/ O *>*
'SELECTION; S^O;:-:-.^
FROM THE WRITINGS OF ^ fl
ALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ARRANGED AND EDITED BY
NEY COLVIN
Honfcon
MACMILLAN AND co*
AND NEW YORK
1890
?3<? 7
Fhst Edition July 1882
Reprinted September 1882, 1883, 1885, 1889, 1890
C55
PREFACE.
WHEN lately it was my privilege to contribute a sketch
of Lander's life to Mr. Morley's justly popular series of
English Men of Letters, I could not but be conscious
that hardly by one in ten or twenty among my readers
was very much likely to be known of him beyond his
name. Warmly as his writings have always been praised
by a few, with the main body of the reading public they
have failed hitherto to make their way. There exists,
however, a curiosity about Landor, and a desire to know
him better : even the reception of the sketch in question,
following as it did within a few years on the second
edition of Mr. Forster's detailed Life, helps, if I may
say as much, to prove it. Who, indeed, would not be
curious ? Who, that had once had his attention called
towards it, could fail to be interested in so original and
so imposing a figure ? But strong as is the interest which
Lander's personality is calculated to excite, the interest
excited by his work in literature should be stronger still.
The virtues of the writer, indeed, like those of the
man, are far from being unobstructed or complete,
and with his best work not a little that is unacceptable
is mixed up. But what most distinguishes Landor from
other English writers is not his incompleteness ; it is
not his combination of high excellences with disconcert-
ing faults : it is the character of those excellences them- ,
selves that most distinguishes him ; it is the exceptional -
aim and direction of his art.
*
vi PREFACE,
Lander's position may in general terms be best defined
by saying that he was a classic writing in a romantic age.
In calling him a classic, I do not of course refer merely
to his scholarship, or to the fact that a considerable part
of his work deals with subjects of ancient Greece and
Rome. It is true that Landor was a scholar, and in
Latin especially a scholar of unusual power and attain-
ments. The acquisitions of his Rugby days, vivified by
imagination and strengthened by after-study, remained
with him always ; and he wrote and thought in Latin as
naturally and as willingly as in English. Probably nc
other writer has illuminated with stronger flashes of
poetical insight a more familiar book -knowledge of Rome.
And certainly no other writer so trained on thoughts of
Rome, none so steeped in Latinity, has had an equally
just appreciation of the genius and the charm of Hellas.
Bothjnjstyjfi^ind sejitimeml Lander's writing was vitally
influenced byJLafi models. ; but from the first he real-
ised, for himself, what the classical scholarship of his
age was only then beginning to realise, the essential
inferiority of the Roman genius to the Greek. He put
Greece in her right place ; and if his Athenian statesmen
and orators, if the Pericles and Phocion and Demosthenes
of his creation are apt, by a certain self-conscious and
set dignity of attitude, to recall Roman rather than
Greek originals, yet when it comes to the true enchanted
world of Hellas, to scenes or narratives from the beauti-
ful undecaying Greek mythology, here Landor is perfectly
at home ; with admirable grace, freedom, and fitness he
creates figures that move and act, and suffer and are con-
soled, in the " gravely-gladsome light " of that imaginary
world :
" And through the trumpet of a child of Rome
Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece."
Concerning this part of Lander's work, taken at its
best, Mr. Swinburne has in those two felicitous lines
said the last word.
It is not scholarship, however, it is not a predilection
PREFACE. vii
for classic subjects, nor even a happy art in handling
them, that can make a writer that which we understand
by the word classical as distinguished from that which
we understand by the word romantic. The distinction
lies deeper, and is a distinction much less of subject than
of treatment, although to some subjects the one mode
of tre"atment may be more appropriate, and to some
the other. And here let us listen to Landor himself.
"The classical, like the heroic age," writes he in his
epistle to the author of Festus,
" Is past ; but poetry may re-assume
That glorious name with Tartar and with Turk,
With Goth or Arab, Sheik or Paladin,
And not with Roman or with Greek alone". -
The name is graven on the workmanship."
"The name is graven on the workmanship," and to
define for our present purpose the difference between the
classical and the romantic modes of workmanship : in
classical writing every idea is called up to the mind as
nakedly as possible, and at the same time as distinctly ;
it is exhibited in white light, and left to produce its
effect by its own unaided power. In romantic writ-
ing, on the other hand, all objects are exhibited as it
were through a coloured and iridescent atmosphere,
Round about eveiy central idea the romantic writer sum-
mons up a cloud of accessory and subordinate ideas for
the sake of enhancing its effect, if at the risk of confus-
ing its outlines. J The temper, again, of the romantic writer
is one of excitement, while the temper of the classical
writer is one of selTpossession. No matter what the power
of his subject, the classIcaTwriter does not fail to assert his
mastery over it and over himself, while the romantic writer
seems as though his subject were ever on the point of
dazzling and carrying him away. On the one hand there
is calm, on the other hand enthusiasm : the virtues of
the one style are strength of grasp, with clearness and
justice of 'presentment : the virtues of the other style are
glow of spirit, with magic and richness of suggestion. - Of
b
viii PREFACE.
imaginativg^literature in England the main effort has fron
theTirstbeen romantic. The Elizabethans were essentially
romantic, some of them extravagantly so : Shakespeare,
who could write in all manners, was in a preponderating
degree romantic, and never more so than in his treat-
ment of Greek and Roman themes. To quote again the
same critical epistle of Lander's own,
" Shakespeare with majesty benign called up
The obedient classics from their marble seat,
And led them through dim glen and sheeny glade,
And over precipices, over seas
Unknown by mariner, to palaces
High-arch'd, to festival, to dance, to joust,
And gave them golden spur and vizor barred,
And steeds that Pheidias had turned pale to see."
Of the great English poets, Milton was the most classical,
beholding the vast images that filled his mind's ^ye" in
steady rather than in iridescent light, defining them when
they are capable of definition, and maintaining a majestic
self-possession in their presence. In Paradise Lost the
images indeed are often such as no power could define :
the perfection of the classical style in Milton's work is to
be found rather in Samson Agonistes and in some of the
sonnets; while in Paradise Regained the ctymacteristies
of the style are pushed to excess. Then followed an
age, the agejoLA n P p and the first .Georges, of which the
literature claimed for itself the title of classical, and was
I indeed marked by uncommon qualities of clesmt.-ss. < nbn-
ness, and precision. But then it was not a literature of
imagination ; it was only a literature of the understand -
/ ing and fancy. In the regions of the imagination
| poetry in the higher sense, the literature of that age rarely
i laid hold of the object at all; it dealt, not in realities,
but in literary counters and catchwords bearing a merely
conventional value to the mind. By the time wher
Landor began to write, people were getting tired or thi. 1
conventional literary currency, and learning to crajygjfor
something real in poetry.. His immediate contemporaries
were Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Southey, Lamb ,
PREFACE. IX
spirits born to unlock again for the English race the sealed
treasure-houses of the poetical imagination.
Neither in choice of subject nor in treatment was the
work of these men, nor that of the yet more fervid spirits
who soon followed them, of Byron, Shelley, and Keats,
deliberately or consistently romantic in the same sense as
that of a certain group of contemporary writers in Ger-
many was romantic, and still more that of the brilliant
and acutely self-conscious group who assumed the title a
generation afterwards in France. In the work of the^
English writers of this age, the romantic and the classical \
modes of treatment -are mixed. The romantic mode, I
however, prevails ; as in an age of re-awakening, an age/^
of imaginative conquest and discovery, enthusiasm is the
temper to be expected, and the light wherein objects
naturally appear is the vibrating or coloured light, the
halo, as it is commonly called, of romance. Scott and
Coleridge in their early days both copied the romantic
models of Germany. A few years later Scott was
to figure in the eyes of all Europe as the great master of
the romance of Scottish scenery and of the mediaeval past,
and a few later again, Byron as the great master of the
romance of travel, and of social and religious revolt.
Meanwhile Coleridge had already written, in the Ancient
Mariner and Christabel and Kubla Khan, examples of a
romantic poetry more highly wrought and more magical in
suggestion than any work either of Scott or Byron. Lamb,
in alliance with Coleridge, had made himself the apostle
of the romantic spirit as it is exhibited in the old English
drama and lyric. Southey, whose natural gifts and in-
stincts were for the classical manner of writing, tried hard
to write romantically, and did so in a few ballads, but in
epics like Thalaba and Kehama compassed little of the true
romantic beyond remoteness of subject and irregularity of
form. Wordsworth, the most determined enemy of false j
classicism, was in much of his writing truly classical. -
The qualities of Wordsworth's work on which Mr.
Matthew Arnold with so much justice insists, when he
X PREFACE.
speaks of his style as being "bald as the bare mountain-
tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur," or again
as a style ' ' relying solely on the weight and force of that
which with entire fidelity it utters," those are qualities dis-
tinctively characteristic of the classical manner in litera-
1 ture. It is, of course, true that from many of Wordsworth's
utterances the indispensable elements of weight and force
are wanting : there is a large part of his work wherein
either the themes are too trifling, or the thoughts are
too sterile, to sustain and dignify a classical treatment.
There is also another part of it, and that the part which
many of us most value, wherein , he writes under the
dominion of emotions and ideas having their sources too
far withdrawn in the depths of our nature to be perfectly
grasped, strongly as Wordsworth by comparison with
any other writer has grasped them. It is not indeed to
the romantic manner, nevertheless it is to a suggestive
and adumbrative manner quite distinct from the classical,
that Wordsworth's writing in these latter moods belongs :
and they are the moods which yielded him his inspiring
revelations of a spiritual power in nature ; his commun-
ings with
" The human soul of Universal Earth
Dreaming on things to come ; "
his
" sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused ;'
his imperfectly recovered pictures of the mind, accom-
panied
" with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions' dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity."
To Landor this portion of Wordsworth's work had little
meaning : he had little interest in any ideas but those
which could be perfectly grasped, and exhibited in pre-
cise lineaments like the shapes of antique gods. From
the beginning the peculiar aim and direction of his art made
themselves apparent. While Wordsworth and Coleridge
were meditating among the Quantock Hills their volume
PREFACE. XI
of Lyrical Ballads, to which Wordsworth contributed his
Lines on Revisiting Tintern Abbey , and Coleridge his
Ancient Mariner, Landor was wandering beside the
estuaries of Caermarthenshire, alone with Pindar and
Milton, and meditating his narrative poem of Gebir.
The theme which he had chosen, a confused quasi-
oriental theme of primeval warfare and enchantment,
was pre-eminently suggestive of a romantic treatment.
The treatment Landor attempted to apply to it was
classical. The result as a whole is marred by excessive ^
condensation of meaning and abruptness of transition,
but has always powerfully impressed poets and students of y
poetry by the precise and strong presentment of its indi-y
vidual images. We are in a land of incantation ; bu
there is nothing undefined or vague about the nature (
the perils that environ us. We approach the ruined citkr
of Masar. " Begone," cries the weird woman of the ruinsX
" Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn
The cormorant in his solitary haunt
Of insulated rock or sounding cove
Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for prey."
Or we descend into the kingdom of the damned, and
hear the sound of the infernal river
" A river rolling in its bed,
Not rapid that would rouse the wretched souls,
Not calmly that would lull them to repose.
But with dull weary lapses it still heaved
Billows of bale, heard low, but heard afar."
For this accurate and firm definition of things, however
visionary and unearthly, the romantic manner substitutes
a. thrilling vagueness and confusion, as*for instance in
the Ancient Mariner
" And through "the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen ;
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken,
The ice was all between.
" The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around ;
It cracked and groaned and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound."
Xli PREFACE.-
Similarly in the description of beauty, the type, the per
fection of romantic workmanship is Shakespeare's
" Rubies unparagon'd,
How dearly they do 't ! "Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o* the taper
Bows towards her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under those windows, white and azure, laced
With blue of heaven's own tinct."
Landor can realise the presence and the charm of beauty
with a vividness and a delicacy not so far behind those of
Shakespeare himself : but it is in another manner : he
trusts to the simple facts, and does not suffer himself to
go beyond them : he shows us beauty, even under the
most enchanting circumstances, not in this tremulous and v/
coruscating light, but in quiet light, thus
" Downcast were her long eye-lashes, and pale
Her cheek, but never mountain ash displayed
Berries of colour like her lip so pure,
Nor were the anemones about her hair
Soft, smooth, and wavering like her face beneath."
In the interpretation of scenery, again, compare the
woodland twilight of Keats
" But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways : "
compare these and the beautiful lines that follow them
" I cannot tell what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,"
with a twilight of Lander's
" Within how few minutes has the night closed in upon us !
Nothing is left discernible of the promontories, or the long irregular v <
breakers under them. We have before us only a faint glimmering
from the shells in our path, and from the blossoms of the arbutus."
The presence of the twilight and its spell are in the work
of Landor not less keenly felt and realised than in the
work of Keats, only they are felt and realised in a widely
different manner. Neither is the difference merely that
between the poetical and the prose form of expression ; it
is that between one mood or temper of imaginative work
PREFACE. ' xiii <
" v " ^ ^
and another. The romantic manner, the manner of
Shakespeare and Coleridge and Keats, with its thrill-
ing uncertainties and its rich suggestions, may be more
attractive than the classic manner, with its composed and \
measured preciseness of statement. Nay, we may go*'
further, and say that it is in the romantic manner that the
highest pitch of poetry has assuredly been reached : in
the perfect and felicitous specimens of that manner
English poetry has given us something more poetical even
than Greece or Rome ever gave us. But on the other
hand the romantic manner lends itself, as the true classi-
cal does not, to inferior work. Second-rate conceptions
excitedly and approximately put into words derive from
it an illusive attraction which may make them for a time,
and with all but the coolest judges, pass as first-rate.
Whereas about true classical writing there can be no
illusion. It presents to us conceptions calmly realised
in words that exactly define them, conceptions depending
for their attraction, not on their halo, but on themselves ,
it relies for its value "solely on the weight and force of
that which with entire fidelity it utters," or if not on
these qualities solely, at least on them together with our
sense of mastery and of fitness in the utterance.
To write in this strong and severe manner was con-
sciously Lander's aim from the beginning. The question
next arises, what is the value of the conceptions which he """
in this manner seeks to present to us ; what were the
powers of mind which he brought to bear on the busi-
ness of literature as he conceived it ? To almost every
English writer, himself of high power, from the days of the
first publication of Gebir to our own, Lander's natural and
acquired gifts have seemed to be of the first order. Who
indeed that has ever read him can, doubt it ? In an age
of distinguished spirits, he was for height and range of
power unquestionably one of the most distinguished.
