out lustily about it some fifty years ago, from a 
 remote corner of Germany, to Villoison. If V. had heard 
 him, he would most likely have had a touch at the MS. 
 
 *' The printed catalogue of the French King's MSS. does 
 not remark that this is palimpsest, nor is it usual ; but it states 
 that several leaves were stolen formerly, and sold to the 
 owner of the Harleian Collection, and on learning of the 
 theft, the Earl of Oxford liberally returned them. This 
 anecdote is very remarkable, and if any portion of the lost 
 Tragedy was abstracted, only not miraculous." 
 
 [This letter must be from the pen of Thomas Jefferson 
 Hogg.— G.]
 
 lOO Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Since that period there have been several edi- 
 tions of the fragments of Euripides, in which the 
 remains of this tragedy have been arranged accord- 
 ing to the views of the respective editors. The 
 same task is performed in the valuable and ela- 
 borate work of Hartung, Euripides Restitutus. 
 The latest edition of the fragments of Euripides is 
 that of Wagner. We shall give our own view of 
 the fragments of Phacthon, noticing incidentally 
 any essential points of difference in the arrange- 
 ment, 
 
 The prologue was most probably spoken by 
 Oceanus, the father of Clymene. Phaethon, to 
 whom Hartung assigns it, could not have spoken 
 it, because he could not know all the previous 
 circumstances of his history. This perfect know- 
 ledge of the past is indispensable to the speaker of 
 the prologue ; and in cases where no mortal can 
 possess it, Euripides assigns the task to a spirit or 
 a deity — as to the ghost of Polydorus to reveal the 
 history of his murder, or to Venus to solve the 
 mystery of Phaedra's affliction. Clymene, to whom 
 Ravius and others assign it, might have spoken the 
 prologue ; but as the only fragment cited from it 
 presents her in the accusative case, this supposi- 
 tion becomes at least doubtful, although the 
 passage may admit the personal pronoun. " Euri- 
 pides," says Strabo, "represents Clymene to have 
 been given in marriage to Mcrops." Clymene 
 might have spoken of herself as having been so 
 given, though Strabo, in introducing the passage,
 
 Horce Dramaticce. loi 
 
 would necessarily substitute " Clymene " for " me." 
 Goethe, who, on the basis of the few lines remain- 
 ing, has constructed a long and mainly original 
 prologue, assigns it to the warder, watching and 
 announcing the dawn, and reciting circumstances 
 publicly and generally known. This, however, is 
 losing sight of the true character of the Euripidean 
 prologue, in all cases where the subsequent action 
 has its basis in the revelation of a fatal secret. 
 
 The prologue, then, may have been spoken by 
 Clymene : but most probably it was spoken by 
 Oceanus, and recited the love of the Sun-god for 
 Clymene; the promise which she exacted from 
 him, that he would grant one request to one child 
 of their union ; the birth of their four children, 
 three daughters, Lampetia, Aegle, and Phaethusa, 
 and one son, Phaethon ; that Clymene had been 
 given in marriage to Merops sufficiently long 
 before the birth of Phaethon to make him think the 
 child his own ; that Merops was then occupied in 
 preparations for Phaethon's marriage with a young 
 goddess, which was to take place that day ; that 
 Phaethon was determined not to marry above his 
 rank, but to seek his fortune in other lands ; that 
 Clymene, terrified by this resolve of her son, 
 would reveal to him the secret of his birth, out of 
 which would arise perils to Clymene requiring the 
 presence of her father, Oceanus, to watch over and 
 avert. 
 
 The first of the old fragments belongs to this 
 prologue : —
 
 I02 Cah'dorc, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Clymene was given in marriage 
 
 To Merops, monarch of this ocean-shore : 
 The land which first, from his four-steedcd car, 
 The ascending Sun strikes with his golden fire. 
 This land the neighbouring black-complexioned men 
 Call the Sun's Stables and the Realm of Morning. 
 
 The kingdom of Merops was, therefore, conter- 
 minal to the dominions of the Sim. That this vicinity 
 was innocuous is expressed in another fragment, 
 which also apparently belongs to the prologue : — 
 
 The Sun's fierce flame, ascending o'er the earth, 
 Most burns the distant lands : with gentler ray 
 Tempering the near. 
 
 The prologue is followed by a dialogue between 
 Clymene and her son, in which Phaethon urges his 
 objections to the proposed marriage, chiefly, it 
 would seem, on account of his inferiority in birth 
 to his bride, who is evidently a goddess, and most 
 probably Aurora. This may be inferred from 
 verse 135. We have numbered the verses for 
 convenience of reference. The following three 
 fragments appear to belong to this scene, and to 
 have been spoken by Phaethon : — 
 
 Phactlion. The free-born man becomes a slave by marriage, 
 Sold for a dowry to a loftier name. 
 A heavy doom is stamped upon the rich, 
 To lose the clearness of their mental sight. 
 Is it that Fortune, being blind herself, 
 Gives her own blindness where she showers her 
 favours ? 
 
 The air is everywhere the eagle's path * 
 And every land is to the brave his country. 
 
 * This first line is added, and the second modified, from 
 the fragments of uncertain dramas.
 
 Horce Drainatic(E. 
 
 103 
 
 We now come to the first of the two great frag- 
 ments from the Codex Claromojitanus. The same 
 scene continues : — 
 
 Clymene, I give this counsel, 
 
 Remembering the promise which he made me. 
 Ask then, one favour — whatsoe'er thou wilt : 
 One only : more thou must not seek to gain. 
 If this be granted, thou wilt truly know 
 Thy Father is the Sun ; if not, thy mother 
 Has spoken falsely. 
 
 Phaethon. How shall I approach 
 
 The burning dwelling of the god of day ? 
 
 Clymene. 'Twill be his care to keep thee safe from harm. 
 
 Phaeihon. Thou say'st well, if he be indeed my sire. 
 
 Clymene. The truth will be in time made plain to thee. 
 
 Pltaethoji. Enough. I am satisfied thou speak'st not lightly. 
 Return into the palace ; for the handmaids 
 Are coming forth, who, while the monarch slum- 
 bers. 
 Sweep down his dwelling, and with daily care, 
 Make bright the floors and purify the walls, 
 And with the native odours of our land 
 Make all the entrance fragrant. When my father 
 Shall rise from sleep, and, passing through the 
 
 gates. 
 Shall speak to me of marriage, then, departing, 
 I will approach the palace of the Sun, 
 And learn, oh mother ! if thy words are true. 
 
 This dialogue is followed by the entrance of the 
 Chorus, the handmaids already mentioned, who, in 
 the first lyrical song, present a beautiful picture of 
 the life of the early morning, and celebrate the 
 approaching nuptials of Phaethon.
 
 104 CalidorCy and Miscellanea. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 The dawn scarce glitters o'er the hills : 
 The nightingale, where trees embower. 
 Still sits in thickest shade, and fills 
 The air with song of gentlest power, 
 Pouring the soft, sad, tuneful strain, 
 For Itys, Itys, mourned in vain. 
 The reed makes music from the rocks, 
 As shepherds upland drive their flocks. 
 
 The colts in pairs to pasture go : 
 The dogs before the hunter bound : 
 And where the Ocean-fountains flow,* 
 The swan's mellifluous notes resound. 
 Vessels are moving on the deep : 
 Some by the oar's impetuous sweep ; 
 Whiltfsome, before the favouring gale, 
 Stay the tall mast, and spread the sail 
 
 These several tasks while others ply, 
 'Tis mine the palace to adorn, 
 And sing the high solemnity. 
 That opens with this opening morn : 
 The nuptials of our sovereign's son : 
 The fondly-cherished, only one : 
 Reverence and love my voice employ, 
 To raise the song of festal joy. 
 
 For servants share the master's weal, 
 And well with song his bliss may greet : 
 
 * The Ocean was a great river, surrounding the earth ; 
 and the seas were inlets from it. Being a river, it had, of 
 course, its fountains, which are here placed on the extreme 
 eastern shore. 
 
 + A portion of the MS. is here illegible.
 
 Horcc Dramatic(S. 105 
 
 Not less ordained his pains to feel, 
 When on him Fortune's tempests beat. 
 Long have I prayed this hour to see, 
 When masters so beloved by me 
 Might see the torch of Hymen glow : 
 Time brings al)out, and gods bestow 
 On my lord's son the nuptial bond : 
 Let song to song in joy respond. 
 
 Silence awhile : for from the palace gates, 
 Preceded by the sacred Herald, come 
 The monarch and his son. The king will speak 
 His sense of what befits the auspicious day, 
 When Phaethon receives his heaven-born bride. 
 
 Merops and Phaethon now come from the palace, 
 preceded by the herald, who calls on the people to 
 assemble, and listen in silence to the voice of the 
 king. 
 
 Herald. People, by Jove's bounty placed 
 On this Ocean-bordering plain, 
 Hither from your dwellings haste : 
 Reverence this benignant reign. 
 I the nuptial rite declare — 
 Happy issue thence I pray — 
 Which the father and his heir 
 Come to celebrate to-day. 
 All around in silence stand : 
 Hear the monarch of the land. 
 
 Of the oration of Merops only four words are 
 legible in the Codex : — 
 
 If I speak well. 
 
 But two of the previously known fragments may be 
 most probably assigned to this oration of Merops.
 
 io6 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 I count not him among the wise of mortals, 
 
 Who, as a father to ill-minded children, 
 
 Or, as a king, to subjects, gives free licence. 
 
 One anchor does not hold a ship as safely 
 
 As that which lays out three. * A single chief 
 
 Is to a city a precarious guard : 
 
 A second, equal-minded, serves it well. 
 
 From which it would seem that Merops informed 
 the people of his intention not only to unite his 
 son to a bride of exalted birth, but to give him an 
 equal share of his throne. 
 
 Goethe assigns these passages, and several others, 
 to a dialogue between the Sun and Phaethon, 
 supposing the scene changed for a time to the 
 Solar Palace. The political reflections thus put 
 
 * Pindar says ((9/. vi.) — "Two anchors are good to hold 
 by in stormy weather." Boeckh expounds : " One from the 
 head, and one from the stern." This would lay the ship 
 broadside on to the sea, and swamp her. He must have 
 been thinking of a ship moored head and stern in a tide- 
 river. This mistake has been copied by subsequent editors ; 
 showing that knowledge of words alone will not suffice for 
 an expositor, without some knowledge of the subject-matter. 
 It would be curious to see how Boeckh and his followers 
 would deal with Euripides's third anchor : whether they 
 would lay it out from amidships. We remember a facetious 
 publication, in which a lady 'asks her learned husband, 
 "whether the Greeks saw sun, moon, and stars, sea, rivers, 
 fields, and trees, as we do?" " Yes, my dear," he replies, 
 " they saw the same things as we do, but they saw them in 
 Greek," "Bless me!" says the lady, "that must have 
 been very puzzling." It is only through this sort of Greek 
 medium that our learned professors could have seen a ship 
 riding out a gale of wind.
 