Neither were his natural gifts more remarkable than the
strenuousness with which he cultivated them. From a
lower, or at least a fan more broken, level of character
XIV PREFACE.
than Milton, Landor through all his length of days
devoted himself to great thoughts and studies with a
persistence resembling Milton's own, and with an equally
scornful withdrawal of himself from vulgar pleasures and
ambitions. It is true that he was not one of those spirits
in the age who opened up new intellectual or moral
horizons, or revealed new sources of imaginative suste-
nance to the mind. Rather he kept his gaze fastened
on objects which have an equal value for eveiy age,
on the known actions and heroic shapes of history, and
on the great permanent conditions of human life and
experience. On these he mused with not less absorption
than independence of spirit, his familiarity with the best
literature being turned to account by him in avoiding rather
than in repeating the thoughts of others. He had a soul
in love with heroism, in love with freedom, in love with
beauty, and as ardent in indignation as in compassion. He
had a strong and finely-touched imagination, and a mascu-
line and confident understanding, in which robust preju-
dice and perfect lack of prejudice were strangely blended,
master faculty in his mind was certainly the poetic
imaginative faculty. This in his creative work ranges
with equal assurance from the extreme of strength to the
extreme of tenderness. In images of terror what other
writer has shown greater daring, or a firmer stroke, than
Landor in a picture like this of the funeral pyre con-
suming the last survivor among the besieged citizens of
Numantia ?
" He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the gaunt
links of his throat, and upon gnarled knees, that smote each other
audibly, tottered into the civic fire. It, like some hungry and
strangest beast on the innermost wild of Africa, pierced, broken,
prostrate, motionless, gazed at by its hunter in the impatience of
glory, in the delight of awe, panted once more, and seized him !"
Beside instances of this kind, where for force of
grasp Lander's hand resembles that of his own Count
Julian " the hand," as Julian says to Roderick,
" that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels,
And held thy steeds erect and motionless
As molten statues on some palace gates "
PREFACE. XV
beside instances like this, it would be easy to set others
in which he is no less admirable for tenderness of touch.
In dealing with womanhood and infancy, and especially
when his theme takes him into the house of mourning,
Landor can surpass all except the very greatest writers
by the depth of his intuition, by the exquisite delicacy
of his approach ; his dealings with human weakness and
affliction are then like those dealings with the flowers
which he tells us of
" I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold."
Even in work that is not creative, nor in its main
intention poetical, even in reflective and discursive
writing, it is from the poetic faculty that Landor's
thoughts derive much of their colour. It has been said
of him with great justice by Mr. Lowell, that in the
region of discursive thought we cannot so properly call
him a great thinker, as a man who had great thoughts.
For a great thinker the operations of his mind were too
unsystematic. Judgments, indeed, he framed and ex-
pressed on many of the great topics of human medita-
tion, but isolated judgments standing each by itself, and
not connected by any ratiocinative process with one
another. Of these judgments some are marked by an
original and benignant wisdom, others by headstrong
prejudice, others again represent in a weighty and lucid
form the average conclusions of mankind.' But it is
characteristic of Landor's thinking in all moods alike,
that for every conclusion of his understanding he has an
imaginative similitude always ready, and often a whole
cluster of them. These similitudes of Landor's serve
sometimes to disguise more or less effectively a fallacy
and sometimes admirably to illuminate and recommend
a truth : but few thoughts of his are complete without
them ; and in his typical thoughts the judgment and
XVI PREFACE.
the similitude are inseparable. When Landor, for in-
stance, says, " The noble mansion is most distinguished
by the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away ;
and so is the noble mind," that is one of his typical
thoughts concerning life ; and again it is one of his
typical thoughts concerning literature when he says, of
the mixture of fact and fiction in the early legends of a
people
" What was vague imagination settles at last and is received for
history. It is difficult to effect and idle to attempt the separation :
it is like breaking off a beautiful crystallisation from the vault of
some intricate and twilight cavern, out of mere curiosity to see
where the accretion terminates and the rock begins."
In the illustrations from Landor's writing which have
thus far occurred to us, and even in those quoted ex-
pressly to illustrate his poetical or imaginative power,
examples in prose have found place interchangeably
with examples in verse. The reason is, that in his
prose Landor could be at least as poetical as in his
verse. To say this is of course to imply for his poetry
properly so called a certain measure of condemnation.
The born poet is not himself except in verse ; he finds
in its effects his ideal delight, and in its laws the truest
freedom. Landor wrote in verse abundantly and well,
but hardly with the full instinct of the born poet. His
verse has many fine qualities, now of stateliness and
weight, now of grace, clearness, and crispness, and
always of sobriety and vigour ; but it lacks the perfection
of spontaneous charm, it even lacks something of the
born poet's certainty of ear. Landor was a great
admirer and student of the harmonies of Milton, but in
analysing them he seems not unfrequently to miss the
mark ; and his own verse is Miltonic only by the
majesty of single lines and phrases. The variety and
continuity of harmony in Milton's blank verse, its pro-
longed, involved, and sustained movements, what De
Quincey calls its " solemn planetary wheelings," it was
beyond his means to rival. De Quincey has chosen a
PREFACE. XV11
fine passage of Lander's blank verse, and has shown
with great justice and ingenuity how by a simple
change, which did not occur to its author, its move-
ment might have been amplified and enriched. The
passage is from Landor's tragedy of Count Julian , where
Ilernando says of Julian
" No airy and light passion stirs abroad
To ruffle or to soothe him ; all are quell'd
Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind.
Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved,
Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men ;
As oftentimes an eagle, ere the sun
Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray,
Stands solitary, stands immovable
Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye,
Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased,
In the cold light, above the dews of morn."
" One change," says De Quincey in commenting on
this passage, "suggests itself to me as possibly for the
better, viz. if the magnificent line
' Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men,'
were transferred to the secondary object, the eagle, and
placed after what is now the last line, it would give a
fuller rythmus to the close of the entire passage ; it would
be more literally applicable to the majestic and solitary
bird than to the majestic and solitary man " at which
point we may break off from De Quincey, whose sug-
gestion, so far at least as concerns the rhythm of the
passage, needs only to be tried in order to be accepted.
It is perhaps after all in the lighter vein of blank verse
that Landor's happiest effects are attained ; for instance
in the blank verse of the Hellenics,
" Onward the vessel flew ; the skies again
Shone bright, and thunder roll'd along, not wroth,
But gently murmuring to the white-wing' d sails,"
or in the blank verse of the meditative and elegiac
pieces,
" Thou sleepest not forgotten, nor unmourn'd,
Beneath the chestnut shade of St. Germain.
Meanwhile I wait the hour of my repose,"
xviii PREFACE.
while occasionally, even in his good work, he exhibits
instances of metrical poverty like this
" Aeon had grieved, he said, grieved bitterly,
But Aeon had complied ; 'twas dutiful."
In his odes and irregular lyrics Landor has fine flight
] alternately with awkward pauses and declensions, not
/of sound only, but sometimes of sense also. In cast-
ing, as he was in the habit of doing, his daily medita-
tions into homelier metres, into the couplet or quatrain
of eight-syllable lines, he was often extremely happy.
He handles these forms in a manner almost as neat and
bright as that of Prior, with a touch from time to time of
weightier thought and higher poetry than any of which
the age of Prior was capable : and the only thing to be
said against his best work in this vein is that it is almost
too classically direct and simple ; so devoid is it of trick
or mannerism as to be in style almost impersonal.
On the whole, then, fine as is much of Landor's work
in verse, justly as examples of it must claim a place in
any collection of his writings, we shall agree with his
own estimate when he treats it as the work, compara-
tively speaking, of an amateur : comparatively, that is,
to his work in prose. " Poetry was always my amuse-
ment, prose my study and business." In fact it is in
prose that Landor's powers and his cultivation of them
make themselves most truly felt. Of the very few
English writers who have written prose like artists or like
masters, Landor, whether he is read by few or many,
must always be counted among the first. There are
limits, indeed, to the excellence of his prose, in that its
structure is too regular and firm for perfect freedom. Its
affinities are with the prose of the best Latin rather than
with that of the best Greek writers: with Latin, "the
expression of law," as Professor Jebb has admirably put
it, rather than with Greek, " the voice of life." But of this
severely regulated and measured prose, this prose which
is as deliberately removed from the casualness of common
speech as the figures of ideal sculpture are removed from
PREFACE. XIX
the casualness of common life, of this severe and senten-
tious prose Lander's writing furnishes in English the best
example. That he is never stiff and never declamatory
would be too much to say ; but these are the incidental
blemishes of a style which in its kind often reaches per-
fection. Landor's feeling for the value and weight of words
was of that sort which comes from a habitual conversance
with the best writers, and with the best writers only ; and
his choice of them is as sound and scrupulous as is the
structure of his sentences. He imitates no model, but
when he aims at effects of pomp he can be as majestic
as any of the great seventeenth -century masters of elo-
quence, from Hooker to Milton himself, without their
tendency to involution of thought and entanglement of
clauses ; and when he aims at effects of simplicity he can
be as plain as the great eighteenth-century masters of easy
prose, as Addison or Goldsmith, without their tendency
to negligence and triviality. There is besides about
everything he utters an air of authority and breeding,
there is a lofty tone at once peremptory and urbane,
which is 'wholly -personal. Especially is Land or dis-
tinguished by the beauty of sound in his single sentences.
Instances of this beauty we need not give ; the pages
that follow are full of them. Such is the harmony of his
best prose that strains of it haunt the ear and memory
with an effect almost as pleasurable and stirring as strains
of verse. At the same time few writers have been farther
removed from the fault of breaking up their prose into the
fixed and recurrent rhythms of verse itself. No one, again,
is less open to the charge of constructing harmonies in
the air, or cultivating effects of sound apart from sense.
Excess rather -than poverty of meaning is at all times char-
acteristic of Landor's writing ; and in theory he objects to
any beauty of style except that which proceeds from the
rigidly accurate and just expression of ideas. " Never
look abroad for any kind of ornament ; Apollo, either as
the god of day, or the slayer of the Python, had nothing
about him to obscure his clearness, or impede his
XX PREFACE.
strength. " "Natural sequences and right subordination
of thoughts, and that just proportion of numbers in the
sentences which follows a strong conception, are the
constituents of true harmony." And again, " Whatever
is rightly slid, sounds rightly." "I hate false words,
and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness, those that
fit the thing." It is a new revelation of the beauty and
nobility of the English tongue, it is a testimony at the
same time to the power and selection of his thoughts,
that Landor, writing as he in general does with due
observance of his own principles, produces strains of a
harmony so masculine and full.
With these high gifts and powers, then ; with his
range and energy of imagination and thought, and his love
for what all love, for heroism, beauty, and freedom ; with
his vigorous and pure, if somewhat unequal and im-
personal style in poetry, and with his prose style which
is in its kind unrivalled ; how is it that Landor has not
taken a more prominent place among the acknowledged
great writers of his country ? How is it that even by
those who would not dispute his rank he is nevertheless
so little read ? The answer to these questions has been
partly given already. The classical manner in literature
for one thing, in which Landor by instinct and on principle
wrote, appeals necessarily to a smaller public than the
romantic manner. Necessarily, because classical writing
asks more of the reader than romantic, and in a certain
sense does less for him. The classical writer assumes
that his reader will estimate for himself the ideas which
j are presented to him : the romantic writer eagerly pro-
' claims the impressiveness of his own ideas as he presents
them. The classical writer handles great thoughts and
images, and even great passions, collectedly, like one
accustomed, and expecting his reader to be accustomed,
to none other. The romantic writer from whatever he
handles catches fire, and his fire is contagious ; his ex-
citement breeds excitement in the reader ; and a public
which is slow to appreciate the grave reality of power
PREFACE. xxi
and passion in a poem like Wordsworth's Affliction of
Margaret, is eager in its appreciation of the clamorous
parade of power and passion in a poem like Byron's
Corsair. The classical writer, in a word, appeals only
to those who know for themselves what is good : the
romantic writer appeals to everybody, and is often ap-
preciated above his value. Landor knew this perfectly
well, and deliberately narrowed his appeal to the few.
But the response has been even more limited and longer
in coming than he foresaw. There is in every generation
a public, although not a large one, which can enjoy the
best literature for itself, and for whom the classical
manner of writing is, in itself no stumbling-block, but an
attraction. Yet even of this public, not many in each
generation have thus far been attracted to Landor ; it is
only the minority of this minority who have enjoyed him.
One reason is that, allied with Landor's scornful and
not unworthy disregard of vulgar favour, there was also
in him a want of legitimate literary tact. The opera-
tions of his mind were governed, not by sympathy with
the minds of others, but exclusively by private impulse.
Moreover, and this is the worst, those operations were
in their nature peculiarly inconsecutive. With all his
great and various powers, and with all his serious and
strenuous cultivation of them, Landor was deficient in the)
instincts of sequence and connection. The energies of
his mind were inexhaustible, but its workings, whether
of imagination or of thought, consisted not so much of
coherent trains as of independent and imperfectly con-
nected acts. Hence an abruptness, a lack of organic con-
struction and evolution, whereby the interest of the reader
is constantly subject to be baffled and disappointed.
Hence also, and from the further failure of instinct to per-
ceive where a reader is likely to be ignorant of an allusion,
or to be baffled by a suppression, or to miss drawing an
inference or catching a clue, arises in Landor's work the
occasional fault of actual obscurity. He was determined
to say nothing superfluous, and nothing, if it could be
XXli PREFACE.
avoided, that another had said before him ; but to be ob-
scure was the very opposite of his desire. It is a failure
of his art, as he himself acknowledges, when he is so.
No estimate of Landor or of his powers can be just in
which these shortcomings are not acknowledged. They
condemned to comparative futility the efforts of the first
twenty-five years of his literary career ; the years during
which the vital work of his contemporaries, Wordsworth,
Scott, and Coleridge, and even of his juniors, Byron,
Shelley, and Keats, was accomplished. During those
years, besides a few love-poems and elegies, Lander's chief
productions in literature had been Gebir, Count Julian,
and the Latin Idyllia Heroica. In spite of its original and
powerfully grasped imagery, Gebir as a narrative poem
fails by over-condensation and abruptness. Count Julian,
in spite of its sublime conception and some pregnant
passages, fails as , a tragedy for want of right construc-
tion and evolution. To have written the Idyllia Heroica
at all, at least under the impression that solid literary
fame was to be won by exercises of that kind, however
masterly, showed a misapprehension of the relations of
scholarship to life. It was not until after 1820 that
Landor began the Imaginary Conversations, the produc-
tion of which, and of the three books that are each a
kind of separate and amplified imaginary conversation,
the Examination of Shakspeare, Pericles and Aspasia,
and The Pentameron, constitutes his most solid title
to glory. In no other form of composition could his
powers have found larger scope than in this ; in no
other could defect of strict evolution, and of tact in tak-
ing the reader with him, tell less against him. But
even in this free and unexacting form of composition,
those defects do nevertheless tell against Landor heavily.