 Horce DrnmaticcB. 1 07 
 
 into the mouth of the Sun he thinks very much 
 out of place — which makes it the more singular 
 that he should so have assigned them. The 
 change of scene, also, from the Palace to Merops 
 of that of the Sun, and back to the Palace of 
 Merops, is contrary to the principles of the Greek 
 drama, is altogether unnecessary, and destroys the 
 simplicity of the tragedy. 
 
 With respect to the scene between Merops and 
 Phaethon, Goethe observes : " Unfortunately the 
 next scene is all but lost : but it is easy to see 
 that its dramatic capabilities were great. A father 
 who has prepared for his son a magnificent 
 marriage-festival, and a son who has declared to 
 his mother that in the midst of these prepara- 
 tions it is his intention to steal away and under- 
 take a perilous adventure, present the most 
 intensely-striking opposing influences, of which it 
 can scarcely be doubted Euripides took full ad- 
 vantage in the development of the dialogue." 
 
 Goethe proceeds to assign to this dialogue the 
 arguments of Phaethon against marriage, which, 
 concurring with Wagner and Bothe, we have 
 assigned to the preceding scene with Clymene. 
 It is not probable that Phaethon stated his objec- 
 tions to the proposed marriage to Merops : his 
 purpose was, apparently, to accomplish it, if he 
 should find himself equal in birth to his goddess- 
 bride : he would therefore have dissembled with 
 his supposed father, reserving to himself the ulti- 
 mate decision on the result of his interview with
 
 io8 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 the Sun, which he might safely do, as the com- 
 pletion of the ceremony was reserved for the 
 evening. Merops, indeed, as is evident from 
 subsequent fragments, went on uninterruptedly 
 and unsuspiciously with the preparations for the 
 marriage. 
 
 Phaethon has departed : has obtained from his 
 reluctant father permission to drive the chariot of 
 the Sun : and early in his ascent has been struck 
 down by a thunderbolt from Jupiter. There is 
 now a long break in the series of fragments : but 
 one of the fragments of uncertain dramas appears 
 to belong to this part of the tragedy. 
 
 The form, late flourishing in youthful beauty, 
 Has like a falling-star been quenched, and poured 
 Its living breath on the ethereal waste. 
 
 We may assume that a thunder-peal has been 
 heard, and that something has been seen in the 
 distance. " Hurled headlong flaming from the 
 ethereal sky." Clymene and the chorus under- 
 stand the catastrophe : but it is probable that a 
 messenger announces the particulars. Another 
 uncertain fragment may perhaps be placed here. 
 
 Many has thunder's bloodless wound destroyed. 
 
 The fragment next in order belongs to Clymene. 
 
 The corpse of him most dear to me is left, 
 To rot, unwashed, amid accessless rocks. 
 
 This passage is preserved by Plutarch, who 
 quotes it as not agreeing with the received
 
 Hor(B DramaticcB. 109 
 
 opinion, that bodies killed by thunder do not 
 decay, and that neither beasts nor birds will 
 touch them. 
 
 In another fragment Clymene abhors the sight 
 of everything which reminds her of her son. 
 
 I hate the well-slung bow of corneil-wood : 
 
 All sports, all games, are horrid to my thoughts. 
 
 The presence of the bow reminded her of the 
 exercises in which Phaethon had acquired the 
 daring which led to his destruction. 
 
 We now come to the second of the great frag- 
 ments of the Codex Clarotnontanus. 
 
 The body of Phaethon is brought in, and con- 
 tinues to exhale a sulphureous smoke. 
 
 The sight redoubles the grief of Clymene, and 
 at the same time fills her with terror for herself, 
 lest the truth should become known to Merops. 
 
 Clynieite. The Fatal Fury, living in the dead, 
 
 Breathes forth the vapour of sulphureous fire. 
 Oh ! I am lost. Why haste you not to bear 
 The corpse within ? Haste ! for my husband comes. 
 Leading the virgins of the nuptial train. 
 Quickly draw near, and wipe away the spots, 
 If blood, perchance, have fallen on the ground. 
 Oh, hasten, hasten, handmaids : I will hide him 
 Within the marble chambers, where the king 
 Preserves his treasure : I alone possess 
 The keys. Oh, light-bestowing deity ! 
 How hast thou mined me, and this, thy child ! 
 Well among mortals art thou called Apollo, 
 By those who read the mystic names of gods. 
 
 The name Apollo is here alluded to as signify-
 
 1 10 Calidore, and Miscellanea, 
 
 ing Destroyer. Cassandra makes a similar allusion 
 in the Agamemnon of ^schylus. It is to be ob- 
 served, however, that the Sun and Apollo are 
 always distinct deities in Homer and ^schylus, 
 though Euripides, in this passage, appears to treat 
 them as one. We say appears, for it is not quite 
 clear that he does so. The last line, more literally 
 translated, is : 
 
 By those who know the unspoken names of gods. 
 
 And Apollo might have been the epithet of the 
 two deities, though given openly to Phoebus, and 
 tacitly to Helios. 
 
 The body is borne into the palace. Clymene 
 follows it. Merops enters at the head of the 
 Hymeneal Chorus. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hymen, oh Hymen ! now we sing, 
 
 Thee, of the bridal train the king, 
 
 From whom all bliss proceeds ; 
 
 And her, Jove's daughter, heavenly bright, 
 
 Venus, who to the nuptial rite 
 
 The happy virgin leads. 
 
 Oh, Cypria, ever young and fair, 
 
 O loveliest of the queens of heaven ! 
 
 To thee I raise the choral prayer ; 
 
 And to thy son, to whom is given. 
 
 In links of mutual love to bind 
 
 The sons and daughters of mankind. 
 
 Oh Hymen, Venus, Love ! combine 
 
 To bless our ancient sovereign's line. 
 
 And honour, in this regal dome. 
 
 The bride who leaves her starry home,
 
 Horcs DramaticcB. in 
 
 Our youthful lord to grace. 
 Greater is his than monarch's pride, 
 Who gains the love of such a bride : 
 Alone of earthly race, 
 Who weds a daughter of the sky : 
 Whom mortals and immortals vie 
 To bless : whose peerless high estate 
 Earth's utmost bounds shall celebrate. 
 Merops. Go thou : lead in these damsels : bid the queen 
 With solemn Hymeneal dance and song 
 Surround the altars of the gods, within 
 The palace, and the sacred seat of Vesta 
 First, as the truly pious always use, 
 Approach with prayer . . . 
 
 . from my house be given, 
 A dower worthy the celestial bride. 
 
 Attendant. Oh king ! in haste my steps have left the palace : 
 For, from the marble chambers of the treasure 
 Pour, through the joints and fissures of the doors, 
 Thick streaks of blackening smoke : showing 
 
 within 
 No trace of flame : but fume of smouldering ashes. 
 But hasten inwards, lest the sudden wrath 
 Of Vulcan should involve the walls in fire. 
 Amidst these happy nuptials of thy son. 
 
 Merops. How say you ? Sec that you have not mistaken 
 The smoke of sacrifice, which I have ordered 
 From all the altars, for this smoke you speak of. 
 
 Attendant. I have well noted. All is clear, except 
 As I have said. 
 
 Merops. Knows my wife this, or not ? 
 
 Attendant. The queen is all intent on sacrifice. 
 
 Ma-ops. I go, then : such beginnings, if neglected, 
 
 May lead to fearful ends. Oh, Queen of Fire ! 
 
 * MS. illegible.
 
 112 Calidore, and Miscellatiea. 
 
 Daughter of Ceres ! and thou, bounteous Vulcan ! 
 Look on my dwelling with benignant eyes. 
 
 Merops goes in, and the Chorus expresses its 
 fears. The Chorus of Virgins, which sung the 
 Hymeneal Song, appears to have gone back into 
 the palace, and the Chorus of Female Slaves in the 
 confidence of Clymene, who had assisted her to 
 carry in the body, and had left the stage to the 
 Hymeneal Chorus, have now returned to their 
 place. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Where shall I stay my flying feet ? 
 How, where no mortal eye their trace can see, 
 In air, or earth's profound obscurity, 
 
 Find an inscrutable retreat ? 
 
 Alas ! alas ! the wretched queen, 
 
 And her dead son, in vain concealed, 
 
 Her grief, her shame will now be seen, 
 
 And all the fearful truth revealed. 
 Revealed will be the Sun's illicit love. 
 The fire-imprinted wound, the lightning-brand of Jove. 
 Oh wretched with immeasurable grief, 
 Daughter of Ocean ! to thy Father spread 
 Thy hands in prayer, to speed to thy relief. 
 And chase the perils which o'erhang thy head. 
 Merops {witkin). Alas ! alas ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Hear'st thou the monarch's groans ? 
 Merops. My child ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 He calls on him who cannot hear : 
 Who lies before him, manifest in death.
 
 HorcB DramaticcE. 1 1 3 
 
 Here ends the Claromontane manuscript. A few 
 previously known fragments remain. One belongs 
 to Merops : 
 
 The acclaiming multitude drove from my mind 
 My own subjection to calamity.* 
 
 The rest belong most probably to the final 
 speech of Oceanus, who intervenes to reconcile 
 Merops to Clymene, and explain the circumstances 
 of Phaethon's fate. It is clear that what passed 
 between the son and father, during the ascent of 
 the chariot of the Sun, could be known only to a 
 deity. We therefore think Wagner and Hartung 
 are in error in assigning these passages to the 
 mortal messenger who announced to Clymene the 
 fall of Phaethon. Herein we concur with Bothe ; 
 but we cannot concur with him in thinking that 
 the tragedy was closed by an epilogue from the 
 Sun. There is neither ground nor precedent for 
 the intervention of two deities, f 
 
 Oceanus then narrates the Sun's reception of 
 Phaethon, and Phaethon's exaction of the promise 
 
 * Southey expresses a similar sentiment in the " Curse of 
 Kehama : " 
 
 For nature in his pride has dealt the blow, 
 And taught the Master of Mankind to know. 
 Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe. 
 t The Hippolytus is not in point, two deities both favour- 
 able to the same persons. Venus opens it as an avenger, 
 and Diana closes it as a comforter. Each has her own 
 distinct interest in the case ; but Oceanus and the Sun had 
 an equal interest in Clymene. 
 