Readers, the minority of a minority, who love the great
qualities of imagination and thought and style too well
to let anything deter them from their enjoyment, have
felt the defects and overcome them. Less tenacious
readers feel them and are deterred.
PREFACE. XX111
The Imaginary Conversations of Landor divide them-
selves roughly into two classes : one of short and stirring ,
scenes, scenes of emotion and generally also of action :
the other of long and quiet scenes, scenes mainly of dis-
cussion and reflection. Over and above the strength
and purity of style which are common to all alike,
Landor 's more impassioned dialogues derive their value
from his fine poetic and historic sense in the choice of
characters and situations (though like an artist he makes
of history his servant and not his master), from his chiv-
alrous ideals of behaviour and sentiment, and from his
admirable strokes of insight into the heart. In types
of heroism and tenderness he is often a true dramatic
creator, though not in those of meanness or cruelty,
which he constructs from the outside, fiercely and satiri-
cally. But even in these short scenes, written in a form
which does not demand much strictness of evolution,
we are often aware of disconcerting gaps' and breaks of
sequence in the chain of the emotions ; and sometimes, too,
of passages where the posture and rhetoric merely of the
situation, and not its real emotions, are presented to us.
In the longer dialogues Landor made comparatively
little attempt at dramatic character or creation. Rather
he selected and brought together the various personages
of history, in order to distribute among them the matter
of his own incessant and lofty meditations. In his own
likeness created he them, sometimes with a paradoxical
neglect, but oftener with just sufficient observance, of
probabilities. The virtues of this class of conversations
are their extraordinary energy, fulness, and ripeness of
thought and imagery, and the fine sense of dignity and
urbanity, of grace, and sometimes of humour, which is
shown in the intercourse of the personages. Their faults
are the frequent intrusion of irrelevant apologues and
disquisitions, with a want of argumentative sequence, and
of sufficient organic connection between one part of the
same dialogue and another. They are full of noble things,
but they rarely "go," or only for a few pages at a time.
xxiv PREFACE.
The reader who in the midst of his admiration asks him-
self whither he is progressing, and to what end being
conducted from what beginning, is often obliged to
acknowledge that he has not been progressing at all, but
only, as Mr. Leslie Stephen in his acute though unsym-
pathetic criticism puts it, "marking time." And, un-
fortunately, where sequence is wanting, where the reader
does not feel himself led on by some coherent chain
either of reasoning or feeling, though admiration may
indeed be excited, yet interest can hardly by any
possible combination of excellences be detained.
Landor's indomitable, solitary activity was only brought
to an end, as every one knows, in our own day, long after
all his contemporaries had gone to rest. His last twenty-
five years were devoted to the production, in prose, of more
Imaginary Conversations, with many occasional utterances
on the political circumstances of the day ; and in verse,
of more dramas and dramatic scenes, with a new class
of narrative poems, the Hellenics, shorter, lighter, and
brighter than those of his youth, and the best of them
contributing a real and brilliant addition to the poetical
literature of the century ; besides an abundance of occa-
sional verses, often full of a fine meditative grace, and
touched as few things in literature are touched with the
mellowness and dignity of patriarchal age.
In the series of seven stout volumes wherein alone
these various writings of Landor are now easily acces-
sible, while there is much which every one who reads at
all might be expected to know and care for, there is much
also in which only the professed student of literature can
take interest. The object of the present Golden Treasury
is not to effect a complete separation of the acceptable from
the unacceptable parts of Landor's work : such a separation
would be in fact impossible, moreover the bulk of what
is good would far exceed the limits of our undertaking :
it is to present in a convenient and familiar shape such
a selection of his best work as shall fairly represent the
range and variety of his powers. Verse, from the nature
PREFACE. XX\
of the case, finds a place side by side with prose in the
selection. Landor himself was much given to mixing
them. With him, as I have already indicated, vilSL r
and prose do not, as with most writers, represent a higher
and a lower form of literature respectively, but merely
alternative forms ; and in prose he writes frequently at a
higher pitch, as well as on the whole with a more accom-
plished art, than in verse. It is not, then, according to
their form, but according to their contents, that the selec-
tions which follow have primarily been arranged.
The first section contains examples of Landor's imagi-
native and creative work, secondarily divided into those
which are dramatic and those which are narrative in form.
Here are given in full some of the best of the short prose
dialogues of emotion, with one or two in verse, and with
a few passages of a similar impassioned kind, extracted
from longer conversations ; the personages ranging from
heroes and heroines of Greek mythology to those of
modern history. Landor, with his disdain for super-
fluities, and his love for the naked presentment of ideas,
rarely condescends in these scenes to supply a syllable of
preface or stage direction : I have prefixed to such as
seemed to need it a few words explaining the situation.
Then comes the narrative division, beginning with a few
extracts from the strong and vivid, but abrupt and
sometimes difficult poetry of Landor's youth : these are
followed by a selection from the later and admirable,
light, bright, and truly Greek Hellenics: and these by
some of the separate narrative episodes that lie embedded
like jewels in Landor's longer prose works. There is
nothing in literature which quite resembles these ; there
are very few things in literature better. De Quincey,
whom the ordinary handbooks and compendiums of
English literature as unduly, I think, magnify as they
neglect Landor, is commonly quoted as the especial
modern master in English of impassioned prose. De
Quincey is indeed an author well worthy of study. He
was a man of eloquence and attainments ; of a strong
XXVI PREFACE.
though eccentric vein of imagination ; and of solid,
though again in great part eccentric, thought and re-
search. He was full of ingenuity and resource, but
full also of conceit and affectation ; loving above all
things to flourish his resources, and to make circuits
round about his subject, discoursing to us of the fine dis-
closures which he is about to make, and in the end as often
as not making none ; a remarkable writer, as it seems to
me, in the second order, but a bad model, and in hardly
anything a really great or straightforward master. In
the field of high imaginative prose especially, to insist
on De Quincey's Ladies of Sorrow or his Daughter of
Lebanon, when there exist such masterpieces as Lander's
Dream of Boccaccio and Dream of Petrarca, is surely to
call away attention from the best to the second best.
The second section of our Golden Treasury contains
examples of Landor's reflective and discursive manner,
chiefly from the longer conversations and other prose
writings. And here it has been necessary to proceed by
the method of short extracts almost entirely. If any of
the long conversations had been given in full, it would
have been necessary for proportion's sake to give those of
Epicurus with Leontion and Ternissa, and of Plato with
Diogenes, from among the Greek ; those of the two
Ciceros, and of Luqullus and Caesar, from among the
Roman ; and from among the English, that of Marvel
and Milton, with that of Barrow and Newton or of
Penn and Peterborough at least. This within our limits
was out of the question. Moreover I think a fuller
representation of Landor's mind was to be obtained by
the method I have followed, of grouping according to
their subject-matter thoughts taken not from a few only
but from a wide range of his discursive writings. The
thoughts of Landor suffer less than that of almost any
other man in being thus detached from their context.
Many of them, indeed, we know to have been origin*
ally framed independently, and thrust into their context
afterwards. As thus extracted and grouped, they in-
PREFACE. XXV11
deed are partly shorn of the charm which comes from
those attractive qualities of intercourse and bearing with
which Landor endows his speakers. But they will
serve to show of what substance his mind was made.
" We should hesitate to name any writings which would
afford so large and so various a selection of detached
passages complete in themselves," so wrote Mr. Lowell
of Landor while he was still alive ; and again, " We
should be at a loss to name the writer of English prose
who is his superior, or, setting Shakespeare aside, the
writer of English who has furnished us with so many
delicate aphorisms of human nature." It is especially
of Landor as an aphoristic writer that this section will~
enable the reader to judge.
A moral or intellectual teacher of the great revealing,
initiating order Landor is not : but he is one whose
utterances dwell in our thoughts and make them richer.
In the sphere of life and conduct he unites great force
and originality of observation with a noble benignity of
temper ; and there are few generous virtues and few lofty
pleasures but come recommended from his mind to ours
in a new light of imaginative beauty, and with a new
and memorable charm of presentment. In the sphere of
politics and government, it must be allowed that he
never got much beyond the elementary principles of
love of freedom and hatred of tyranny. These prin-
ciples, we must however remember, he in the Europe,,
of his time saw continually in danger of extinction. On
their behalf he felt and wrote as passionately throughout
the greater part of a century as during their brief life-days
did either Byron or Shelley. But of the complexity of
political organisms and political problems Landor had
no conception, and practical as he believed and intended
much of his writing on politics to be, it is usually so much
high-minded declamation and no more. From these .
trumpet-calls against kings and oppressors, our selection
passes on to Landor's utterances concerning his own art
of letters. No one had a larger or closer knowledge
^xviii PREFACE.
of the best literature of all ages. No one, moreover,
felt more kindly to his contemporaries, or took a
manlier pleasure in praising them, or was less capable
of spoiling praise by partiality. Lander's sayings con-
cerning the duty and temper of the critic might furnish
a code for the guidance of every one undertaking
that office. Of his own writing a considerable part is
critical, and his criticism is often detailed and analytic ;
but most commonly in the technical and verbal sense ;
in the spiritual or psychological sense more rarely. For
this latter kind of analysis Landor was not so well
endowed as some of his contemporaries. De Quincey,
for ever questing in a circuit, when from time to time
he gets really on the scent ; Coleridge, when from his
speculative labyrinths he emerges into straight paths and
daylight ; are both of them subtler critics than Landor.
If Landor is ever subtle, it is in the analysis not of the
mind, but of the heart ; witness his famous commentary
on the Paolo and Francesca of Dante. It is for range
and largeness of critical survey, and for weight and
felicity in the expression of broad synthetic judgments
on literature and the workers in literature, that Landor
is really incomparable. ft With a vigorous and easy
motion," to use a phrase of his own, "such as the poets
attribute to the herald of the gods," he ranges from
Homer to Virgil, and from Pindar to Catullus, and from
the ancients down to his own contemporaries, dealing out
his ripe, authoritative judgments right and left. Of his
treatment of the technicalities of English spelling and
English style I have given only one or two brief
examples, interesting and masterly as these, too, often
are. Neither have I thought it desirable to spell his
work in these selections as he liked it spelt, but in the
usual way. " Talkt," "quencht," and the other pecu-
liar usages which Landor so stoutly advocated, may have
much to recommend them, but neither his advocacy nor
that of others has made them prevail, and in a book
intended to be read they seemed better abandoned.
PREFACE. xxix
Finally, I have put into a separate section examples
of Lander's writing about persons and about himself.
These are chiefly in verse. Landor had two personali-
ties, an inner one, so to speak, disguised by an outer ;
the inner being that of a stately and benign philosopher,
the outer that of a passionate and rebellious school-
boy. Of the external and superficial Landor, the man of
headlong impulses and disastrous misapprehensions and
quarrels, enough and to spare has been said and repeated.
But together with this indignant, legendary Landor, we
must not forget that there existed the other Landor, the
noble and gentle heart, the rich and bountiful nature, the
royally courteous temper, which won and held the loving
admiration of spirits like Southey and the Hares, like
Leigh Hunt and Forster and Dickens, like Robert and
Elizabeth Browning, and even of one so grudging of
admiration as Carlyle. That Lander's inner and nobler
self had little hold on or government over his other sell
must be admitted. From his nature's central citadel, to
use a mediaeval figure, of Pride, High Contemplation, and
Honourable Purpose, he failed to keep ward over its
outlying arsenals of Wrath, which Haste and Misjudg-
ment were for ever wantonly igniting, to the ruin of his
own fortunes, and the dismay of his neighbours and
well-wishers.
Landor in truth never fairly faced or contended against
these turbulent and explosive elements in his own char-
acter, but after every new experience of their consequences
forgot or laughed them off. Neither does his literary self-
consciousness extend to them, or it extends to them but
faintly. It is the philosophic and benignant Landor,
walking in spirit "with Epicurus on the right hand, and
Epictetus on the left," that speaks to us in his personal
writings almost alone. First in this section I have tried
to group the verses of all dates relating to his early love
and life-long friend, "lanthe." Next comes a selection
of poems embodying a few of his other most cherished
reminiscences and affections, and especially his idealising
XXX PREFACE.
affection for Southey. Next, some of his judgments on
himself and on others, delivered with his high air of
authority now in prose and now in verse ; and lastly the
expressions of that dignified and serene mood in which
in his old age he was accustomed to contemplate the
approach of death.
This, then, is what I have tried to do for Landor : to
bring together in a familiar shape a sufficient body, first
of his creative and impassioned writing, next of his reflec-
tive and discursive writing, and lastly of his personal
and occasional writing, to represent for readers in gen-
eral the range and character of his so incomplete yet
so extraordinary powers. If I have performed my task
at all rightly, the result ought to many readers to be
welcome. Even the student already well acquainted
with Landor may be glad to possess in such a shape
a selection of his most characteristic things. Not, I
am well aware, that any true student will ever in his
heart quite approve another's selection from an author
he loves, or fail to feel convinced that he could have
made a better one himself: but even to the student I
may at least remark that in the notes at the end of the
volume he will find matter which may interest him, and
which is not readily to be found elsewhere. Primarily,
however, it is not for him that the volume is intended,
but for that large class of readers who have an appetite
for the best literature, but not the leisure, or not the
tenacity, to overcome difficulties in its approach. Lan-
dor in his contempt for popularity intentionally put some
difficulties in the way of those seeking to approach him,
and more unintentionally, by his deficiency in tact and in
consecutiveness of mind. These deficiencies, as it seems
to me, prevent him from being one of the greatest, but
they do not prevent him from being one of the great,
English writers, and in proportion as it helps to make
this great writer no longer by name only, but really known,
will the purpose of my work have been accomplished.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE.
DRAMATIC.
i. Peleus and Thetis .3
ii. Achilles and Helena 7
iii. Menelaus and Helen at Troy 13
iv. The Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigeneia . . 17
v. ./Esop and Rhodope 22
^...yi. Marcellus and Hannibal 33
vii. Scipio, Polybius, and Panaetius 38
viii. The same 45
ix. Metellus and Marius 47
x. Tiberius and Vipsania 52
xi. Leofric and Godiva 56
xii. Tancredi and Constantia 63
xiii. Mahomet and Sergius ....... 67
xiv. Filippo Lippi and Pope Eugenius IV 71
xv. Leonora di Este and Father Panigarola ... 78
xvi. The Maid of Orleans and Agnes Sorel 81
xvii. Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn . . . .90
xviii. Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey .... 96
xix. Essex and Spenser 100
xx. Lady Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt 106
xxi. Peter the Great and Alexis no
xxxii CONTENTS.
NARRATIVE.
PAGE
y xxii. The Loves of Gebir and of Tamar. From"Gebir" . 119
xxiii. The Meeting of the Weird Sisters. From the same . 124
xxiv. The Marriage Morning. From the same . . .128
xxv. The Death of Chrysaor 130
xx vi. Thrasymedes and Eunoe 132
xxvii. Enallos and Cymodameia 135
xxviii. The Hamadryad 140
xxix. Aeon and Rhodope 149
xxx. The Death of Artemidora 153
xxxi. The Crowning of Thelymnia 154
xxxii. The Dream of Euthymedes 156
xxxiii. A Tuscan Sabbath 158
xxxiv. The Death of Acciaioli 165
xxxv. The Dream of Boccaccio 167
xxxvi. The Dream of Petrarca . . . . . .172
xxxvii. The Fate of a young Poet ...... 176
II.
REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
RELIGION.
xxxviii. The Origin of Idolatry ...... !8i
xxxix. ........... j8 2
xl. Differences of Opinion in Religion ..... ^3
xli. xlii ............ j86
xliii. xliv. xlv. ......... 187
xlvi. xlvii .......... , 188
xlviii. The Efficacy of Prayer . ..... T Qg
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS.
xlix. 1. li ...........
I9I
I93
194
: :. ........
Ivi. Ivii. Iviii. lix. ...... '.
Ix. Ixi. Ixii. The Fame of Milton . . . , . .196
Ixiii. The same . ..... .... 197
Ixiv. Ixv. . rnR
CONTENTS. xxxill
PAGE
Ixvi. Ixvii. Ixviii 199
Ixix. Ixx. Ixxi. Ixxii. Ixxiii. ...... 200
DEATH AND MORTALITY.
Ixxiv. Ixxv 201
Ixxvi ............ 203
Ixxvii. Ixxviii. Ixxix. ........ 205
Ixxx 206
LIFE AND HUMAN NA TURE.
Ixxxi. Ixxxii. Ixxxiii. Ixxxiv. Ixxxv 207
.Ixxxvi. Ixxxvii. Love of Power. Ixxxviii. The same . . 208
Ixxxix. The same. xc. The same. xci. xcii. xciii. . . 209
xciv. xcv. xcvi. xcvii. xcviii. Vanity in Women. xcix. . 210
c. ci. cii. ciii 211
civ. cv. cvi. cvii. cviii. . . . . . . .212
cix. ex. Friendship. cxi. The same. cxii. The same . . 213
cxiii. Town and Country. cxiv. The same . . . .214
cxv. The same 215
cxvi. The same 216
cxvii. Love of Truth 217
cxviii. The same. cxix. The same. cxx. cxxi. . . . 218
cxxii. cxxiii. Quickness. cxxiv. cxxy. cxxvi. . . . 219
cxxvii. cxxviii. cxxix. Idleness ' 220
LOVE, MARRIAGE, AND FAMILY AFFECTION.
cxxx. cxxxi. cxxxii. cxxxiii 222
cxxxiv. cxxxv. Love's Timidity. cxxxvi. The same cxxxvii. 223
cxxxviii. Love and Genius. cxxxix. Marriage . . . 224
cxl. The same. cxli. The same ...... 225
cxlii. Love of Children. cxliii. The same .... 228
cxliv. The same 229
cxlv. The same. cxlvi. The same. cxlvii 230
cxlviii. 232
MANNERS, SOCIETY, AND NATIONAL
CHARACTER.
cxlix. Women's Dress 233
cl. Scents and their Associations 234
xxxiv CONTENTS.
PAGE
cli. Society and Solitude .,..,... 236
clii. cliii. cliv. civ 237
clvi. clvii. clviii. clix. ........ 238
clx. clxi. Men and Dogs 239
clxii. The same. clxiii. English Hospitality . . . .241
clxiv. The same 243
clxv. clxvi 244
clxvii. clxviii. Italian Taste and the Love of Trees . . 245
clxix. Aspect of Towns in France and Italy .... 247
clxx. Respect for the Dead in Italy ...... 248
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT.
clxxi 250
clxxii 251
clxxiii. cbcxiv. The Fate of Despotisms. clxxv. Democracy 252
clxxvi. Napoleon and Pericles 253
clxxvii. The Death of Hofer 254 ^
clxxviii. The Troubles of Ireland 257
clxxix. The same. clxxx. The same 258
clxxxi. The Greek War of Liberation 259
clxxxii. The same 261
clxxxiii 262
clxxxiv. On the Accession of a Liberal Pope .... 263
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE.
clxxxv. clxxxvi. clxxxvii 265
clxxxviii. 266
clxxxix. cxc 267
cxci. cxcii. cxciii 268
cxciv. cxcv. cxcvi 269
cxcvii. cxcviii. Sedateness in Poetry. cxcix. The same . 270
cc. Pindar. cci. Latin Styles 271
ccii. Virgil's Dido. cciii 272
cciv. ccv 273
ccvi. ccvii. ccviii. ccix. The Origins of Poetry . . . 274
ccx. Poetry and History 275
ccxi. The Province of History 276
<* xii - ; 277
ccxiii. ccxiv 279
ccxv. ccxvi. .......... 280
CONTENTS. XXXV
PAGE
ccxvii. ccxviii. ccxix. Milton 281
ccxx. ccxxi. Milton and Johnson ...... 282
ccxxii. French Prose. ccxxiii. Addison 283
ccxxiv. Gibbon. ccxxv. Wordsworth. ccxxvi. Praise and
Censure 284
ccxxvii. The same. ccxxviii. The same. ccxxix. The same
ccxxx. The same. ccxxxi. The same. ccxxxii. The
same 285
ccxxxiii. The same. ccxxxiv. The same. ccxxxv. The same.
ccxxxvi. The same 286
ccxxxvii. The same. ccxxxviii. The same. ccxxxix. The
same 287
ccxl. The same 288
cccxli. Dante's Paolo and Francesca 289
ccxlii. Verbal Criticism, with an Example . . . . 292
ccxliii. Of Idiom. ccxliv. Of Quotation 293
ccxlv. Vulgarisms. ccxlvi. Gallicisms and Latinisms. ccxlvii.
English Orthography and Diction 294
ccxlviii. The same . . . 298
ccxlix. The same . 299
ccl. ccli 300
III.
PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
TO IANTHE.
cclii. Homage 303
ccliii. "On the smooth brow and clustering hair " . . 303
ccliv. " There is a flower I wish to wear " . . . 303
cclv. " It often comes into my head " . . 303
cclvi. " All tender thoughts that e'er possess'd " . . 304
cclvii. "Pleasure ! why thus desert the heart?" . . 304
cclviii. Renunciation 304
cclix. " You smiled, you spoke, and I believed " . . 305
cclx. " So late removed from him she swore " . . . 305
cclxi. " I held her hand, the pledge of bliss " . . . 305
cclxii. Absence 305
cclxiii. " Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know " 306
cclxiv. " Mild is the parting year, and sweet" . . . 306
cclxv. Years after 307
:XXV1 CONTENTS.
PAGE
cclxvi. " No, my own love of other years ! " . , , 307
cclxvii. "I wonder not that youth remains" . . . 307
cclxviii. "Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass" . 308
cclxix. " Years, many parti-colour'd years " . . . 308
cclxx. "Well I remember how you smiled " . . 308
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES.
cclxxi. On Swift joining Avon near Rugby . . . 309
cclxxii. Abertawy. ..,,.. ^i
cclxxiii. Rose Aylmer . . . , . . .312
cclxxiv. To J. S. . . . . . . , -312
cclxxv. A Fiesolan Idyl . ... 312
cclxx vi. Fiesolan Musings . . . . . , - 314
cclxxvii. To Joseph Ablett . . , , . . . 316
cclxxviii. To Wordsworth ........ 320
cclxxix. To Southey . 322
cclxxx. To the Sister of Elia 324
cclxxxi. Farewell to Italy 324
cclxxxii. Landor in England to his Youngest Son in Italy . 325
cclxxxiii. Thoughts of Fiesole, from Torquay . . . 327
cclxxxiv. On the Death of Southey .-..., 328
cclxxxv. On the same ... 020
cclxxxvi. To the Rev. Cuthbert Southey .... 330
cclxxxvii. To the Memory of Julius Hare .... 332
cclxxxviii. To the Memory of Lady Blessington . . . 333
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS.
cclxxxix. An Apologue on Byron, 1822 334
ccxc. Note to the above, 1824 335
ccxcii. Shelley .- 33 g
ccxciii. Southey 33 g
ccxciv. A Confession of Jealousy . . . . 333
ccxcv. Robert Browning ....... 33 g
ccxcvi. Macaulay 33g
ccxcvii. Charles Dickens 340
ccxcviii. Literary Enmities 34O
ccxcix
ccc. " I know not whether I am proud "... 342
ccci. " The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings " . 343
CONTENTS. XXXvil
PAGE
cccii. The Genius of Greece ...... 343
ccciii. On his own Agamemnon and Iphigeneia , =, 344
ccciv. The Author of Dry Sticks to his Readers . . 344
cccy. . . . ........ 344
cccvi. cccvii. cccviii. ....... 345
ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH.
cccix. To Age 346
cccx. " Is it not better at an early hour "... 347
cccxi. To a Painter . . 347
cccxii. " Give me the eyes that look on mine " . , . 347
cccxiii. " To his young Rose an old man said " . . . 348
cccxiv. The Three Roses ....... 348
cccxv. " Various the roads of life ; in one "..-.; 349
cccxvi. " The day returns, my natal day " . . . . 349
cccxvii. On his Seventy-fifth Birthday .... 349
cccxviii. On his Eightieth Birthday 349
cccxix. Memory 350
cccxx. " Death stands above me, whispering low " . . 350
NOTES . . 35!
I.
DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE.
DRAMA TIC.
PELEUS AND THETIS.
The sea-goddess Thetis, wedded by the decree of the gods to
Peleus, and afterwards by the same decree separated
from him, appears again before him at the hour when
their son Achilles, having been discovered in his retreat
on Scyros, has departed with the Grecian armament to
Troy.
Thetis. O Peleus ! O them whom the gods conferred
upon me for all my portion of happiness and it was
(I thought) too great
Peleus. Goddess ! to me, to thy Peleus, O how far
more than goddess ! why then this sudden silence ? why
these tears ? The last we shed were when the Fates
divided us, saying the Earth was not thine, and the
brother of Zeus, he the ruler of the waters, had called
thee. Those that fall between the beloved at parting
are bitter, and ought to be : woe to him who wishes
they were not ! but those that flow again at the returning
light of the blessed feet, should be refreshing and divine
as morn.
Thetis. Support me, support me in thy arms once
more, once only. Lower not thy shoulder from my
cheek, to gaze at those features that (in times past) so
pleased thee. The sky is serene ; the heavens frown not
on us : do they then prepare for us fresh sorrow ? Pre-
pare for us 1 ah me ! the word of Zeus is spoken : our
4 .,...' DRAMATIC.
Achilles is discovered : he is borne away in the black
. hoUqw.shfps of.'Aulis, and would have flown faster than
tney 'sail, tcr Troy. *
Surely there are those among the gods, or among the
goddesses, who might have forewarned me ; and they
did not ! Were there no omens, no auguries, no dreams,
to shake thee from thy security ? no priest to prophesy ?
And what pastures are more beautiful than Larissa's ?
what victims more stately ? Could the soothsayers turn
aside their eyes from these ?
Peleus. Approach with me and touch the altar, O
my beloved ! Doth not thy finger now impress the soft
embers of incense? how often hath it burned, for him,
for thee ! And the lowings of the herds are audible for
their leaders, from the sources of Apidanus and Enipeus
to the sea-beach. They may yet prevail.
Thetis. Alas ! alas ! priests can foretell but not
avert the future ; and all they can give us are vain pro-
mises and abiding fears.
Peleus. Despond not, my long -lost Thetis ! Hath
not a god led thee back to me? Why not hope then
he will restore our son ? Which of them all hath such a
boy offended ?
Thetis. Uncertainties worse than uncertainties
overthrow and overwhelm me.
Peleus. There is a comfort in the midst of every un-
certainty, saving those which perplex the gods and con-
found the godlike, Love's. Be comforted ! not by my
kisses, but by my words. Achilles may live till our old
age. Ours ! Had I forgotten thy divinity ? forgotten it
in thy beauty ? Other mortals think their beloved par-
take of it then mostly when they are gazing on their
charms ; but thy tenderness is more than godlike ; and
never have I known, never have I wished to know,
whether ought in our inferior nature may resemble it.
PELEUS AND THETIS. 5
Thetis. A mortal so immutable ! the Powers above are
less.
Peleus. Time without grief would not have greatly
changed me.
Thetis. There is a loveliness which youth may be with-
out, and which the gods want. To the voice of compas-
sion not a shell in all the ocean is attuned ; and no tear
ever dropped upon Olympus. Thou lookest as fondly as
ever, and more pensively. Have time and grief done
this ? and they alone ? my Peleus ! Tell me again, have
no freshly fond anxieties ?
Peleus. Smile thus ! O smile anew and forget thy
sorrows. Ages shall fly over my tomb, while thou art
flourishing in imperishable youth, the desire of gods, the
light of the depths of Ocean, the inspirer and sustainer
of ever-flowing song.
Thetis. I receive thy words, and bless them. Gods
may desire me : I have loved Peleus. Our union had
many obstacles ; the envy of mortals, the jealousy of im-
mortals, hostility and persecution from around, from
below, and from above. When we were happy they
parted us : and again they unite us in eternal grief.
Peleus. The wish of a divinity is powerfuller than the
elements, and swifter than the light. Hence thou (what
to me is impossible) mayest see the sweet Achilles every
day, every hour.
Thetis. How few ! alas how few ! I see him in the
dust, in agony, in death : I see his blood on the flints, his
yellow hair flapping in its current, his hand unable to
remove it from his eyes. I hear his voice ; and it calls
not upon me ! Mothers are soon forgotten ! It is weak-
ness to love the weak ! I could not save him ! He
would have left the caverns of Ocean, and the groves and
meadows of Elysium, though resounding with the songs
of love and heroism, for a field of battle.
6 DRAMATIC.
Peleus. He may yet live many years. Troy hath been
taken once already.