 H
 
 1 1 4 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 made to his mother. The Sun had urged him to 
 desist from his rash purpose. 
 
 Touch not the reins, my child, unskilled to hold them, 
 Nor mount the car thou hast not learned to guide. 
 
 The next passage is preserved by Longinus : 
 " The Sun, giving the reins to Phaethon, says : — 
 
 " Drive not within the Lybian atmosphere ; 
 Having no moisture, 'tw^ill not bear thy wheels, 
 But send them downward. * 
 
 " And further on : — 
 
 " Direct thy course on the seven Pleiades. 
 
 This having heard, he seized the reins, and struck 
 The fire-winged steeds, and launched them on their 
 
 course, 
 Along the folds of their ethereal way. 
 The sire, behind, rode by the Sirian f star, 
 
 * This seems to imply, that the elastic force of the vapour, 
 generated in a moist atmosphere by the heat of the solar car, 
 tended to give it buoyancy. There is another passage, Inc. 
 Fab. Frag. 46, in which the breath of water and fire is 
 enumerated among the things that are mighty : — 
 
 Aeo'at 5e ■wora.ii.ov Kal irvpbs ^ep/xov irvoal : 
 which Wagner thinks remarkable, as tending to show that 
 the power of steam was known to the Athenians. 
 
 t Sirius, immediatelybeforehiscosmical rising, was, poeti- 
 cally considered, close behind the Sun. The Sun, therefore, 
 riding either with or before Sirius, was in the best position 
 to advise his son to whom he had abandoned the absolute 
 guidance of the car. — See the postscript to this article. 
 
 Used singly, and without any explanatory adjunct, ao-TTjp 
 signifies the sun, and to aarpov the dog star ; but the adjec- 
 tive aarpiKSs is simply starry, and belongs to no star in 
 particular.
 
 HorcB DramaticcB. 1 1 5 
 
 Admonishing his son : ' Tend thitherward ; 
 This way direct the chariot ; this way, now.' 
 
 " Would you not say that the spirit of the poet 
 ascends the chariot with Phaethon, and sharing his 
 peril flics with the fire-winged steeds ? for unless it 
 were carried in equal course with these celestial 
 works it could not present such vivid phantasies." 
 To this narration we may assign a remarkable 
 fragment, cited by Athen^eus without the name of 
 the play, being part of a description of the horses 
 of the Sun. 
 
 One of flower-loving Bacchus, 
 . .^thops, who ripens the autumnal grapes, 
 Whose name men give to wine.* 
 
 It would seem, that one of the four horses was 
 separately dominant in each of the four seasons, 
 and that each had its own tutelar deity. 
 
 The last preserved passage must be very near 
 the close of the speech of Oceanus, and relates to 
 the burial of Phaethon under the shade of his 
 sisters, metamorphosed into poplars. 
 
 Cool-shadowing trees 
 Shall spread their fond arms o'er his loved remains. 
 
 That this portion of the fable was adopted both 
 by ^schylus and Euripides, we have the authority 
 of Pliny. 
 
 ^schylus had preceded Euripides in the treat- 
 ment of this subject, in the tragedy of the Heliades : 
 the Daughters of the Sun. 
 
 * See the frequent ai'^oTra oLvov in Homer.
 
 ii6 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Of this tragedy too little is preserved to enable 
 us to form an idea of its plan. 
 
 The three sisters of Phaethon might have formed 
 the Chorus, as the three Furies form that of the 
 Eumenides. We do not agree with those learned 
 Germans, who are for resolving every Chorus into 
 one Procrustean number. We think the Chorus 
 of the Etunmides was three, and that of the Sup- 
 pHants fifty. Of this hereafter. Hermann thinks 
 the sisters of Phaethon could not have formed the 
 Chorus, because the Chorus must remain to the 
 end, and the metamorphosis of the sisters is (as 
 above noticed) included in the tragedy. But the 
 metamorphosis might have been the subject of 
 prophecy, or might have commenced as the 
 drama closed, like the sinking of the rock in 
 Prometheus. 
 
 yEschylus makes the Po run westward into the 
 ocean ; therefore the Ocean-nymphs might have 
 formed the Chorus, or the Nymphs of the Po. 
 But on the precedents of the Eumenides, the 
 Choephoroe, and the Suppliants, we think it most 
 probable that the Chorus gave its title to the 
 tragedy. 
 
 The Chorus might, however, have been more 
 numerous, as mythologists are not agreed about 
 the number of the sisters of Phaethon. Hyginus 
 makes them seven. 
 
 The Scholiast on Homer, Od. xvii. 208, makes 
 Phaethon and his three sisters the offspring of the 
 Sun and of Rhoda, daughter of Asopus ; represents
 
 HorcB DramaticcB. 1 1 7 
 
 the wandering of the solar car, the conflagration of 
 the earth, the striking of Phaethon by the thunder- 
 bolt, his fall into the Po, and the incessant weeping 
 of his sisters, whom Jupiter, in compassion, changes 
 into poplars, and their tears into amber. " This 
 story," says the Scholiast, " is to be found in the 
 tragic poets ; " from which Welcker infers that, as 
 it is not the story of Euripides, it must have been 
 the story of ^schylus. But Hermann holds, that 
 the words of the Scholiast mean no more than that 
 the subject of Phaethon had been treated by the 
 tragic writers, though the Scholiast gave the com- 
 monly received story in his own way. 
 
 According to Pliny, ^schylus places the Po in 
 Iberia, and represents it as identical with the 
 Rhone, and running westward into the ocean. At 
 the same time, it is clear from one small fragment, 
 
 The Adrianian women shall preserve 
 The form of lamentation, 
 
 that ^schylus placed the course of the Po not 
 far from the Adriatic. It is probable, therefore, 
 seeing how little at that time the Athenians knew 
 of Italy, that he gave the general name of Iberia to 
 the whole tract of country lying between the 
 Adriatic and the ocean-coast from the Rhone to 
 the Pillars of Hercules. 
 
 The most important fragment of the Heliades is 
 preserved by Athenseus, xi. p. 469, where he is 
 treating of the golden cup, in which the Sun passes 
 in slumber from west to east, under the shadow of
 
 1 1 8 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 night, below the visible boundary of the ocean. 
 He gives on this subject passages of Stesi-chorus, 
 Antimachus, Mimnermus, Theolytus, Pherecydes, 
 and, amongst them, the following of ^schylus, 
 being unquestionably part of an address by the 
 Chorus to Phaethon : we adopt Hermann's 
 reading : — 
 
 Where, on the limits of the western deep, 
 The golden vessel, framed by Vulcan's art, 
 Awaits thy sire's descent. When he has found 
 Refuge and rest beneath the thickest gloom 
 Of sacred sable-steeded Night, therein 
 He holds his billowy, long, circumfluous way. 
 
 There are two fragments of uncertain dramas 
 which Hermann thinks may be assigned to the 
 Heliades : one which may be aptly addressed to 
 discourage the rashness of Phaethon : — 
 
 'Tis wrong to bear a too swift-footed course, 
 For none who fail have credit for good counsel. 
 
 The other may have been spoken by the 
 Heliades, comparing their fate with that of the 
 Pleiades, and justifying, by example, their incessant 
 lamentation : — 
 
 The seven illustrious daughters 
 Of Atlas wept their father's heavy toil. 
 Bearing the weight of heaven ; where now they wear 
 The forms of mighty splendour, wingless Pleiads. 
 
 Whatever was the plan of ^schylus, it was in 
 all probability confined to the fate of Phaethon 
 and his sisters. Euripides, we may agree with
 
 HorcB Dramaticce. 119 
 
 Hartung, "varied and extended the argument by 
 introducing the nuptial preparations and the peril 
 of Clymene. Clymene became thereby the prin- 
 cipal character. This change was the source of 
 the many excellences by which this drama was dis- 
 tinguished ; and how great these were, any one 
 capable of judgment must understand from its 
 remains." 
 
 Goethe prefaces his restoration by expressing his 
 sense of the profound reverence with which such 
 precious remains are to be approached, and re- 
 marking on the simple tragic grandeur of the fable, 
 in which the action is confined to the locality, and 
 not extended to the whole universe, as in Ovid and 
 Nonnus, so that the interest is concentrated on the 
 persons of the drama. 
 
 According to the view which we have taken of 
 the arrangement, the action begins with the dawn. 
 The discussions of Phaethon with Clymene and 
 Merops, and his departure for the Palace of the 
 Sun, take place before sunrise. His fall occurs 
 while he is yet on the ascent. The thunder-clap, 
 and the fall, as of a meteoric mass, announce the 
 catastrophe to Clymene and the Chorus. The 
 early bolt of Jupiter prevents the calamities which 
 the longer course of Phaethon, in the later poets, 
 inflicts on the world. The Sun apparently, how- 
 ever grieving for his child, resumes the vacant 
 place, and the solar chariot continues its way 
 through the heavens. The nuptial preparations, 
 begun by the old king in his morning hope, are
 
 1 20 Calidorc, and Miscellanea. 
 
 continued by liim, in ignorance of the fate of his 
 supposed son, till nearly the evening. The anguish 
 and fears of Clymene are separated by the nuptial 
 Chorus from the discovery of the catastrophe by 
 Merops, his consequent mourning and anger. The 
 intervening deity then reconciles the husband to 
 the wife, and points to both a melancholy consola- 
 tion in the eternal rest of Phaethon under the shade 
 of his sisters, weeping amber on his tomb. 
 
 " May after-time," says Goethe, " discover more 
 of this inestimable work ! I almost envy the 
 happiness of those who may live to see it, and 
 may be thereby further excited to persevere in the 
 study of antiquity, whence solely pure education, 
 and the advancement of the nobler humanities, are 
 to be hoped and expected." 
 
 In this vow and in these hopes we most fully 
 and cordially concur; thinking, as we do with 
 Harris, that the "golden period" of Grecian great- 
 ness, within which the Athenian tragic theatre 
 flourished, was " a providential event in honour of 
 human nature, to show to what perfection the 
 species might ascend." * 
 
 Postscript. 
 
 We said we should notice, incidentally, any 
 
 essential differences in the arrangement. We did 
 
 not add, in the interpretation ; for this would lead 
 
 us too far from our present purpose into criticism 
 
 * Hermes, book iii. chap, v.
 
 Horce DramaticcB. 121 
 
 on various readings. This passage, however, 
 having been the subject of much controversy, and, 
 what is worse, of an " emendation," which has 
 found favour, though it appears to us one of the 
 most monstrous ever made, we hope to be excused 
 if we make it an exception to our rule of critical 
 abstinence. 
 
 The passage, as it stands in all the best editions 
 of Longinus, is : 
 
 IIoTTj/) 5' 6in(Td€ vura ^eipiov /3ej3ws 
 "iTTTreve, iraiSa vovderuv. 
 
 Rutgersius {Vance Leciiones, L. Bat. 16 18), pro- 
 posed as an emendation 'S.npaiou. This has been 
 rejected by the editors of Longinus: Faber, ToUius, 
 Pearce, More, Toup, Weiske ; and almost as un- 
 animously adopted by the editors of the fragments : 
 Barnes, Musgrave, Dindorf, Bothe, Wagner. It 
 seems to us difficult to imagine a more outrageous 
 absurdity. 
 
 2itpa7og, or csipu^opog /Wo$, is the outer horse on 
 either side. The inner horse is the yoke horse. 
 The CiipaTog occurs in Sophocles, with the addition 
 of ^'i^iog, to show that it was the outer horse on 
 the right side. ^schylus and Euripides use 
 ffi/pa(p6pog in a general sense, as characterising either 
 co-operation or freedom of action ; but, in a par- 
 ticular sense, neither of these words would be 
 properly used without expressing the right or left 
 side. 
 
 The Sun rode behind. Behind, with reference
 
 122 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 to the chariot, obviously. But how can the adverb 
 oT/ffJs be construed with mra, so as to make it 
 signify behind the back of the horse ? And then 
 what becomes of /Weus? How could the Sun 
 ride behind the back of the horse, unless he rode 
 on his tail ? But if he rode on him at all, he 
 would be a postilion to his own chariot, and take 
 on himself a share in its guidance, which he had 
 indisputably abandoned, wholly and exclusively, 
 to Phaethon. 
 
 And if he placed himself behind the horse, with- 
 out riding on him at all, he would only be self- 
 supported : floating in vacuo. Mythology gives all 
 the gods vehicles : excepting only those who have 
 wings. Apollo and Vulcan fall from heaven. 
 Mercury never starts on his errand till he has tied 
 on his talaria. 
 
 We concur with the editors of Longinus in re- 
 jecting Rutgersius's emendations and in adhering 
 to the MS. reading, ^npiov. 
 
 We concur with Toup and Weiske in rejecting 
 the interpretation which some have given to 'S.iipiog, 
 equus astricus. If this had been otherwise correct, 
 Euripides would not have used the term vaguely : 
 he would have specified the star to which the horse 
 belonged. But there is no authority for such an 
 interpretation ; nor for supposing that the Sun had 
 any rest-horses, like a modern four-in-hand. His 
 four steeds were immortal and unchangeable, like 
 himself.
 
 Horce DramaticcB. 123 
 
 The literal translation of the passage, as it stands 
 
 in Longinus, is : 
 
 The Father, behind, having gone on the back of Sirius, 
 Rode, advising his son. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine the God of Day riding 
 on the back of a dog : even of the Canis Cxlestis. 
 
 But the name Sirius does not necessarily suggest 
 the idea of a dog. If 2£/>/o; be correctly derived 
 from 2s/> "Sol, teste Suida" (Steph. Thes. ed. 
 Valpy. p. 8288), 2s/>/r;j acTT,? is Stella Solaris, the 
 Star peculiarly belonging to the Sun, as his auxiliary 
 in the diffusion of heat. " This Star is also called 
 the Dog of Orion : " but Sirius is another name of 
 the Star, not the name of the Dog. 
 
 In passages where poetical dignity is given to 
 the personified Star, he is called only Sirius. 
 Quintus Smyrnaeus seems to give a chariot and 
 horses to Sirius in the passage cited by Toup : 
 
 Otos o'e/c irepaTcov dvacpalverai 'ilKeavolo 
 'HAtos, 6-rir)Tuiv iirl x6(>va irup dnap(}<T<rwv, 
 Ilvp, '6re ol TrwXottn Kal dpfj-aat <TVfj.(pip€T' iffTrjp 
 "ZeipLos . 
 
 " As the Sun appears, rising up from the limits 
 of ocean, radiating splendid fire on the earth : 
 when the Star Sirius is borne, together with him, by 
 horses and chariots," — i.e., when the chariots and 
 horses of Sirius and the Sun run side by side along 
 the circle of the sky. 
 
 The MSS. of Longinus have all oTiGkv ura, from 
 which the editors have made o'riah vura, dropping 
 the aspirate.
 
 1 24 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 A reading, still nearer to the MSS. than that 
 which has been adopted, would be o'xis&'' b wra: 
 
 "iTTireve, iraiSa vovderuv. 
 
 " The Father, having gone behind, in that part 
 of the sky in which were the res Sirii (Sirius him- 
 self, his chariot and horses), rode, admonishing his 
 son." We suggest this, with all deference : but we 
 think it a presentable lection. 
 
 The Greeks computed their canicular days from 
 the heliacal rising of Sirius — the time when his 
 rising first becomes visible in the morning twilight 
 — which is not till he is about fifteen degrees in 
 advance of the Sun : in other words, when the Sun 
 is about fifteen degrees below the horizon, at the 
 time of the rising of the Star. 
 
 The cosmical rising of Sirius (the time when he 
 rises with the Sun) is therefore about fifteen days 
 earlier than the heliacal. Intermediately, the Star, 
 being in the path of the Sun, is lost in the splendour 
 of his rays. 
 
 At Athens, in the time of Euripides, the heliacal 
 rising of Sirius, by an approximate computation, 
 occurred in the beginning of July : the cosmical, 
 consequently, just after the middle of June. 
 
 It occurred, therefore, before the close of the 
 period within which the nightingale sings : the 
 season distinctly marked in the beginning of the 
 tragedy, vv. 4i-45- 
 
 Immediately before his cosmical rising, Sirius, 
 as we have said, poetically considered, was close 
 behind the Solar chariot.
 
 HorcB DraviaticcB. 1 2 5 
 
 *lTTg'j«/v is used for riding in a chariot. "HX/os 
 aiz/TTguwv, in the prologue of Ion, is the rising 
 Sun. 
 
 If we were to make a picture in our minds of 
 the position, we should place the chariot of Sirius 
 behind the chariot of the Sun, a little on one side : 
 the horses of Sirius abreast of the solar wheels : 
 Sirius, not as a dog, but as a sidereal deity ; and 
 Helios standing by him in the chariot, on the side 
 nearest to Phaethon. 
 
 No. III. 
 [Published in Eraser's Magazine for October 1857.] 
 
 THE "FLASK" OF CRATINUS. 
 
 Prisco si credis, Maecenas docte, Cratino, 
 Nulla placere diu, nee vivere carmina possunt, 
 Quce scribuntur aquae potoribus : ut male sanos 
 Adscripsit Liber Satyris Faunisque poetas. 
 Vina fere dulces oluerunt mane Camcenre. 
 Laudibus argiiitur vini vinosus Homerus. 
 Ennius ipse pater nunquam, nisi potus, ad arma 
 Prosiluit dicenda. Forum putealque Libonis 
 Mandabo siccis, adimam cantare severis. 
 
 No water-drinker's verse, if faith you give 
 To old Cratinus, long can please, or live. 
 Bacchus assigned to bards, at most half-sane, 
 Their place with Fauns and Satyrs in his train. 
 Homer so praises wine, you clearly tell 
 By that alone, he liked it passing well.
 
 1 26 Calidore, arid Miscellanea. 
 
 Old Ennius ne'er sprang forth of arms to sing, 
 Without the aid that strong potations bring. 
 Let those who drink not, and austerely dine, 
 Dry up in law : the Muses smell of wine. 
 
 Hor. Epist. I. 19. 
 
 Cumberland translates Tlurhri flagon : but, as it 
 had a wicker coat, it was more properly a flask ; 
 much larger, however, than anything we are accus- 
 tomed to call so. It was, in fact, a flask in con- 
 struction, and a flagon in capacity; a sort of 
 pocket-pistol for Pantagruel. 
 
 The loss of this comedy is one of the greatest in 
 the wreck of the Greek drama ; not merely from 
 what must have been its intrinsic value, but from the 
 remarkable circumstances attending its production. 
 
 Aristophanes, in a parabasis of the Knights, re- 
 proached the Athenians with their neglect of their 
 most illustrious comic poets when they had grown 
 old and past the power of dramatic production ; 
 and instanced Cratinus, who had once, amidst 
 their tumultuous applause, rushed along in an 
 irresistible torrent, uprooting oaks, and planes, and 
 enemies ; when, in all festivals, nothing was heard 
 but some of his choral songs ; and now that his 
 intellect was dimmed, and his lyre was unstrung, 
 and his coronal was dry, and himself as dry as his 
 coronal, perishing with thirst, they had no pity for 
 him ; whereas, for the sake of his former victories, 
 he ought to be drinking in the Prytaneum, and 
 seated in becoming apparel in the most honourable 
 place of the theatre.
 
 Horcs Dramatic(B. 1 27 
 
 Cratinus, less grateful for the honour done to 
 his past achievements, than indignant at the dis- 
 paragement thrown on his present decline, pro- 
 duced, at the age of ninety-seven, his comedy of 
 the Flask, and carried off the first prize against the 
 Clouds of Aristophanes, which, in the judgment of 
 Aristophanes himself, was the best of all his 
 comedies. Aristophanes was third in this contest, 
 Amipsias being second with his Koiuios* 
 
 In the Flask, Cratinus introduced Comoedia, as 
 his wife, seeking a divorce from him on the ground 
 of his having neglected her, and giving himself up 
 to his. mistress, Metha, which signifies not drunken- 
 ness, but addiction to drink ; the Beuverye of Rabe- 
 lais, t Here, as in many other Greek dramas, the taste 
 
 * Konno-s was the preceptor of Socrates. The purpose of 
 this comedy, like that of the Clouds, was probably to laugh 
 at Socrates. In a fraginent which appears to belong to it, 
 Socrates is called " best of the few, and vainest of the many," 
 and is praised, perhaps ironically, for his fortitude in going 
 about with a threadbare cloak and worn-out shoes, yet, with 
 all this manifest poverty, never condescending to flatter. 
 Vain is here used, not in our ordinary sense of the adjective, 
 but in that which we give it when we say adverbially in vain. 
 Labour in vain. Coming to nothingness. This is the sense 
 of " Vanity of vanities," in Ecclesiastes. Socrates is ad- 
 dressed as the best of the few — the few being the good ; but 
 at the same time, as a singularly useless member of the 
 State ; the most remarkable specimen of a man taking much 
 trouble with no result. 
 