Thetis. He must perish ; and at Troy ; and now.
Peleus. The now of the gods is more than life's duration :
other gods and other worlds are formed within it. If
indeed he must perish at Troy, his ashes will lie softly on
hers. Thus fall our beauteous son ! thus rest Achilles !
Thetis. Twice nine years have scarcely yet passed over
his head ; twice nine have not yet rolled away since
' * O the youth of ^Emathia ! O the swift, the golden-
haired Peleus !" were the only words sounded in the halls
of Tethys. How many shells were broken for their
hoarseness ! how many reproofs were heard by the Tritons
for interrupting the slumbers of those who never slept !
But they feigned sound sleep : and joy and kindness left
the hearts of sisters. We loved too well for others to
love us.
Why do I remember the day? Why do I remind
thee of it ? my Achilles dies ! it was the day that gave
me my Achilles ! Dearer he was to me than the light of
heaven, before he ever saw it : and how much dearer
now, when, bursting forth on earth like its first day-
spring, all the loveliness of Nature stands back, and
grows pale and faint before his.
Peleus. O thou art fallen ! thou art fallen through my
embrace, when I thought on him more than on thee.
Look up again ; look, and forgive me. No : thy forgive-
ness I deserve not but did I deserve thy love? Thy
solitude, thy abasement, thy parental tears, and thy fall
to the earth, are from me ! Why doth aught of youth
linger with me ? Why not come age and death ? The
monster of Calydon made (as thou knowest) his first and
most violent rush against this arm ; no longer fit for war,
no longer a defence to the people. And is the day too
come when it no longer can sustain my Thetis ?
ACHILLES AND HELENA. 7
Thetis. Protend it not to the skies ! invoke not, name
not, any Deity ! I fear them all. Nay, lift me not thus
above thy head, O Peleus ! reproaching the gods with
such an awful look ; with a look of beauty which they
will not pity, with a look of defiance which they may not
brook.
Peleus. Doth not my hand enclasp that slender foot,
at which the waves of Ocean cease to be tumultuous, and
the children of ^Eolus to disturb their peace ? O, if in
the celestial coolness of thy cheek, now resting on my
head, there be not the breath and gift of immortality ; O
if Zeus hath any thunderbolt in reserve for me ; let this,
rny beloved Thetis, be the hour !
II.
ACHILLES AND HELENA,
Achilles ; during the siege of Troy, having prayed to his
mother Thetis and to Aphrodite that he might see
Helen face to face, is transported by those goddesses to a
place of meeting with her on Mount Ida^
Helena. Where am I ? Desert me not, O ye blessed
from above ! ye twain who brought me hither !
Was it a dream ?
Stranger ! thou seemest thoughtful ; couldst thou
answer me? Why so silent? I beseech and implore
thee, speak.
Achilles. Neither thy feet nor the feet of mules have
borne thee where thou standest. 'Whether in the hour
of departing sleep, or at what hour of the morning, I
know not, O Helena, but Aphrodite and Thetis, inclining
to my prayer, have, as thou art conscious, led thee into
these solitudes. To me also have they shown the way ;
8 DRAMATIC.
that 1 might behold the pride of Sparta, the marvel of
the Earth, and how my heart swells and agonises at the
thought ! the cause of innumerable woes to Hellas.
Helena. Stranger ! thou art indeed one whom the
goddesses or gods might lead, and glory in ; such is thy
stature, thy voice, and thy demeanour ; but who, if
earthly, art thou?
Achilles. Before thee, O Helena, stands Achilles, son
of Peleus. Tremble not, turn not pale, bend not thy
knees, O Helena.
Helena. Spare me, thou goddess-born ! thou cherished
and only son of silver - footed Thetis ! Chrysei's and
Brisei's ought to soften and content thy heart. Lead not
me also into captivity. Woes too surely have I brought
down on Hellas ; but woes have been mine alike, and
will for ever be.
Achilles. Daughter of Zeus ! what word hast thou
spoken 1 Chrysei's, child of the aged priest who per-
forms in this land due sacrifices to Apollo, fell to the lot
of another ; an insolent and unworthy man, who hath
already brought more sorrows upon our people than thou
hast ; so that dogs and vultures prey on the brave who
sank without a wound. Brisei's is indeed mine ; the
lovely and dutiful Brisei's. He, unjust and contumelious,
proud at once and base, would tear her from me. But,
gods above ! in what region has the wolf with impunity
dared to seize upon the kid which the lion hath taken ?
Talk not of being led into servitude. Could mortal be
guilty of such impiety? Hath it never thundered on
these mountain heads ? Doth Zeus, the wide-seeing, see
all the Earth but Ida ? doth he watch over all but his
own ? Capaneus and Typhoeus less offended him, than
would the wretch whose grasp should violate the golden
hair of Helena. And dost thou still tremble ? irresolute
and distrustful !
I UN
ACHILLES AND HELENA. Q
Helena. I must tremble ; and more and more.
Achilles. Take my hand : be confident : be comforted.
Helena, May I take it? may I hold it? I am com-
forted.
Achilles. The scene around us, calm and silent as the
sky itself, tranquillises thee ; and so it ought. Turnest
thou to survey it ? perhaps it is unknown to thee.
Helena. Truly ; for since my arrival I have never gone
beyond the walls of the city.
Achilles. Look then around thee freely, perplexed no
longer. Pleasant is this level eminence, surrounded by
broom and myrtle, and crisp -leaved beech and broad
dark pine above. Pleasant the short slender grass, bent
by insects as they alight on it or climb along it, and
shining up into our eyes, interrupted by tall sisterhoods
of gray lavender, and by dark-eyed cistus, and by light-
some citisus, and by little troops of serpolet running in
disorder here and there.
Helena. Wonderful ! how didst thou ever learn to name
so many plants ?
Achilles. Chiron taught me them, when I walked at
his side while he was culling herbs for the benefit of his
brethren. All these he taught me, and at least twenty
more ; for wondrous was his wisdom, boundless his know-
ledge, and I was proud to learn.
Ah look again ! look at those little yellow poppies ;
they appear to be just come out to catch all that the sun
will throw into their cups : they appear in their joyance
and incipient dance to call upon the lyre to sing among
them.
Helena. Childish ! for one with such a spear against
his ihoulder ; terrific even its shadow ; it seems to make
a chasm across the plain.
Achilles. To talk or to think like a child is not always
a proof of folly : it may sometimes push aside heavy griefs
I O DRAMATIC.
where the strength of wisdom fails. What art thou
pondering, Helena?
Helena. Recollecting the names of the plants. Several
of them I do believe I had heard before, but had quite
forgotten ; my memory will be better now.
Achilles. Better now ? in the midst of war and tumult ?
Helena. I am sure it will be, for didst thou not say
that Chiron taught them ?
Achilles. He sang to me over the lyre the lives of
Narcissus and Hyacinthus, brought back by the beautiful
Hours, of silent unwearied feet, regular as the stars in
their courses. Many of the trees and bright-eyed flowers
once lived and moved, and spoke as we are speaking.
They may yet have memories, although they have cares
no longer.
Helena. Ah ! then they have no memories ; and they
see their own beauty only.
Achilles. Helena ! thou turnest pale, and droopest.
Helena. The odour of the blossoms, or of the gums,
or the highth of the place, or something else, makes me
dizzy. Can it be the wind in 'my ears ?
Achilles. There is none.
Helena. I could wish there were a little.
Achilles. Be seated, O Helena !
Helena. The feeble are obedient : the weary may rest
even in the presence of the powerful.
Achilles. On this very ground where we are now re-
posing, they who conducted us hither told me, the fatal
prize of beauty was awarded. One of them smiled ; the
other, whom in duty I love the most, looked anxious, and
let fall some tears.
Helena. Yet she was not one of the vanquished. -
Achilles. Goddesses contended for it ; Helena was afar.
Helena. Fatal was the decision of the arbiter !
But could not the venerable Peleus, nor Pyrrhus the
ACHILLES AND HELENA. I I
infant so beautiful and so helpless, detain thee, O Achilles,
from this sad, sad war ?
Achilles. No reverence or kindness for the race of
Atreus brought me against Troy ; I detest and abhor
both brothers : but another man is more hateful to me
still. Forbear we to name him. The valiant, holding
the hearth as sacred as the temple, is never a violator of
hospitality. He carries not away the gold he finds in the
house ; he folds not up the purple linen worked for solem-
nities, about to convey it from the cedar chest to the dark
ship, together with the wife confided to his protection in
her husband's absence, and sitting close and expectant
by the altar of the gods.
It was no merit in Menelaus to love thee ; it was a
crime in another I will not say to love, for even Priam
or Nestor might love thee but to avow it, and act on the
avowal.
Helena. Menelaus, it is true, was fond of me, when
Paris was sent by Aphrodite to our house. It would
have been very wrong to break my vow to Menelaus, but
Aphrodite urged me by day and by night, telling me that
to make her break hers to Paris would be quite inexpiable.
She told Paris the same thing at the same hour ; and as
often. He repeated it to me every morning : his dreams
tallied with mine exactly. At last
Achilles. The last is not yet come. Helena ! by the
Immortals ! if ever I meet him in battle I transfix him
with this spear.
Helena. Pray do not. Aphrodite would be angry and
never forgive thee.
Achilles. I am not sure of that ; she soon pardons.
Variable as Iris, one day she favours and the next day
she forsakes.
Helena. She may then forsake me.
Achilles. Other deities, O Helena, watch over and
1 2 DRAMATIC.
protect thee. Thy two brave brothers are with those
deities now, and never are absent from their higher
festivals.
Helena. They could protect me were they living, and
they would. O that thou couldst but have seen them !
Achilles. Companions of my father on the borders of
the Phasis, they became his guests before they went all
three to hunt the boar in the brakes of Calydon. Thence
too the beauty of a woman brought many sorrows into
brave men's breasts, and caused many tears to hang long
and heavily on the eyelashes of matrons.
Helena. Didst thou indeed see my brothers at that
season? Yes, certainly.
Achilles. I saw them not, desirous though I always was
of seeing them, that I might have learnt from them, and
might have practised with them, whatever is laudable and
manly. But my father, fearing my impetuosity, as he
said, and my inexperience, sent me away. Soothsayers
had foretold some mischief to me from an arrow : and
among the brakes many arrows might fly wide, glancing
from trees.
Helena. I wish thou hadst seen them, were it only once.
Three such youths together the blessed sun will never
shine upon again.
O my sweet brothers ! how they tended me ! how they
loved me ! how often they wished me to mount their
horses and to hurl their javelins. They could only teach
me to swim with them ; and when I had well learnt it I
was more afraid than at first. It gratified me to beV
praised for anything but swimming.
Happy, happy hours ! soon over ! Does happiness always
go away before beauty? It must go then : surely it might
stay that little while. Alas ! dear Castor ! and dearer Poly-
deuces ! often shall I think of you as ye were (and oh ! as
I was) on the banks of the Eurotas. Brave noble crea-
MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY. 13
tures ! they were as tall, as terrible, and almost as beauti-
ful, as thou art. Be not wroth ! Blush no more for me.
Achilles. Helena ! Helena ! wife of Menelaus ! my
mother is reported to have left about me only one place
vulnerable : I have at last found where it is. Farewell.
Helena. O leave me not ! Earnestly I entreat and
implore thee, leave me not alone. These solitudes are
terrible : there must be wild beasts among them ; there
certainly are Fauns and Satyrs. And there is Cybele
who carries towers and temples on her head ; who hates
and abhors Aphrodite, who persecutes those she favours,
and whose priests are so cruel as to be cruel even to
themselves.
Achilles. According to their promise, the goddesses
who brought thee hither in a cloud will in a cloud recon-
duct thee, safely and unseen, into the city.
Again, O daughter of Leda and of Zeus, farewell !
III.
MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY.
After tJte fall of Troy, Helen is pursued by Menelaus up the
steps of the palace ; an old attendant deprecates and in-
tercepts his vengeance.
Menelaus. Out of my way ! Off ! or my sword may
smite thee,
Heedless of venerable age. And thou,
Fugitive ! stop. Stand, traitress, on that stair
Thou mountest not another, by the gods !
Now take the death thou meritest, the death
Zeus who presides o'er hospitality,
And every other god whom thou hast left,
And every other who abandons thee
14 DRAMATIC.
In this accursed city, sends at last
Turn, vilest of vile slaves ! turn, paramour
Of what all other women hate, of cowards,
Turn, lest this hand wrench back thy head, and toss
It and its odours to the dust and flames.
Helen. Welcome the death thou promisest ! Not feai
But shame, obedience, duty, make me turn.
Menelaus. Duty ! false harlot !
Helen. Name too true ! severe
Precursor to the blow that is to fall !
It should alone suffice for killing me.
Menelaus. Ay, weep : be not the only one in Troy
Who wails not on this day its last the day
Thou and thy crimes darken with dead on dead.
Helen. Spare ! spare ! O let the last that falls be me
There are but young and old.
Menelaus. There are but guilty
Where thou art, and the sword strikes none amiss.
Hearest thou not the creeping blood buzz near
Like flies ? or wouldst thou rather hear it hiss
Louder, against the flaming roofs thrown down
Wherewith the streets are pathless ? Ay, but vengeance
Springs over all ; and Nemesis and Ate
Drove back the flying ashes with both hands.
I never saw thee weep till now : and now
There is no pity in thy tears. The tiger
Leaves not her young athirst for the first milk,
As thou didst. Thine could scarce have claspt thy
knee
If she had felt thee leave her.
Helen. O my child !
My only one ! thou livest : 'tis enough ;
Hate me, abhor me, curse me these are duties
Call me but Mother in the shades of death !
She now is twelve years old, when the bud swells
MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY. 15
And the first colours of uncertain life
Begin to tinge it.
Menelaus (aside}. Can she think of home ?
Hers once, mine yet, and sweet Hermione's !
Is there one spark that cheer'd my hearth, one left,
For thee, my last of love !
Scorn, righteous scorn
Blows it from me but thou mayst never, never-
Thou shalt not see her even there. The slave
On earth shall scorn thee, and the damn'd below.
Helen. Delay not either fate. If death is mercy,
Send me among the captives ; so that Zeus
May see his offspring led in chains away,
And thy hard brother, pointing with his sword
At the last wretch that crouches on the shore,
Cry, " She alone shall never sail for Greece !"
Menelaus. Hast thou more words ?
Her voice is musical
As the young maids who sing to Artemis :
How glossy is that yellow braid my grasp
Seiz'd and let loose ! Ah ! can then years have past
Since but the children of the gods, like them,
Suffer not age.
Helen ! speak honestly,
And thus escape my vengeance was it force
That bore thee off?
Helen. It was some evil god.
Menelaus. Helping that hated man ?
Helen. How justly hated !
Menelaus. By thee too ?
Helen. Hath he not made thee unhappy ?
O do not strike.
Menelatis. Wretch !
Helen. Strike, but do not speak.
Menelaus. Lest thou remember me against thy will.
1 6 DRAMATIC.
Helen. Lest I look up and see you wroth and sad,
Against my will ; O ! how against my will
They know above, they who perhaps can pity.
Menelaus. They shall not save thee.
Helen. Then indeed they pity
Menelaus. Prepare for death.
Helen. Not from that hand : 'twould pain you.
Menelaus. Touch not my hand. Easily dost thou drop it!
Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou command.
Menelaus. Look up then.
Helen. To the hardest proof of all
I am now bidden : bid me not look up.
Menelaus. She looks as when I led her on behind
The torch and fife, and when the blush o'erspread
Her girlish face at tripping in the myrtle
On the first step before the wreathed gate.
Approach me. Fall not on thy knees.
Helen. The hand
That is to slay me, best may slay me thus.
I dare no longer see the light of heaven,
Nor thine alas ! the light of heaven to me.
Menelaus. Follow me.
She holds out both arms and now
Drops them again. She comes. Why stoppest thou ?
Helen. O Menelaus ! could thy heart know mine,
As once it did for then did they converse,
Generous the one, the other not unworthy
Thou wouldst find sorrow deeper even than guilt.
Menelaiis. And I must lead her by the hand again ?
Nought shall persuade me. Never. She draws back
The true alone and loving sob like her.
Come, Helen ! [He takes her hand.
Helen. Oh ! let never Greek see this !
Hide me from Argos, from Amyclai hide me,
Hide me from all.
AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 17
Menelaus. Thy anguish is too strong
For me to strive with.
Helen. Leave it all to me.
Menelaus. Peace ! peace ! The wind, I hope, is fair
for Sparta.
IV.
THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA.
Agamemnon^ murdered by his ivife Clytemnestra on his
return from the Trojan war, is met at his entrance
among the shades by his daughter iphigeneia, sacri-
ficed by him to propitiate the gods on the outward
journey.
Iphigeneia. Father ! I now may lean upon your breast.
And you with unreverted eyes will grasp
Iphigeneia's hand.
We are not shades
Surely ! for yours throbs yet.
And did my blood
Win Troy for Greece ?
Ah ! 'twas ill done to shrink,
But the sword gleam'd so sharp, and the good priest
Trembled, and Pallas frown'd above, severe.
Agamemnon. Daughter !
Iphigeneia. Beloved father ! is the blade
Again to pierce my bosom ? 'tis unfit
For sacrifice ; no blood is in its veins ;
No god requires it here ; here are no wrongs
To vindicate, no realms to overthrow.
You are standing as at Aulis in the fane,
With face averted, holding (as before)
My hand ; but yours burns not, as then it burn'd ;
This alone shows that we are with the blest,
c
1 8 DRAMATIC.
Nor subject to the sufferings we have borne.
I will win back past kindness.
Tell me then,
Tell how my mother fares who loved me so,
And griev'd, as 'twere for you, to see me part.
Frown not, but pardon me for tarrying
Amid too idle words, nor asking how
She prais'd us both (which most ?) for what we did.
Agamemnon. Ye gods who govern here! do human pangs
Reach the pure soul thus far below ? do tears
Spring in these meadows ?
Iphigeneia. No, sweet father, no
I could have answered that ; why ask the gods ?
Agamemnon. Iphigeneia ! O my child ! the Earth
Has gendered crimes unheard-of heretofore,
And Nature may have changed in her last depths,
Together with the gods and all their laws.
Iphigeneia. Father ! we must not let you here condemn ;
Not, were the day less joyful : recollect
We have no wicked here ; no king to judge.
Poseidon, we have heard, with bitter rage
Lashes his foaming steeds against the skies,
And, laughing with loud yell at winged fire
Innoxious to his fields and palaces,
Affrights the eagle from the sceptred hand ;
While Pluto, gentlest brother of the three
And happiest in obedience, views sedate
His tranquil realm, nor envies theirs above.
No change have we, not even day for night,
Nor spring for summer. All things are serene,
Serene too be your spirit !
None on earth
Ever was half so kindly in his house,
And so compliant, even to a child.
Never was snatch'd your robe away from me.
AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 19
Though going to the council. The blind man
Knew his good king was leading him indoors
Before he heard the voice that marshall'd Greece.
Therefore all prais'd you.
Proudest men themselves
In others praise humility, and most
Admire it in the sceptre and the sword.
What then can make you speak thus rapidly
And briefly ? in your step thus hesitate ?
Are you afraid to meet among the good
Incestuous Helen here ?
Agamemnon. O ! gods of hell !
Iphigeneia. She hath not past the river.
We may walk
With our hands link'd nor feel our house's shame.
Agamemnon. Never mayst thou, Iphigeneia, feel it !
Aulis had no sharp sword, thou wouldst exclaim,
Greece no avenger I, her chief so late,
Through Erebos, through Elysium, writhe beneath it.
Iphigeneia. Come, I have better diadems than those
Of Argos and Mycenai : come away,
And I will weave them for you on the bank.
You will not look so pale when you have walk'd
A little in the grove, and have told all
Those sweet fond words the widow sent her child.
Agamemnon. O Earth ! I suffered less upon thy shores !
(Aside. ) The bath that bubbled with my blood, the blows
That spilt it (O worse torture !) must she know?
Ah ! the first woman coming from Mycenai
Will pine to pour this poison in her ear,
Taunting sad Charon for his slow advance.
Iphigeneia !
Iphigeneia. Why thus turn away ?
Calling me with such fondness ! I am here,
Father ! and where you are, will ever be.
20 DRAMATIC.
Agamemnon. Thou art my child ; yes, yes, thou art
my child.
All was not once what all now is ! Come on,
Idol of love and truth ! my child ! my child !
(Alone.} Fell woman ! ever false ! false was thy last
Denunciation, as thy bridal vow ;
And yet even that found faith with me ! The dirk
Which sever'd flesh from flesh, where this hand rests,
Severs not, as thou boastedst in thy scoffs,
Iphigeneia's love from Agamemnon :
The wife's a spark may light, a straw consume,
The daughter's not her heart's whole fount hath
quench'd,
'Tis worthy of the gods, and lives for ever.
Iphigeneia. What spake my father to the gods above ?
Unworthy am I then to join in prayer ?
If on the last, or any day before,
Of my brief course on earth, I did amiss,
Say it at once, and let me be unblest ;
But, O my faultless father ! why should you ?
And shun so my embraces !
Am I wild
And wandering in my fondness !
We are shades !
Groan not thus deeply ; blight not thus the season
Of full-orb'd gladness ! Shades we are indeed,
But mingled, let us feel it, with the blest.
I knew it, but forgot it suddenly,
Altho' I felt it all at your approach.
Look on me ; smile with me at my illusion
You are so like what you have ever been
(Except in sorrow) I might well forget
I could not win you as I used to do.
It was the first embrace since my descent
I ever aim'd at : those who love me live,
AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA. 21
Save one, who loves me most, and now would chide me.
Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphigeneia, we
Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools the heart
With purity, nor words that more and more
Teach what we know from those we know, and sink
Often most deeply where they fall most light.
Time was when for the faintest breath of thine
Kingdom and life were little.
Iphigeneia. Value them
As little now.
Agamemnon. Were life and kingdom all !
Iphigeneia. Ah ! by our death many are sad who loved us.
The little fond Electra, and Orestes
So childish and so bold ! O that mad boy !
They will be happy too.
Cheer ! king of men !
Cheer ! there are voices, songs Cheer ! arms advance.
Agamemnon. Come to me, soul of peace ! These,
these alone,
These are not false embraces.
Iphigeneia. Both are happy !
Agamemnon. Freshness breathes round me from some
breeze above.
What are ye, winged ones ! with golden urns ?
The Hours.
(Descending. ) To each an urn we bring :
Earth's purest gold
Alone can hold
The lymph of the Lethean spring.
We, son of Atreus ! we divide
The dulcet from the bitter tide
That runs athwart the paths of men.
No more our pinions shalt thou see.
Take comfort ! We have done with thee,
And must away to earth again.
22 DRAMATIC.
(Ascending.) Where thou art, thou
Of braided brow,
Thou cull'd too soon from Argive bowers,
Where thy sweet voice is heard among
The shades that thrill with choral song,
None can regret the parted Hours.)
(As the Hours depart, the shades of the Argive -warriors
who had fought at Troy approach and chant in chorus the
praises of Agamemnon and his daughter.)
/ESOP AND RHODOPfc.
sop, being a slave in the house of Xanthus, a Samian, has
for a fellow- slave the young girl Rhodope, or Rhoddpis,
destined afterwards to attain great wealth and renown
in Egypt. RhodopZ attaches herself to JEsop in spite
of his deformity^ and in this Second Conversation
tells him how it came to pass that she was sold into
slavery.
. And so, our fellow-slaves are given to conten-
tion on the score of dignity ?
Rhodopt. I do not believe they are much addicted to con-
tention : for, whenever the good Xanthus hears a signal of
such misbehaviour, he either brings a scourge into the midst
of them, or sends our lady to scold them smartly for it.
<dZsop. Admirable evidence against their propensity !
Rhodopt. I will not have you find them out so, nor
laugh at them.
JEsop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and our lady are
equally fond of thee, and always visit thee both together,
the girls, however envious, cannot well or safely be arro-
gant, but must of necessity yield the first place to thee.
RhodopL They indeed are observant of the kindness
AND RHODOP^:. 23
thus bestowed upon me : yet they afflict me by taunting
me continually with what I am unable to deny.
sEsop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble thee ; if
untrue, less. I know, for I have looked into nothing else
of late, no evil can thy heart have admitted : a sigh of
thine before the gods would remove the heaviest that
could fall on it. Pray tell me what it may be. Come,
be courageous ; be cheerful. I can easily pardon a smile
if thou empleadest me of curiosity.
Rhodop^. They remark to me that enemies or robbers
took them forcibly from their parents and that and
that
JEsop. Likely enough : what then ? Why desist from
speaking ? Why cover thy face with thy hair and hands ?
Rhodope ! Rhodope ! dost thou weep moreover ?
Rhodopt. It is so sure !
jEsop. Was the fault thine ?
Rhodope. O that it were ! if there was any.
<dZsop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep thy silence ;
but when utterance is a solace, then impart it.
Rhodop^ They remind me (oh ! who could have had
the cruelty to relate it?) that my father, my own dear
father
sEsop. Say not the rest : I know it : his day was come.
Rhodope. Sold me, sold me. You start : you did not
at the lightning last night, nor at the rolling sounds above.
And do you, generous ^Esop ! do you also call a misfor-
tune a disgrace ?
sEsop. It it is, I am among the most disgraceful of men.
Didst thou dearly love thy father ?
Rhodope'. All loved him. He was very fond of me.
AZsop. And yet sold thee ! sold thee to a stranger !
Rhodope. He was the kindest of all kind fathers, never-
theless. Nine summers ago, you may have heard perhaps,
there was a grievous famine in our land of Thrace.
24 DRAMATIC.
. I remember it perfectly.
Rhodopt. O poor ^Esop ! and were you too famishing
in your native Phrygia ?
ALsop. The calamity extended beyond the narrow sea
that separates our countries. My appetite was sharpened ;
but the appetite and the wits are equally set on the same
grindstone.
Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old : my mother
died the year before : my father sighed at every funereal,
but he sighed more deeply at every bridal, song. He
loved me because he loved her who bore me : and yet I
made him sorrowful whether I cried or smiled. If ever
I vexed him, it was because I would not play when he
told me, but made him, by my weeping, weep again.
ALsop. And yet he could endure to lose thee ! he, thy
father ! Could any other ? could any who lives on the
fruits of the Earth, endure it? O age, that art incum-
bent over me ! blessed be thou ; thrice blessed ! Not
that thou stillest the tumults of the heart and promisest
eternal calm; but that, prevented by thy beneficence,
I never shall experience this only intolerable wretched-
ness.
Rhodopt. Alas ! alas !
ALsop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst not utter
that useless exclamation.
Rhodopt. You said something angrily and vehemently
when you stepped aside. Is it not enough that the hand-
maidens doubt the kindness of my father? Must so
virtuous and so wise a man as ^Esop blame him also ?
AZsop. Perhaps he is little to be blamed ; certainly he
is much to be pitied.
Rhodop^. Kind heart ! on which mine must never rest.
ALsop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel when
they fail thee : rest on it, as the Deities on the breast of
mortals, to console and purify it
&SOP AND RHODOPk 25
Rhodopt. Could I remove any sorrow from it, I should
be contented.
JEsop. Then be so ; and proceed in thy narrative.
Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My thoughts
have overpowered my words, and now themselves are
overpowered and scattered. Forty-seven days ago (this
is only the forty-eighth since I beheld you first) I was a
child ; I was ignorant, I was careless.
JEsop. If these qualities are signs of childhood, the
universe is a nursery.
Rhodop^. Affliction, which makes many wiser, had no
such effect on me. But reverence and love (why should
I hesitate at the one avowal more than at the other?)
came over me, to ripen my understanding.
JEsop. O Rhodope ! we must loiter no longer upon
this discourse ?
Rhodopt. Why not ?
AZsop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen over the high
papyrus when it waves and bends : deep laden with the
sweet heaviness of its odour is the listless air that palpi-
tates dizzily above it : but Death is lurking for the
slumberer beneath its blossoms.
Rhodop^. You must not love then ! but may not I ?
^Esop. We will but
Rhodopt. We! O sound that is to vibrate on my
breast for ever ! O hour ! happier than all other hours
since time began ! O gracious gods ! who brought me
into bondage !
;2Lsop. Be calm, be composed, be circumspect. We
must hide our treasure that we may not lose it.
Rhodop^. I do not think that you can love me ; and I
fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, yes; you have said
you did. But again you only look at me, and sigh as if
you repented.
. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond regard, J
26 DRAMATIC.
am not unworthy of thy fullest confidence ; why dis-
trust me ?
Rhodop^. Never will I never, never. To know that
I possess your love, surpasses all other knowledge, dear
as is all that I receive from you. I should be tired of
my own voice if I heard it on aught beside : and, even
yours is less melodious in any other sound than Rhodopt.
</Esop. Do such little girls learn to flatter ?
Rhodope. Teach me how to speak, since you could not
teach me how to be silent.
sEsop. Speak no longer of me, but of thyself; and
only of things that never pain thee.