 + Qui feut premier, solf ou beuverye? Soif : car qui eust 
 beu sans soif durant le temps dinnocence ? Beuverye : car 
 privatio pmsiipponit habituvi. — L. i. c. 5.
 
 c 
 
 128 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 of the Athenians for judicial pleadings may have 
 been largely indulged, in the advocacy of their re- 
 spective claims by Comoodia and Metha, each 
 holding that Cratinus belonged exclusively to her. 
 
 The fragments of this comedy are few and brief; 
 but they throw some light on its scope and 
 progress. 
 
 The first two in order are from a speech of 
 Comccdia. 
 
 Now I would turn attention to this question, — 
 
 Whether, being thus devoted to a rival. 
 
 To her, and for her he calumniates me ? 
 
 Old age and wine have wrought this change upon him, 
 
 That he thinks nothing equal to his Metha. 
 
 II. 
 Once I was his dear wife, but now no more so. 
 
 The Athenians mixed water with their wine, and 
 to this practice that of Cratinus himself was not an 
 exception. Comoedia, in the next fragment, repre- 
 sents him as so absorbed in his favourite beverage, 
 that all his ideas, even of female beauty, were ex- 
 pressed in images drawn from it. 
 
 III. 
 Now if he looks upon a youthful beauty, 
 He asks, if one of her to three of water 
 Would be a pleasant mixture ? 
 
 Cratinus begins his reply by something like a 
 forensic formula, of which several examples are 
 adduced from Greek orators.
 
 Horce Dramaticce. 1 29 
 
 IV. 
 
 You see the preparation and the purpose. 
 That is, you see how my adversary has got up 
 the case against me. He then proceeds to repu- 
 diate the mixture of one to three, which had been 
 assumed to be his taste. 
 
 V. 
 
 I like not one to three, but half and half. 
 And then '^vindicates his taste for wine by the 
 sentence : — 
 
 VI. 
 
 A water-drinker brings forth nothing wise. 
 
 This hne has been preserved by the author of an 
 epigram in Athenaeus.* 
 
 " ' Nought wise a water-drinker's brain can spin ; ' 
 So sang our old Cratinus in his jollity, 
 Redolent daily, not of one good skin, 
 But a whole barrel of the choicest quality. 
 
 " ' Wine is the poet's Pegasus,' he said. 
 
 Through all his house were Bacchic garlands spread, 
 And ivy wreathed his brow, like Bacchus's own head." 
 
 As an illustration of his proposition, the wine that 
 is in him overflows in a splendid dithyrambic, 
 which draws from one of the interlocutors the fol- 
 lowing expressions of admiration : — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, King Apollo ! what a stream of words ! 
 
 The springs resound : from his twelve-fountained throat 
 
 Ilissus rolls in flood. What can I say ? 
 
 * P. 39. c- 
 I
 
 1 30 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Unless some stop his mouth, the gushing torrent 
 Will bear down all before it. 
 
 After this, Comoedia appears to have been asked 
 how, if the judgment were given in her favour, she 
 would keep her husband sober ? 
 
 VIII, 
 
 — How, how can any one 
 Keep him from drink ? from too much drink ? 
 
 COMCEDIA. 
 
 I know. 
 I will come down like lightning on his wine-tubs : 
 Burn up his casks to ashes : smash all vessels 
 That minister to drink : he shall not have 
 So much unbroken as a vinegar- cruet. 
 
 Meineke thinks that Cratinus becomes penitent, 
 returns to his first wife, and dismisses Metha ; 
 which he infers from the next fragment : — 
 
 IX. 
 I feel and own my wickedness and folly. 
 
 But we cannot see more in this, than repentance 
 for having aUogether discarded Comoedia, and 
 taken exclusively to Metha. No. Cratinus re- 
 mained what he was to the last : or Aristophanes 
 could never have said that he died of a broken 
 heart on seeing the running to waste of a barrel of 
 wine which had been fractured in a Lacedaemonian 
 incursion. 
 
 The other fragments are short, and throw little 
 light on the subject, and we cannot state from 
 evidence the termination of the fable. Neverthe- 
 less, we think the premises, as we have them, point
 
 HorcB DramaticcB. 131 
 
 to only one conclusion. Comcedia and Metha 
 each severally pleaded her exclusive right to 
 Cratinus ; Cratinus demonstrated that his devotion 
 to Comcedia would be unavailing without the in- 
 spiration of Metha ; and they finished, like the 
 heroines of a German tragedy, by agreeing to live 
 in harmony with the hero and each other. 
 
 There are some traces of a festival, in which 
 Cratinus eats and drinks abundantly, and which 
 probably, with its festal songs, wound up the 
 drama. 
 
 We may presume the comedy to have contained 
 some choice dithyrambics, not only in the torrent 
 of verse poured forth by Cratinus himself, and so 
 singularly panegyrized in a passage previously cited, 
 but in the choral odes ; and that in these Bacchus 
 was celebrated conjointly with the Athenians, as in 
 the few fragments of the dithyrambics of Pindar 
 which have been spared to us. 
 
 The Greek Bacchic Chorus grew out of the 
 songs of the vintage ; recitations between the choral 
 songs grew into dialogues, and progressively into 
 the drama. Cratinus is justly regarded as the 
 father of the Old Comedy. It is claimed for him, 
 as for yEschylus in Tragedy, that he was the first 
 who established order in the disposition of the 
 scenes, limiting the number of the speakers to 
 three : which Horace lays down as a rule of the 
 drama : Necquarta loqui persona laboret ; and that 
 from jokes, which had aimed only at exciting 
 laughter, he took to lashing public and private vice
 
 132 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 in all its forms, and administered his flagellations 
 with more justice than mercy. The Old Comedy 
 thus became a mighty instrument of moral and 
 political censure, and the satiric rod was wielded 
 most effectively by Cratinus, Eupolis, and Aristo- 
 phanes, whom both Horace and Persius cite as 
 their three great precursors in the poetical denuncia- 
 tion of rascals. The Old Comedians had, in fact, 
 an unlimited lawful authority to say whatever they 
 pleased of anybody : they spared neither gods nor 
 men ; and they exercised, during about sixty-four 
 years, a very salutary control over profligates and 
 demagogues, till the licence degenerated into 
 abuse ; or, in other words, became obnoxious to 
 parties in the State who had sufficient power to 
 coerce it. 
 
 Our present purpose, however, is not with the 
 moral and political censorship exercised by the Old 
 Comedy, but with the doctrine of which the 
 " Flask " furnishes the text — the necessary depend- 
 ence of good poetry on good liquor. 
 
 Homer's Demodocus has a cup of wine by him,* 
 to drink as his mind may direct. Hercules, the 
 finest gentleman of antiquity, according to Lord 
 Monboddo.f — and though not himself a poet, one 
 of the greatest subjects of poetry — is distinctly 
 characterised by his love of strong potations. 
 
 Wordsworth, though himself a water-drinker, 
 
 • Odyss. viii. 70. 
 
 t " Horace, who was, after Hercules, the finest gentleman 
 of antiquity."
 
 HorcB DramaticcB. 133 
 
 could sympathise with Fancy and Feeling in their 
 Bacchic expression, and could not resist the 
 pleasure of transcribing a portion of an ode,* in 
 which Cotton represents himself garrisoning his 
 little castle with jolly fellows, and fortifying it with 
 old sack against the artillery of winter. 
 
 Wordsworth's own genius is in no respect Bacchic : 
 it is neither epic, nor dramatic, nor dithyrambic. 
 He has deep thought and deep feeling, graceful 
 imaginings, great pathos, and little passion. Withal, 
 his Muse is as decorous as Pamela, much of a Vestal, 
 and nothing of a Bacchant, Therefore, though 
 we have cited him as a witness, we shall not treat 
 him as either plaintiff or defendant in the cause. 
 
 The inspiration of lyrical poetry by wine might 
 be amply illustrated by the theory and practice ot 
 its greatest masters, from Alcaeus downwards. 
 The Old Comedy was in its origin essentially lyrical, 
 and never lost sight of its Bacchic birth ; and 
 though the personal history of many of its brightest 
 ornaments is obscure, yet, as far as positive evi- 
 
 * In the preface to the edition of his poems published in 
 1815. The passage referred to above immediately precedes 
 the verses quoted by Wordsworth : 
 
 Fly, fly : the foe advances fast 
 Into our fortress let us haste, 
 Where all the roarers of the north 
 Can neither storm nor starve us forth. 
 There underground a magazine 
 Of sovereign juice is cellared in : 
 Liquor that will the siege maintain, 
 Should Phnebus ne'er return again.
 
 1 34 Calidore, and Miscellanea, 
 
 dence goes, there is not a single water-drinker 
 among them. 
 
 We have shown the Father of Comedy as a 
 devotee of Bacchus. According to Athennsus, the 
 Father of Tragedy was no less so, and never wrote 
 when he was sober : which led Sophocles to say to 
 him, " Oh, ^schylus ! if what you do you do well, 
 you do it, not knowing what you do." * And 
 /Eschylus occasionally justified his practice by 
 making his heroes do the same. For example, in 
 the Cabiri, he brought Jason and his companions 
 gloriously drunk on the stage ; and in the very 
 small remnants we have of this drama, we find 
 them threatening to drink up all the wine in the 
 place so thoroughly, that they will not leave even 
 a drop of vinegar. 
 
 Sophocles, though he blamed yEschylus for 
 over-indulgence in wine, was nevertheless far from 
 anti-Bacchic in his habits. We find him at Chios 
 very facetious in his cups, f 
 
 Euripides was not given to merriment; he has 
 been called ayiy.aGrog, the unlaughing, as his pre- 
 ceptor, Anaxagoras, had been before him, and 
 as subsequently was Crassus, the grandfather of 
 the Triumvir ; who is said never to have laughed 
 but once, which was at a joke of his own cracking, 
 on the congeniality of the lips and the lettuce, 
 when he saw an ass eating thistles. % Whereon 
 Cicero observes, that this single exception does 
 
 * Athen?eus, p. 428, f. f Id., p. 603, f. 
 
 X Sifnilefii. habent labra laclucam.
 
 Horce DrainaticcE. 1 3 5 
 
 not take away his title to the appellation. Euripides 
 is accused by Alexander yKtolus — who calls him 
 (jjiGoysXtag, laughter-hating — of not enlivening wine 
 with jests ; * but this shows that he did drink 
 wine, though he was not facetious in his cups like 
 Sophocles. And we may observe, incidentally, 
 that those who hold tragedy to have progressively 
 degenerated from its original grandeur in ^schylus, 
 cannot deny the simultaneous diminution of the 
 Bacchic inspiration. At the same time, we nowhere 
 find more splendid panegyrics on good liquor, and 
 its influence on the enjoyment of life, than in the 
 dramas of Euripides, especially the "Bacchae" 
 and " Cyclops," and the speech of Hercules to the 
 Attendant, in the " Alcestis : " 
 
 PIo you ! why look you thus solemn and thoughtful ? 
 It ill becomes a servant to meet guests 
 With gloomy looks ; their due is cordial service. 
 Here you receive your master's ancient friend 
 With dismal aspect and contracted brows, 
 Bending your mind to some extraneous grief. 
 Come here, that you may grow a wiser man. 
 Know you the nature of all mortal things ? 
 No ! whence should you have learned it ? Listen, then : 
 To all mankind death is the foreshown doom ; 
 Nor is there one of all who live to-day, 
 That knows if he shall see to-morrow's dawn. 
 There is no art to pierce the clouds, that hide 
 The end to which the steps of Fortune lead. 
 Now having heard and learned thus much from me, 
 Make glad your spirit : drink : the passing day 
 Esteem your own, and all the rest as Fortune's. 
 
 * Aulus Gellius ; xv. 20.
 
 I ^6 Calidore, and Miscdlmiea. 
 
 Worship especially the sweetest Power 
 
 Of Heaven to mortal men : benignant Venus. 
 
 Leave useless cares, and profit by my words, 
 
 If right you deem them, as I think you must do. 
 
 Adorn your head with wreaths, and cross this threshold 
 
 To drink with me ; and well I know the bowl, 
 
 Sparkling with joyous impulses, will drive you 
 
 Out of this dark contraction of your mind. 
 
 Men should learn wisdom from mortality ; 
 
 And 'tis my judgment that to all who pass 
 
 Their days with solemn looks and pursed-up brows, 
 
 Life is not truly life, but mere calamity. 
 
 Of the habits of Eupolis we have no direct evi- 
 dence ; but as he was // terzofra cotanto senno — 
 second in time — of the three great names of the 
 Old Comedy— 
 
 Eubolis, atque Cratinus, Aristophanesq^ie poetce* 
 we may presume that if he had formed anything 
 like a contrast to the other two, it would have 
 been recorded as a phenomenon. 
 
 Aristophanes himself, notwithstanding his jokes 
 on the vinosity of Cratinus, is said in Athenseus t 
 to have been well primed with wine when he sat 
 down to write. % And as Aristophanes has taken, 
 * Persius's enumeration is more strictly chronological : 
 audaci quicumque afflate Cratino 
 Iratum Eupolidem prcegrandi cum sene palles. 
 t P. 429. a- 
 
 X Rabelais took after his masters of the Old Comedy : " A 
 la composition de ce livre seigneurial, je ne perdy ne em- 
 ployai oncques plus ny aultre temps que celluy qui estoit 
 establi a prendre ma refection corporelle, scavoir est, beuvant 
 et mangeant. Aussi est-ce la juste heure descripre ces haultes 
 matieres et sciences profundes."— Prol. 1. i.
 
 Hor<2 DramaticiB. 137 
 
 in fame, the lead of his predecessors, it may be 
 said that the progress of comic genius kept pace 
 with that of the Bacchic inspiration. 
 
 So much for the great masters of the Athenian 
 theatre. The Middle Comedy was less poetical 
 than the Old, and the New than the Middle ; and 
 with these we descend progressively into a more 
 and more temperate region. 
 
 In the Middle Comedy, the Chorus appears to 
 have first lost its lyrical character, and finally to 
 have disappeared altogether. In the New Comedy, 
 the Chorus has no place. The Middle Comedy, 
 being interdicted from personal and political satire, 
 turned back on the mythical ages, and brought 
 forward gods and heroes ; not perhaps without 
 some covert glances at the present under the sem- 
 blance of the past. This was precisely the plan 
 on which Juvenal proposed to act. As Tigellinus 
 could not be touched with impunity, he would try 
 what could be made of ^neas and Turnus, Achilles, 
 Hylas, and the Nymphs, and the more recent and 
 real men whose ashes reposed along the Appian 
 and Flaminian Ways. 
 
 Even this course, however, was not altogether 
 safe. For though the story that Anaxandrides was 
 starved to death, by the sentence of an Athenian 
 tribunal, for a libel on the city, rests on no solid 
 foundation, it is certain that the shadowing out of 
 men in power, under names of departed heroes, 
 could not but have been attended with peril if 
 the audience perceived the application. Thus the
 
 138 CaHdore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Middle Comedy gradually subsided into pictures 
 of manners and characters of everyday life, to 
 which the New Comedy was exclusively devoted. 
 
 But both abound with praises of conviviality. 
 The remains of the Middle Comedy are redolent 
 of festivity, and the New Comedy supplied, accord- 
 ing to Plutarch, " the greatest number of pleasant 
 things to be heard as accompaniments to suppers, 
 with which it was so mixed up, that it seemed as 
 if they could be more easily carried through with- 
 out wine than without Menander ; pleasant things, 
 in sweet and familiar diction, worthy to be heard 
 by the sober, with nothing to annoy, and much to 
 delight the jovial* We do not construe this too 
 literally, as implying that wine had ceased to be 
 indispensable at suppers, for it is not easy to 
 conceive the jovial as receiving delight from any- 
 thing else in its absence; but we take it as a 
 strong expression of the great pleasure which was 
 added to banquets, by recitations of pleasant pas- 
 sages from the favourite poet of the New Comedy. 
 
 At the same time it must be admitted, that in 
 these second and third forms of comedy, every- 
 thing is more temperate and subdued than in their 
 vigorous and fiery precursor. We find in them 
 even praises of water-drinking. Eubulus (Middle 
 Comedy) says — " Pure water-drinkers are inven- 
 tive ; wine clouds the mind;" a passage which 
 is certainly ai:po(shi6vu<sov. But the interlocutor in 
 Athen?eus immediately subjoins an opposite quota- 
 * Quasi. Symp. viii. 3, p. 712, h.
 
 HorcB Dramaticce. 1 39 
 
 tion from Amphis (also Middle Comedy), to the 
 effect, that there is a power of discourse in wine, 
 and that the genius of water-drinkers is stupefied 
 by their thin potations. 
 
 There are, however, more praises of temperance 
 in wine than of pure water-drinking. Thus, there 
 are many recommendations to mix it with water,* 
 
 * Lord Monboddo, whose tastes were all Greek, warmly 
 advocates this mixed liquor : "As by Isis a plant was dis- 
 covered which furnished bread to man, so by Osiris, her 
 husband and brother, an art was invented of making a drink 
 for man. This art is what is caXltd fermeniatioii , which he 
 applied to the juice cf the grape; and so first made wine, 
 which,' although it has been very much abused (as almost 
 every production of nature and art has been by man), and 
 therefore is very properly styled by Milton, The sweet poison 
 of misused wine, may be applied to the most useful purposes ; 
 for it is the best cordial of old age, and at all times of life it 
 enlivens the spirits, and therefore Bacchus is called by Virgil 
 Lixtitix dator, and it cherishes the stomach. But it is a 
 great abuse of this liquor in modern times, to drink it pure, 
 without mixture of water, which I am sorry to observe 
 so much practised in Britain, where port, a wi^ie full as 
 strong as the best Greek wine, the Chian (as I am informed 
 by a gentleman who has been in Greece and often drank of 
 that M'ine), is drunk without any mixture of water, which 
 makes it very inflammatory and intoxicating ; whereas wine, 
 properly mixed with water, is a much better drink than pure 
 water, for it corrects the coldness and crudity of the water, 
 and, I am persuaded, invigorates the stomach, and makes it 
 more easily digest that unnatural diet, as I call it, flesh. It 
 is therefore true what Solomon has said. That wifie ivithout 
 water is not good, nor boater without zuine ; but both together 
 make an excellent drink. The ancient Greeks and Romans, 
 as they did not drink wine without water, so neither did they
 
 140 Calidorc, and Miscellanea. 
 
 and always more than half and half. Eubulus 
 introduces Bacchus himself, saying even of this 
 mixed liquor : 
 
 Three cups, no more, I mix for prudent guests : 
 The first for health : the next for love and pleasure : 
 The third for sleep, which being drained, the wise 
 Will hasten home. The fourth is not for us. 
 But insolence : the fifth belongs to clamour : 
 The sixth to riotous merriment : the seventh 
 To jeers : the eighth to rows, and summoners 
 In law : the ninth to wrath : the tenth to madness. 
 Fighting, with bowls for missiles. Thus, much wine. 
 Poured into one small vessel, trips up equally 
 The minds and heels of the drinkers. 
 
 Philemon, second only to Menander among the 
 authors of the New Comedy, was himself a model 
 of temperance (it does not appear that he was a 
 water-drinker), and lived more than a century; but 
 
 drink water without wine, if they could get wine ; and the 
 Roman soldier, who could not afford wine, rather than drink 
 pure water, mixed vinegar with it, and made of it a liquor 
 called Posca. Virgil, therefore, has very properly described 
 the use of wine, when, speaking of Bacchus, he has said : 
 
 Poculaque inventis Acheloia miscuit uvis. 
 
 The ancient Greeks, therefore, never drank it pure, even in 
 the heroic ages, when they were so much bigger and stronger 
 than in aftertimes. The Romans also mixed it with water, 
 and Horace calls loudly for it : 
 
 Quis puer ocyus 
 
 Restinguet ardentis Falerni 
 Pocula preetereunte lympha ? " 
 
 Ancient Metaphysics, vol iv. p. 141.
 