Rhodop^. Nothing can pain me now.
j&sop. Relate thy story then, from infancy.
Rhodop^ I must hold your hand : I am afraid of losing
you again.
ALsop. Now begin. Why silent so long ?
Rhodopt. I have dropped all memory of what is told
by me and what is untold.
sEsop. Recollect a little. I can be patient with this
hand in mine.
Rhodope. I am not certain that yours is any help to
recollection.
^Zsop. Shall I remove it ?
Rhodope. O ! now I think I can recall the whole story.
What did you say ? did you ask any question ?
sEsop. None, excepting what thou hast answered.
Rhodopt. Never shall I forget the morning when my
father, sitting in the coolest part of the house, exchanged
his last measure of grain for a chlamys of scarlet cloth
fringed with silver. He watched the merchant out of the
door, and then looked wistfully into the corn-chest. I,
who thought there was something worth seeing, looked
in also, and, finding it empty, expressed my disappoint-
ment, not thinking however about the corn. A faint and
AND RHODOPfe. 27
transient smile came over his countenance at the sight of
mine. He unfolded the chlamys, stretched it out with
both hands before me, and then cast it over my shoulders.
I looked down on the glittering fringe and screamed with
joy. He then went out ; and I know not what flowers
he gathered, but he gathered many ; and some he placed
in my bosom, and some in my hair. But I told him with
captious pride, first that I could arrange them better, and
again that I would have only the white. However,
when he had selected all the white, and I had placed a
few of them according to my fancy, I told him (rising in
my slipper) he might crown me with the remainder. The
splendour of my apparel gave me a sensation of authority.
Soon as the flowers had taken their station on my head,
I expressed a dignified satisfaction at the taste displayed
by my father, just as if I could have seen how they
appeared ! But he knew that there was at least as much
pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided the latter
(alas ! not both) pretty equally. He now took me into
the market-place, where a concourse of people was wait-
ing for the purchase of slaves. Merchants came and
looked at me ; some commending, others disparaging ;
but all agreeing that I was slender and delicate, that I
could not live long, and that I should give much trouble.
Many would have bought the chlamys, but there was
something less saleable in the child and flowers.
jZLsop. Had thy features been coarse and thy voice
rustic, they would all have patted thy cheeks and found
no fault in thee.
Rhodopt. As it was, every one had bought exactly such
another in time past, and been a loser by it. At these
speeches I perceived the flowers tremble slightly on my
bosom, from my father's agitation. Although he scoffed
at them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled inter-
nally, and said many short prayers, not very unlike
28 DRAMATIC.
imprecations, turning his head aside. Proud was I,
prouder than ever, when at last several talents were
offered for me, and by the very man who in the beginning
had undervalued me most, and prophesied the worst of
me. My father scowled at him and refused the money.
I thought he was playing a game, and began to wonder
what it could be, since I never had seen it played before.
Then I fancied it might be some celebration because
plenty had returned to the city, insomuch that my father
had bartered the last of the corn he hoarded. I grew
more and more delighted at the sport. But soon there
advanced an elderly man, who said gravely, "Thou hast
stolen this child : her vesture alone is worth a hundred
drachmas. Carry her home again to her parents, and do
it directly, or Nemesis and the Eumenides will overtake
thee. " Knowing the estimation in which my father had
always been holden by his fellow-citizens, I laughed again,
and pinched his ear. He, although naturally choleric,
burst forth into no resentment at these reproaches, but
said calmly, " I think I know thee by name, O guest !
Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian. Deliver this child
from famine." Again I laughed aloud and heartily, and
thinking it was now my part of the game, I held out both
my arms and protruded my whole body toward the
stranger. He would not receive me from my father's
neck, but he asked me with benignity and solicitude if I
was hungry : at which I laughed again, and more than
ever : for it was early in the morning, soon after the first
meal, and my father had nourished me most carefully and
plentifully in all the days of the famine. But Xanthus,
waiting for no answer, took out of a sack, which one of
his slaves carried at his side, a cake of wheaten bread and
a piece of honeycomb, and gave them to me, I held the
honeycomb to my father's mouth, thinking it the most of
a dainty. He dashed it to the ground ; but seizing the
AND RHODOPfc, 2 9
bread, he began to devour it ferociously. This also I
thought was in play ; and I clapped my hands at his
distortions. But Xanthus looked at him like one afraid,
and smote the cake from him, crying aloud, "Name the
price. " My father now placed me in his arms, naming a
price much below what the other had offered, saying,
"The gods are ever with thee, O Xanthus ! therefore to
thee do I consign my child." But while Xanthus was
counting out the silver, my father seized the cake again,
which the slave had taken up and was about to replace
in the wallet. His hunger was exasperated by the taste
and the delay. Suddenly there arose much tumult.
Turning round in the old woman's bosom who had
received me from Xanthus, I saw my beloved father
struggling on the ground, livid and speechless. The
more violent my cries, the more rapidly they hurried me
away ; and many were soon between us. Little was 1
suspicious that he had suffered the pangs of famine long
before : alas ! and he had suffered them for me. Do I
weep while I am telling you they ended ? I could not
have closed his eyes ; I was too young : but I might have
received his last breath ; the only comfort of an orphan's
bosom. Do you now think him blameable, O JEsop ?
ssop. It was sublime humanity ; it was forbearance
and self-denial which even the immortal gods have never
shown us. He could endure to perish by those torments
which alone are both acute and slow ; he could number
the steps of death and miss not one : but he could never
see thy tears, nor let thee see his. O weakness above
all fortitude ! Glory to the man who rather bears a grief
corroding his breast, than permits it prowl beyond, and
to prey on the tender and compassionate ! Women com-
miserate the brave, men the beautiful. The dominion
of Pity has usually this extent, no wider. Thy father
was exposed to the obloquy not only of the malicious,
30 DRAMATIC.
but also of the ignorant and thoughtless, who condemn
in the unfortunate what they applaud in the prosperous.
There is no shame in poverty or in slavery if we neither
make ourselves poor by our own improvidence, nor slaves
by our venality. The lowest and highest of the human
race are sold ; most of the intermediate are also slaves,
but slaves who bring no money into the market !
Rhodopt. Surely the great and powerful are never to
to be purchased : are they ?
SEsop. It may be a defect in my vision, but I cannot
see greatness on the earth. What they tell me is great
and aspiring, to me seems little and crawling. Let me
meet thy question with another. What monarch gives
his daughter for nothing ? Either he receives stone walls
and unwilling cities in return, or he barters her for a
parcel of spears and horses and horsemen, waving away
from his declining and helpless age young joyous life, and
trampling down the freshest and the sweetest memories.
Midas, in the height of prosperity, would have given his
daughter to Lycaon, rather than to the gentlest, the most
virtuous, the most intelligent of his subjects. Thy father
threw wealth aside, and, placing thee under the protection
of Virtue, rose up from the house of Famine to partake
in the festivals of the gods.
Release my neck, O Rhodope ! for I have other ques-
tions to ask of thee about him.
RhodopZ. To hear thee converse on him in such a
manner, I can do even that.
j&sop. Before the day of separation was he never
sorrowful ? Did he never by tears or silence reveal the
secret of his soul ?
RhodopZ. I was too infantine to perceive or imagine
his intention. The night before I became the slave of
Xanthus, he sat on the edge of my bed. I pretended to
be asleep : he moved away silently and softly. I saw
JESOP AND RHODOPfe. 31
him collect in the hollow of his hand the crumbs I had
wasted on the floor, and then eat them, and then look if
any were remaining. I thought he did so out of fondness
for me, remembering that, even before the famine, he
had often swept up off the table the bread I had broken,
and had made me put it between his lips. I would not
dissemble very long, but said,
" Come, now you have wakened me, you must sing
me asleep again, as you did when I was little." He
smiled faintly at this, and, after some delay, when he
had walked up and down the chamber, thus began : " I
will sing to thee one song more, my wakeful Rhodope !
my chirping bird ! over whom is no mother's wing ! That
it may lull thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in
the days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of Mars,
guiding in their invisibly rapid onset the dappled steeds
of Rhesus. What hast thou to do, my little one, with
arrows tired of clustering in the quiver? How much
quieter is thy pallet than the tents* which whitened the
plain of Simoi's ! What knowest thou about the river
Eurotas ? What knowest thou about its ancient palace,
once trodden by assembled gods, and then polluted by
the Phrygian ? What knowest thou of perfidious men
or of sanguinary deeds ?
"Pardon me, O goddess who presidest in Cythera !
I am not irreverent to thee, but ever grateful. May she
upon whose brow I lay my hand, praise and bless thee
for evermore !
" Ah yes ! continue to hold up above the coverlet those
fresh and rosy palms clasped together : her benefits have
descended on thy beauteous head, my child ! The Fates
also have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter scenes
than snow-fed Hebrus ; of more than dim grottoes and
sky -bright waters. Even now a low murmur swells
upward to my ear : and not from the spindle comes the
32 DRAMATIC.
sound, but from those who sing slowly over it, bending
all three their tremulous heads together. I wish thon
couldst hear it ; for seldom are their voices so sweet.
Thy pillow intercepts the song, perhaps : lie down again,
lie down, my Rhodope ! I will repeat what they are saying :
" * Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious, than even
she, the truly beloved, for whose return to the distaff and
the lyre the portals of Tsenarus flew open. In the woody
dells of Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans
of Strymon, the Nymphs called her Eurydice. Thou
shalt behold that fairest and that fondest one hereafter.
But first thou must go unto the land of the lotos, where
famine never cometh, and where alone the works of man
are immortal.'
" O my child ! the undeceiving Fates have uttered this.
Other Powers have visited me, and have strengthened my
heart with dreams and visions. We shall meet again, my
Rhodope ! in shady groves and verdant meadows, and we
shall sit by the side, of those who loved us. " He was
rising : I threw my arms about his neck, and before I
would let him go, I made him promise to place me not
by the side, but between them : for I thought of her who
had left us. At that time there were but two, O ^sop !
You ponder : you are about to reprove my assurance
in having thus repeated my own praises. I would have
omitted some of the words, only that it might have dis-
turbed the measure and cadences, and have put me out.
They are the very words my dearest father sang; and
they are the last : yet shame upon me ! the nurse (the
same who stood listening near, who attended me into
this country) could remember them more perfectly : it is
from her I have learnt them since ; she often sings them,
even by herself.
j*Esop. So shall others. There is much both hi them
and in thee to render them memorable.
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 33
Rhodopt. Who flatters now ?
ALsop. Flattery often runs beyond Truth, in a hurry
to embrace her ; but not here. The dullest of mortals,
seeing and hearing thee, would never misinterpret the
prophecy of the Fates.
If, turning back, I could overpass the vale of years,
and could stand on the mountain-top, and could look
again far before me at the bright ascending morn, we
would enjoy the prospect together ; we would walk along
the summit hand in hand, O Rhodope, and we would only
sigh at last when we found ourselves below with others.
VI.
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL.
M. Claudius Marcellus, in command of the Roman army
near Venusia, having fallen into an amb^^scade of the
Carthaginians and their allies^ and been mortally
wounded, expires in the presence of Hannibal', a Gaulish
chieftain and a surgeon are in attendance.
Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster ?
Marcellus ! ho ! Marcellus ! He moves not he is dead.
Did he not stir his fingers ? Stand wide, soldiers wide,
forty paces give him air bring water halt ! Gather
those broad leaves, and all the rest, growing under the
brushwood unbrace his armour. Loose the helmet first
his breast rises. I fancied his eyes were fixed on me
they have rolled back again. Who presumed to touch
my shoulder ? This horse ? It was surely the horse of
Marcellus ! Let no man mount him. Ha ! ha ! the
Romans too sink into luxury : here is gold about the
charger.
Gaulish Chieftain. Execrable thief ! The golden chain
34 DRAMATIC.
of our king under a beast's grinders ! The vengeance of
the gods hath overtaken the impure
Hannibal. We will talk about vengeance when we have
entered Rome, and about purity among the priests, if they
will hear us. Sound for the surgeon. That arrow may
be extracted from the side, deep as it is. The conqueror
of Syracuse lies before me. Send a vessel off to Carthage.
Say Hannibal is at the gates of Rome Marcellus, who
stood alone between us, fallen. Brave man ! I would
rejoice and cannot. How awfully serene a countenance !
Such as we hear are in the islands of the Blessed. And
how glorious a form and stature ! Such too was theirs !
They also once lay thus upon the earth wet with their
blood few other enter there. And what plain armour !
Gaiilish Chieftain. My party slew him indeed I think
I slew him myself. I claim the chain : it belongs to my
king: the glory of Gaul requires it. Never will she
endure to see another take it : rather would she lose her
last man. We swear ! we swear !
Hannibal. My friend, the glory of Marcellus did not
require him to wear it. When he suspended the arms of
your brave king in the temple, he thought such a trinket
unworthy of himself and of Jupiter. The shield he
battered down, the breastplate he pierced with his
sword, these he showed to the people and to the gods ;
hardly his wife and little children saw this, ere his horse
wore it.
Gaulish Chieftain. Hear me, O Hannibal !
Hannibal. What ! when Marcellus lies before me ?
When his life may perhaps be recalled ? When I may
lead him in triumph to Carthage ? When Italy, Sicily,
Greece, Asia, wait to obey me ? Content thee ! I will
give thee mine own bridle, worth ten such.
Gaulish Chieftain. For myself?
Hannibal. For thyself.
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 35
Gaulish Chieftain. And these rubies and emeralds and
that scarlet
Hannibal, Yes, yes.
Gaulish Chieftain. O glorious Hannibal ! unconquerable
hero ! O my happy country ! to have such an ally and
defender. I swear eternal gratitude yes, gratitude, love,
devotion, beyond eternity.
Hannibal. In all treaties we fix the time : I could
hardly ask a longer. Go back to thy station I would
see what the surgeon is about, and hear what he thinks.
The life of Marcellus ! the triumph of Hannibal ! what
else has the world in it ? only Rome and Carthage : these
follow.
Surgeon. Hardly an hour of life is left.
Marcellus. I must die then ! The gods be praised !
The commander of a Roman army is no captive.
Hannibal (to the Surgeon}. Could not he bear a sea-
voyage ? Extract the arrow.
Surgeon. He expires that moment.
Marcellus. It pains me : extract it.
Hannibal. Marcellus, I see no expression of pain on
your countenance, and never will I consent to hasten the
death of an enemy in my power. Since your recovery is
hopeless, you say truly you are no captive.
(To the Siirgeon.} Is there nothing, man, that can
assuage the mortal pain ? for, suppress the signs of it as
he may, he must feel it. Is there nothing to alleviate
and allay it ?