 Horce DramaticcB. 141 
 
 Cratinus, with all his jollity, had nearly completed 
 one. The Old Comedy, though not all poetry, 
 abounded with poetry of the highest order. The 
 New Comedy never soared into the sky, to build a 
 Cuckoo-city-in-the-Clouds; nor ferried over the 
 Styx, beating time with its oars to the accompani- 
 ment of a chorus of frogs. It stood quietly on 
 earth, and held the mirror up to human life. The 
 Muses of the Old Comedy were never found with- 
 out Bacchus. For Cratinus, their Hippocrene ran 
 wine. But, before Philemon came on the stage, 
 Bacchus, Silenus, and the Satyrs had left it. They 
 left it, in fact, with the lyrical Chorus, and returned 
 to it no more as the presiding powers of the theatre. 
 But they shed their influence on Ennius, the Father 
 of Latin poetry, both epic and dramatic. We have 
 seen, in the motto to this article, how well he kept 
 up the Dionysiac succession. The motto begins 
 with Cratinus, and ends with Ennius. We shall 
 for the present go no farther than our text, and 
 we might conclude with applying to this point 
 what Persius applied to another, in a very happy 
 expression, as if the glorious old poet had been 
 
 all heart : 
 
 Cor jubet hoc Emit. 
 
 So bids the heart of Ennius. 
 
 But as we have given one or two views of the other 
 side of the question, we will terminate with the 
 most striking — from a congenial source, the Old 
 Sicilian Comedy — the often-quoted sentiment of 
 Epicharmus. This is, in the original, a single line;
 
 142 
 
 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 but it is a trochaic tetrameter, and its full meaning 
 cannot be expressed, like that of Cratinus's senarius, 
 in one. We therefore give it in two : 
 
 Be sober, and not lightly credulous : 
 
 These are the nerves and sinews of the mind.
 
 THE LAST DAY OF WINDSOR 
 FOREST. 
 
 [The original MS. of the following paper is extant among 
 the MS. remains of the author, the late Thomas Love Pea- 
 cock, and is the only one of them absolutely complete and 
 ready for publication. It was in all probability intended for 
 Frasers Magazine, but never appeared there, nor, so far as 
 can be discovered, elsewhere. The probable date of com- 
 position' is about 1862. 
 
 Apart from the literary merit of the paper, and its interest 
 as a record of forgotten circumstances, it is a fitting conclusion 
 to the literary life of the veteran author, ending it where it 
 may be said to have begun. Peacock's first and only school 
 had been at Englefield Green, on the verge of Windsor 
 Forest, and there he imbibed that love for river and sylvan 
 scenery in general, and for that of the Thames and Windsor 
 in particular, which colours nearly all his writings. — National 
 Magazine, Aug. 1887. — R. G.] 
 
 'ANY of my younger, and some of my 
 maturer years, were passed on the borders 
 of Windsor Forest. I was early given to 
 long walks and rural explorations, and there was 
 scarcely a spot of the Park or the Forest with 
 which I was not intimately acquainted. There 
 were two very different scenes to which I was 
 especially attached : Virginia ^Vater, and a dell 
 near Winkficld Plain.
 
 144 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 The bank of Virginia Water, which the public 
 
 enter from the Wheatsheaf Inn, is bordered, 
 
 between the cascade to the left and the iron gates 
 
 to the right, by groves of trees, which, with the 
 
 exception of a few old ones near the water, have 
 
 grown up within my memory. They were planted 
 
 by George the Third, and the entire space was 
 
 called the King's Plantation. Perhaps they were 
 
 more beautiful in an earlier stage than they are 
 
 now; or I may so think and feel, through the 
 
 general preference of the past to the present, which 
 
 seems inseparable from old age. In my first 
 
 acquaintance with the place, and for some years 
 
 subsequently, sitting in the large upper room of 
 
 the Inn, I could look on the cascade and the 
 
 expanse of the lake, which have long been masked 
 
 by trees. 
 
 Virginia Water was always open to the public, 
 through the Wheatsheaf Inn, except during the 
 regency and reign of George the Fourth, who 
 not only shut up the grounds, but enclosed them, 
 where they were open to a road, with higher fences 
 than even the outside passengers of stage-coaches 
 could look over, that he might be invisible in his 
 punt, while fishing on the lake. William the 
 Fourth lowered the fences, and re-opened the old 
 access. 
 
 While George the Third was King, Virginia 
 Water was a very solitary place. I have been 
 there day after day, without seeing another visitor. 
 Now it has many visitors. It is a source of great
 
 The Last Day of Windsor Forest. 145 
 
 enjoyment to many, though no longer suitable to 
 Les Reveries d'lai F romeneiir Solitaire. 
 
 A still more solitary spot, which had especial 
 charms for me, was the deep forest dell already 
 mentioned, on the borders of Winkfield Plain. 
 This dell, I think, had the name of the Bourne ; 
 but I always called it the Dingle. In the bottom 
 was a watercourse, which was a stream only in 
 times of continuous rain. Old trees clothed it on 
 both sides to the summit, and it was a favourite 
 resort of deer. I was a witness of their banish- 
 ment from their forest haunts. The dell itself 
 remained some time unchanged; but I have not 
 seen it since 18 15, when I frequently visited it in 
 company with Shelley, during his residence at 
 Bishopgate, on the eastern side of the Park. I do 
 not know what changes it may have since under- 
 gone. Not much, perhaps, being now a portion 
 of the Park. But many portions of the Park and 
 its vicinity, as well as of the immediate neighbour- 
 hood of Windsor, which were then open to the 
 public, have ceased to be so, and such may be the 
 case with this. I have never ventured to ascertain 
 the point. In all the portions of the old forest, 
 which were distributed in private allotments, I 
 know what to expect. 
 
 I shrink from the ghosts of my old associations 
 in scenery, and never, if I can help it, revisit an 
 enclosed locality with which I have been familiar 
 in its openness. 
 
 K
 
 146 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 Wordsworth would not visit Yarrow, because he 
 feared to disappoint his imagination : 
 
 Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown j 
 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own, 
 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past. 
 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 
 'Twill be another Yarrow.* 
 
 Yet when he afterwards visited it, though it was 
 not what he had dreamed, he still found it beautiful, 
 and rejoiced in having seen it : 
 
 The vapours linger round the heights, 
 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine 
 
 Sad thought which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go. 
 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me to heighten joy 
 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. f 
 
 He found compensation in the reality for the 
 difference of imagined scene ; but there is no such 
 compensation for the disappointments of memory ; 
 and where— in the place of scenes of youth, where 
 we have wandered under antique trees, through 
 groves and glades, through bushes and underwood, 
 among fern, and fox-glove, and bounding deer; 
 where, perhaps, every " minutest circumstance of 
 place " has been not only " as a friend " in itself, 
 but has recalled some association of early friend- 
 * Yarrow Unvisited. \ Yarrow Visited^
 
 The Last Day of Windsor Forest. 147 
 
 ship, or youthful love — we can only pass between 
 high fences and dusty roads ; I think it best to 
 avoid the sight of the reality, and to make the best 
 of cherishing at a distance 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. — Wordsworth. 
 
 I do not express, or imply, any of)inion on the 
 general utility of enclosures. For the most part, 
 they illustrate the Scriptural maxim : " To him 
 that hath much, much shall be given ; and from 
 him that hath little, shall be taken away even the 
 little he hath." They are like most events in this 
 world, " Good to some, bad to others, and indif- 
 ferent to the majority." They are good to the 
 land-owner, who gets an addition to his land ; they 
 are bad to the poor parishioner, who loses his 
 rights of common ; they are bad to the lover of 
 rural walks, for whom footpaths are annihilated ; 
 they are bad to those for whom the scenes of their 
 youth are blotted from the face of the world. 
 These last are of no account in ledger balances, 
 which profess to demonstrate that the loss of the 
 poor is more than counterbalanced by the gain of 
 the rich ; that the aggregate gain is the gain of the 
 community ; and that all matters of taste and feel- 
 ing are fitly represented by a cypher. So be it. 
 
 George the Fourth's exclusions and high fences 
 had not, however, effectually secured to him the 
 secrecy he desired. On an eminence outside of 
 the royal grounds, stood, and still stands, in the
 
 148 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 midst of a pine-grove, a tower, which, from its form, 
 was commonly called the Clock-Case. This tower, 
 and the land round it, had been sold for a small 
 sum, as a lot in a sale of Crown Lands. The 
 tower was in two or three stories, and was inhabited 
 by a poor family, who had a telescope, supplied, 
 most probably, by the new proprietor, on the plat- 
 form of the roof, which rose high above the trees, 
 and commanded an extensive view of the lake. 
 This tower and its grounds became a place of great 
 resort for picnic parties, and visitors of all kinds, 
 who kept up a perpetual succession at the telescope, 
 while the Royal Angler and his fair companion 
 were fishing. This became an intolerable nuisance 
 to the would-be recluse. He set on foot a negotia- 
 tion for re-purchasing the Clock-Case. The sum 
 demanded was many times the multiple of the 
 purchase money. The demand was for some 
 time resisted, but the proprietor was inflexible. 
 The sum required was paid, the property reverted 
 to the Crown, and the public were shut out from 
 the Clock-Case and its territory. When William 
 the Fourth succeeded, this story was told to him, 
 and he said : " A good place for a view, is it ? I 
 will put an old couple into it, and give them a 
 telescope ; " which was done without loss of time. 
 I saw and conversed with this old couple, and 
 looked through their telescope. 
 
 About the same time, William the Fourth was 
 sitting one Sunday evening in a window of Windsor 
 Castle, when the terrace was thronged with people.
 
 The Last Day of Windsor Forest. 149 
 
 A heavy rain came on, and the people ran in all 
 directions. He said to someone near him, " This 
 is the strangest thing I ever saw : so many English 
 people, without an umbrella among them." He 
 was told that by order of his late Majesty, 
 umbrellas were prohibited on the terrace. *' Then," 
 he said, " let the prohibition be immediately 
 withdrawn." 
 
 In the early days of his reign he was fond of 
 walking about, not only in Windsor, but in London. 
 It pleased him to be among the people. In one 
 of his walks he noticed in Windsor Little Park, a 
 board with an inscription by which all persons 
 were " ordered " to keep the footpath. He desired 
 that " requested " might be substituted. He was 
 told that " requested " would not be attended to. 
 He said : " If they will not attend to ' requested,' 
 that is their affair ; I will not have 'ordered.' " 
 
 A most good-natured, kind-hearted gentleman 
 was William the Fourth ; but to record the many 
 instances of good feeling in his sayings and doings, 
 which came within my knowledge, would be foreign 
 to the purpose of the present paper. 
 
 The Act for the enclosure of Windsor Forest 
 contained the following clause : — 
 
 Windsor Forest, 53rd Geo. III. cap. 158. 
 
 LXIV. — And be it further enacted, that from and after 
 the first day of July one thousand eight hundred and four- 
 teen, all and singular the Lands, Tenements and Heredita- 
 ments within the said respective Parishes and Liberties 
 (save and except such Parts thereof respectively as are now
 
 1 50 Calidore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 or shall or may become vested in His Majesty, or any Person 
 or Persons in Trust for llini l)y virtue hereof) shall be, and 
 the same is and are hereby, disafforested to all Intents and 
 Purposes whatsoever ; and that from thencefoith no Person 
 or Persons shall be questioned or liable to any Pain, Penalty 
 or Punishment for hunting, coursing, killing, destroying, or 
 taking any Deer whatsoever within the same, save and 
 except within such Part or Parts thereof (if any) as shall be 
 enclosed with Pales and kept for a Park or Parks by the 
 Owners, Lessees, or Tenants thereof. 
 
 There can be little doubt that the exception in 
 favour of the Crown was intended to apply to all 
 the provisions of the clause ; but it was held by 
 Counsel learned in the law that it applied to the 
 first half only, and that after the specified day it 
 was lawful to kill deer in any portion of the old 
 forest not enclosed with pales, whether such portion 
 had or had not been vested in the Crown. The 
 Crown allotment had been left as it was. 
 
 Armed with this opinion, a farmer of Water 
 Oakley, whose real I have forgotten in his assumed 
 name, calUng himself Robin Hood, and taking 
 with him two of his men, whom he called Scarlet 
 and Little John, sallied forth daily into the forest 
 to kill the King's deer, and returned home every 
 evening loaded with spoil. 
 
 Lord Harcourt, who was then Deputy Ranger 
 of the Forest, and discharged all the duties of 
 superintendence (for the Ranger, who was a Royal 
 Highness, of course, did nothing), went forth also, 
 as the representative of Majesty, to put down these 
 audacious trespassers. In my forest rambles I was
 
 TJie Last Day of Windsor Forest. 1 5 1 
 
 a witness to some of their altercations : — Lord 
 Harcourt threatening to ruin Robin Hood by pro- 
 cess in the Court of Exchequer; Robin Hood 
 setting him at defiance, flourishing the Act of 
 Parhament, and saying, " My Lord, if you don't 
 know how to make Acts of Parhament, I'll teach 
 you." 
 
 One day I was walking towards the Dingle, when 
 I met a man with a gun, who asked me if I had 
 seen Robin Hood? I said I had just seen him at 
 a little distance in discussion with Lord Harcourt, 
 who was on horse-back, Robin Hood being on 
 foot. He asked me to point out the direction, 
 which I did ; and in return, I asked him who he 
 might be. He told me he was Scarlet. He was 
 a pleasant-looking man, and seemed as merry as 
 his original : like one in high enjoyment of 
 sport. 
 
 This went on some time. The law was not 
 brought to bear on Robin Hood, and it was finally 
 determined to settle the matter by driving the deer 
 out of the forest into the park. Two regiments of 
 cavalry were employed for this purpose, which was 
 kept as secret as possible, for a concourse of people 
 would have been a serious impediment to the 
 operation. 
 
 I received intelligence of it from a friend at 
 court, who pointed out to me a good position from 
 which to view the close of the proceedings. 
 
 My position was on a rising ground, covered 
 with trees, and overlooking an extensive glade.
 
 152 Calzdore, and Miscellanea. 
 
 The park was on my left hand, the main part of 
 the forest on the right and before me. A wide 
 extent of the park paUng had been removed, and 
 rope fencing had been carried to a great length, at 
 oblique angles from the opening. It was a clear, 
 calm sunny day, and for a time there was profound 
 silence. This was first broken by the faint sound 
 of bugles, answering each other's signals from 
 remote points in the distance ; drawing nearer by 
 degrees, and growing progressively loud. Then 
 came two or three straggling deer, bounding from 
 the trees, and flying through the o])ening of the park 
 pales. Then came greater numbers, and ultimately 
 congregated herds ; the beatings of their multitudin- 
 ous feet mingled with the tramplings of the yet 
 unseen horses, and the full sounds of the bugles. 
 Last appeared the cavalry, issuing from the woods, 
 and ranging themselves in a semi-circle, from horn 
 to horn of the rope fencing. The open space was 
 filled with deer, terrified by the chase, confused by 
 their own numbers, and rushing in all directions, 
 the greater part through the park opening ; many 
 trying to leap the rope fencing, in which a few 
 were hurt ; and one or two succeeded, escaping to 
 their old haunts, most probably to furnish Robin 
 Hood with his last venison feast. By degrees the 
 mass grew thinner; at last all had disappeared, 
 the rope fencing shut up the park for the night, 
 the cavalry rode off towards Windsor, and all again 
 was silent. 
 
 This was, without any exception, the most beauti-
 
 The Last Day of Windsor Forest. 153 
 
 ful sight I ever witnessed ; but I saw it with deep 
 regret, for, with the expulsion of the deer, the hfe 
 of the old scenes was gone, and I have always 
 looked back on that day as the last day of Windsor 
 Forest.
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES OF SONGS. 
 
 A DAMSEL came in midnight rain. Maid Marian, p. 152. 
 A heeltap ! a heeltap ! I never could bear it ! 
 
 Headlong Hall, p. 92. 
 A staff, a staff, of a young oak graff. Maid Marian, p. 72. 
 After careful meditation. Crotchet Castle, p. 81. 
 
 An archer keen I was withal. Maid Marian, p. 52. 
 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sea. Crotchet Castle, p. 129. 
 
 Bold Robin has robed him in ghostly attire. 
 
 Maid Marian, '^. 120. 
 But wherefore does the sheep wear wool ? 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 26. 
 By the mossy weed-flower'd column. 
 
 Melincourt, vol. i. p. 94. 
 Closed was Philemon's hundredth year. 
 
 Gryll Grange, vol. i. p. 90. 
 Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare ? 
 
 Crotchet Castle, p. 182. 
 Drink and sing, and eat and laugh. Maid Marian, p. 77. 
 Fair the gift to Merlin given. Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 138. 
 False bards the sacred fire pervert. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 89. 
 Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 25. 
 Florence and Blanchflor, loveliest maids. 
 
 Crotchet Castle, p. 181. 
 For hark ! hark ! hark ! Maid Marian, p, 49. 
 
 For I must seek some hermit cell. JSIaid Marian, p. 78.
 
 156 Index to First Lines of Songs. 
 
 For the slender beech and the sapling oak. 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 35. 
 Grey Twilight, from her shadowy hill. 
 
 Headlong Hall, p. 155. 
 Gwenwynwyn withdrew from the feasts of his hall. 
 
 Crotchet Castle, p. 154. 
 Hail to the Headlong ! the Headlong Ap-Headlong ! 
 
 Headlong Hall, p. 159. 
 I love the green and tranquil shore. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 54. 
 I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing. 
 
 Giyll Grange, vol. i. p. 136. 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies. Headlon-^ Hall, p. 88. 
 
 In the days of old. Crotchet Castle, p. 183. 
 
 It was a friar of orders free. Maid Marian, p. 153. 
 
 Jack Horner's Christmas pie my learned nurse. 
 
 Melincourt, vol. ii. p. 168. 
 Lament not, Elphin, do not measure. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 59. 
 Last of flowers, in tufts around. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 136. 
 Maid of the rock ! though loud the flood. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 93. 
 My traitorous uncle has wooed for himself. 
 
 Gryll Grange, vol. i. p. 134. 
 O Mary, my sister, thy sorrow give o'er. 
 
 Headlong Hall, p. 157. 
 O ! the spring-time of life is the season of blooming. 
 
 Melincourt, vol. ii. p. 79. 
 Oh ! bold Robin Hood is a forester good. 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 109. 
 Oh ! who art thou, so swiftly flying? Headlong Hall, p. loi. 
 Over, over, over, jolly, jolly rover. Alaid Marian, p. 145, 
 Sad was the day for Britain's land. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphitt, p. 140. 
 Saint Laura, in her sleep of death. 
 
 Gryll Grange, vol. ii. p. 155.
 
 hidex to First Lines of Songs. 1 57 
 
 Seamen three ! What men be ye ? Niqhtmare Abbey, p. 106. 
 Sir Moses, Sir Aaron, Sir Jamramajee. 
 
 Gryll Grange, vol. i. p. 167. 
 Stand forth, Seithcnyn : winds arc high. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 52. 
 The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble. 
 
 Maid AI avian, p. 25. 
 The damsel stood to watch the fight. Maid Marian, p. 31. 
 The ivy o'er the mouldering wall. JMelincourt, vol. ii. p. 1 10. 
 The King of kings upholds the heaven. 
 
 Misfortiiues of Elphin, p. 83. 
 The love that follows fain. Maid Mariatt, p. 49. 
 
 The mountain sheep are sweeter. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 97. 
 The rose on the nose doth all virtues disclose. 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 30 
 The sage Ceridwen was the wife. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 143. 
 The winds that wander far and free. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. Zd. 
 Then follow, oh follow ! the hounds do cry. 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 49. 
 There is a fever of the spirit. Nightmare Abbey, p. 106. 
 
 Though I be now a grey, grey friar. Maid Marian, p. 51. 
 When the wind blows, when the wind blows. 
 
 Maid Marian, p. 16'". 
 
 Why are thy looks so blank, grey friar ? 
 
 Nightmare Abbey, p. 59. 
 Wind from the north : the young spring day. 
 
 Misfortunes of Elphin, p. 39. 
 Ve woods, that oft at sultry noon. Maid Marian, p. 171. 
 
 ^^^t^^^^S^
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Headlong Hall. 
 
 P. 17, six lines from bottom, for "Seythrop" read 
 
 "Scythrop." 
 P. 21, 1. A,, for " words " read " winds." 
 P. 39, 1. IT, for ''in sto " read " insio." 
 
 Melincourt. 
 Preface, p. 8, I. 13, for " Natural " read " National." 
 P. 7, for " incontestible " read " incontestable." 
 
 Maid Marian. 
 Preface, p. 9, 1. 20, for "jocund " read " second." 
 P. 19, for " Mistress" read " Huntress." 
 
 Gryll Grange. 
 Preface, 1. 1, for " ist " read " ist's." 
 P. I, I. II, de/e comma after " too." 
 
 TURNBULL AND SPEAKS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 ^0 J>» 
 
 REC'O LDURC 
 
 JUL 2 3 1984 
 
 liO-ScricH 144
 
 3 1158 00946 7274 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 374 529 6