Marcellus. Hannibal, give me thy hand thou hast
found it and brought it me, compassion.
( To the Surgeon. ) Go, friend ; others want thy aid ;
several fell around me.
Hannibal. Recommend to your country, O Marcellus,
while time permits it, reconciliation and peace with me,
informing the Senate of my superiority in force, and the
36 DRAMATIC.
impossibility of resistance. The tablet is ready : let me
take off this ring try to write, to sign it at least. O !
what satisfaction I feel at seeing you able to rest upon the
elbow, and even to smile !
Marcellus. Within an hour or less, with how severe a
brow would Minos say to me, " Marcellus, is this thy
writing ? "
Rome loses one man : she hath lost many such, and
she still hath many left.
Hannibal. Afraid as you are of falsehood, say you this ?
I confess in shame the ferocity of my countrymen. Un-
fortunately too the nearer posts are occupied by Gauls,
infinitely more cruel. The Numidians are so in revenge ;
the Gauls both in revenge and in sport. My presence is
required at a distance, and I apprehend the barbarity of
one or other, learning, as they must do, your refusal to exe-
cute my wishes for the common good, and feeling that by
this refusal you deprive them of their country, after so long
an absence.
Marcellus. Hannibal, thou art not dying.
Hannibal. What then ? What mean you ?
Marcellus. That thou mayest, and very justly, have
many things yet to apprehend : I can have none. The
barbarity of thy soldiers is nothing to me. Mine would
not dare be cruel. Hannibal is forced to be absent ; and
his authority goes away with his horse. On this turf lies
defaced the semblance of a general ; but Marcellus is yet
the regulator of his army. Dost thou abdicate a power
conferred on thee by thy nation ? or wouldst thou acknow-
ledge it to have become, by thy own sole fault, less plenary
than thy adversary's ?
I have spoken too much : let me rest : this mantle
oppresses me.
Hannibal. I placed my mantle on your head when the
helmet was first removed, and while you were lying in
MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL. 37
the sun. Let me fold it under, and then replace the
ring.
Marcellus. Take it, Hannibal. It was given me by a
poor woman who flew to me at Syracuse, and who covered
it with her hair, torn off in desperation that she had no
other gift to offer. Little thought I that her gift and her
words should be mine. How suddenly may the most
powerful be in the situation of the most helpless ! Let
that ring and the mantle under my head be the exchange
of guests at parting. The time may come, Hannibal,
when thou (and the gods alone know whether as con-
queror or conquered) mayest sit under the roof of my
children, and in either case it shall serve thee. In thy
adverse fortune, they will remember on whose pillow their
father breathed his last ; in thy prosperous (heaven grant
it may shine upon thee in some other country) it will
rejoice thee to protect them. We feel ourselves the most
exempt from affliction when we relieve it, although we
are then the most conscious that it may befall us. There
is one thing here which is not at the disposal of either.
Hannibal. What?
Marcellus. This body.
Hannibal. Whither would you be lifted? Men are
ready.
Marcellus. I meant not so. My strength is failing. I
seem to hear rather what is within than what is without.
My sight and my other senses are in confusion. I would
have said, This body, when a few bubbles of air shall
have left it, is no more worthy of thy notice than of mine ;
but thy glory will not let thee refuse it to the piety of my
family.
Hannibal. You would ask something else. I perceive
an inquietude not visible till now.
Marcellus. Duty and Death make us think of home
sometimes.
38 DRAMATIC.
Hannibal. Thitherward the thoughts of the conqueror
and of the conquered fly together.
Marcellus. Hast thou any prisoners from my escort ?
Hannibal. A few dying lie about and let them lie
they are Tuscans. The remainder I saw at a distance,
flying, and but one brave man among them he appeared
a Roman a youth who turned back, though wounded.
They surrounded and dragged him away, spurring his
horse with their swords. These Etrurians measure their
courage carefully, and tack it well together before they
put it on, but throw it off again with lordly ease.
Marcellus, why think about them ? or does aught else
disquiet your thoughts ?
Marcellus. I have suppressed it long enough. My son
my beloved son !
Hannibal. Where is he ? Can it be ? Was he with you ?
Marcellus. He would have shared my fate and has
not. Gods of my country ! beneficent throughout life to
me, in death surpassingly beneficent, I render you, for
the last time, thanks.
VII.
SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PA1SLETIUS.
The Greek historian Polybius^ and the Greek philosopher
Pancetius, friends of Publius Scipio JEmilianus, enter
his tent after the fall of Carthage.
Scipio. Polybius, if you have found me slow in rising
to you, if I lifted not up my eyes to salute you on your
entrance, do not hold me ungrateful proud there is no
danger that you will ever call me ; this day of all days
would least make me so : it shows me the power of the
immortal gods, the mutability of fortune, the instability
of empire, the feebleness, the nothingness of man. The
SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PANAETIUS. 39
earth stands motionless ; the grass upon it bends and
returns, the same to-day as yesterday, the same in this
age as in a hundred past : the sky darkens and is serene
again ; the clouds melt away, but they are clouds another
time, and float like triumphal pageants along the heavens.
Carthage is fallen ! to rise no more ! the funereal horns
have this hour announced to us, that, after eighteen days
and eighteen nights of conflagration, her last embers are
extinguished.
Polybius. Perhaps, O ^Emilianus, 1 ought not to have
come in.
Scipio. Welcome, my friend.
Polybius. While you were speaking I would by no
means interrupt you so idly, as to ask you to whom you
have been proud, or to whom could you be ungrateful.
Scipio. To him, if to any, whose hand is in mine ; to
him on whose shoulder I rest my head, weary with pre-
sages and vigils. Collect my thoughts for me, O my
friend ! the fall of Carthage hath shaken and scattered
them. There are moments when, if we are quite con-
tented with ourselves, we never can remount to what we
were before.
Polybius. Panaetius is absent.
Scipio. Feeling the necessity, at the moment, of utter
loneliness, I despatched him toward the city. There may
be (yes, even there) some sufferings which the Senate
would not censure us for assuaging. But behold he
returns ! We were speaking of you, Panaetius !
Panatius. And about what beside? Come, honestly
tell me, Polybius, on what are you reflecting and medi-
tating with such sedately intense enthusiasm ?
Polybius. After the burning of some village, or the
overleaping of some garden-wall, to exterminate a few
pirates or highwaymen, I have seen the commander's tent
thronged with officers ; I have heard as many trumpets
40 DRAMATIC.
around him as would have shaken down the places of
themselves : I have seen the horses start from the pre-
torium as if they would fly from under their trappings, and
spurred as if they were to reach the east and west before
sunset, that nations might hear of the exploit, and sleep
soundly. And now do I behold in solitude, almost in
gloom, and in such silence that, unless my voice prevent
it, the grasshopper is audible, him who has levelled to
the earth the strongest and most populous of cities, the
wealthiest and most formidable of empires. I had seen
Rome ; I had seen (what those who never saw never will
see) Carthage ; I thought I had seen Scipio : it was but
the image of him : here I find him.
Scipio. There are many hearts that ache this day : there
are many that never will ache more : hath one man done
it? one man's breath? What air, upon the earth, or
upon the waters, or in the void of heaven, is lost so
quickly ! it flies away at the point of an arrow, and re-
turns no more ! the sea-foam stifles it ! the tooth of a
reptile stops it ! a noxious leaf suppresses it. What are
we in our greatness ? Whence rises it ? Whither tends
it ? Merciful gods ! may not Rome be what Carthage is ?
may not those who love her devotedly, those who will
look on her with fondness and affection after life, see her
in such condition as to wish she were so ?
Polybius. One of the heaviest groans over fallen Car-
thage, burst from the breast of Scipio : who would believe
.this tale ?
Scipio. Men like my Polybius : others must never hear it.
Polybius. You have not ridden forth, ^Emilianus, to
survey the ruins.
Scipio. No, Polybius : since I removed my tent to
avoid the heat from the conflagration, I never have ridden
nor walked nor looked toward them. At this elevation,
and three miles off, the temperature of the season is altered,
SCIPIO, POLY'BIUS, AND PAN^ETIUS. 4!
I do not believe, as those about me would have persuaded
me, that Ihe gods were visible in the clouds ; that thrones
of ebony and gold were scattered in all directions ; that
broken chariots and flaming steeds, and brazen bridges,
had cast their fragments upon the earth ; that eagles and
lions, dolphins and tridents, and other emblems of power
and empire, were visible at one moment, and at the next
had vanished ; that purple and scarlet overspread the
mansions of the gods ; that their voices were heard at
first confusedly and discordantly, and that the apparition
closed with their high festivals. I could not keep my
eyes on the heavens ; a crash of arch or of theatre or of
tower, a column of flame rising higher than they were, or
a universal cry, as if none until then had perished, drew
them thitherward. Such were the dismal sights and
sounds, a fresh city seemed to have been taken every
hour, for seventeen days. This is the nineteenth since
the smoke arose from the level roofs and from the lofty
temples, and thousands died, and tens of thousands ran
in search of death.
Calamity moves me ; heroism moves me more. That
a nation whose avarice we have so often reprehended,
should have cast into the furnace gold and silver, from
the insufficiency of brass and iron for arms ; that palaces
the most magnificent should have been demolished by the
proprietor for their beams and rafters in order to build a
fleet against us ; that the ropes whereby the slaves hauled
them down to the new harbour, should in part be com-
posed of hair, for one lock of which kings would have
laid down their diadems ; that Asdrubal should have
found equals, his wife none my mind, my very limbs,
are unsteady with admiration. O Liberty ! what art thou
to the valiant and brave, when thou art thus to the weak
and timid ! dearer than life, stronger than death, higher
than purest love. Never will I call upon thee where thy
K
OF "
42 DRAMATIC.
name can be profaned, and never shall my soul acknow-
ledge a more exalted Power than thee.
PaiKBtius. The Carthaginians and Moors have, beyond
other nations, a delicate feeling on female chastity.
Rather than that their women should become slaves and
concubines, they slay them : is it certain that Asdrubal
did not observe, or cause to be observed, the custom of
his country ?
Poly bins. Certain : on the surrender of his army his
wife threw herself and her two infants into the flames.
Not only memorable acts, of what the dastardly will call
desperation, were performed, but some also of deliberate
and signal justice. Avaricious as we called the people,
and unjustly, as you have proved, ^Emilianus, I will
relate what I myself was witness to.
In a part of the city where the fire had subsided, we
were excited by loud cries, rather of indignation, we
thought, than of such as fear or lament or threaten or
exhort ; and we pressed forward to disperse the multitude.
Our horses often plunged in the soft dust, and in the
holes whence the pavement had been removed for missiles,
and often reared up and snorted violently at smells which
we could not perceive, but which we discovered to rise
from bodies, mutilated and half -burnt, of soldiers and
horses, laid bare, some partly, some wholly, by the march
of the troop. Although the distance from the place
whence we parted to that where we heard the cries, was
very short, yet from the incumbrances in that street, and
from the dust and smoke issuing out of others, it was
some time before we reached it. On our near approach,
two old men threw themselves on the ground before us,
and the elder spake thus. " Our age, O Romans, neither
will nor ought to be our protection : we are, or rather
we have been, judges of this land ; and to the uttermost
of our power we have invited our countrymen to resist
SCIPIO, POLYBIUS, AND PAN^ETIUS. 43
you. The laws are now yours." The expectation of
the people was intense and silent : we had heard some
groans ; and now the last words of the old man were
taken up by others, by men in agony.
"Yes, O Romans !" said the elder who accompanied
him that had addressed us, " the laws are yours ; and
none punish more severely than you do treason and parri-
cide. Let your horses turn this corner, and you will see
before you traitors and parricides."
We entered a small square : it had been a market-
place : the roofs of the stalls were demolished, and the
stones of several columns (thrown down to extract the
cramps of iron and the lead that fastened them) served
for the spectators, male and female, to mount on. Five
men were nailed on crosses ; two others were nailed
against a wall, from scarcity (as we were told) of wood.
"Can seven men have murdered their parents in the
same year?" cried I.
"No, nor has any of the seven," replied the first who
had spoken. " But when heavy impositions were laid
upon those who were backward in voluntary contribu-
tions, these men, among the richest in our city, protested
by the gods that they had no gold or silver left. They
protested truly."
" And they die for this ! inhuman, insatiable, inexorable
wretch ! "
" Their books," added he, unmoved at my reproaches,
" were seized by public authority and examined. It was
discovered that, instead of employing their riches in
external or internal commerce, or in manufactures, or in
agriculture, instead of reserving it for the embellishment
of the city, or the utility of the citizens, instead of lend-
ing it on interest to the industrious and the needy, they
had lent it to foreign kings and tyrants, some of whom
were waging unjust wars by these very means, and others
44 DRAMATIC.
were enslaving their own country. For so heinous a crime
the laws had appointed no specific punishment. On such
occasions the people and elders vote in what manner the
delinquent shall be prosecuted, lest any offender should
escape with impunity, from their humanity or improvi-
dence. Some voted that these wretches should be cast
amid the panthers ; the majority decreed them (I think
wisely) a more lingering and more ignominious death."
The men upon the crosses held down their heads,
whether from shame or pain or feebleness. The sun-
beams were striking them fiercely ; sweat ran from them,
liquefying the blood that had blackened and hardened on
their hands and feet. A soldier stood by the side of each,
lowering the point of his spear to the ground ; but no one
of them gave it up to us. A centurion asked the nearest
of them how he dared to stand armed before him.
" Because the city is in ruins, and the laws still live,"
said he. "At the first order of the conqueror or the
elders, I surrender my spear."
"What is your pleasure, O Commander?" said the
elder.
" That an act of justice be the last public act per-
formed by the citizens of Carthage, and that the suffer-
ings of these wretches be not abridged. "
Such was my reply. The soldiers piled their spears,
for the points of which the hearts of the crucified men
thirsted, and the people hailed us as they would have
hailed deliverers.
SCIPIO, PAN^ETIUS, AND POLYBIUS. 45
VIII.
SCIPIO, PAN^ETIUS, AND POLYBIUS.
The same speakers converse on the genius of Greece.
Polybius. Eternal thanks to the Romans ! who, what-
ever reason they may have had to treat the Greeks as
enemies, to traverse and persecute such men as Lycortas
my father, and as Philopoemen my early friend, to con-
sume our cities with fire, and to furrow our streets with
torrents (as we have heard lately) issuing from the re-
molten images of gods and heroes, have however so far
respected the mother of Civilisation and of Law, as never
to permit the cruel mockery of erecting Barbarism and
Royalty on their vacant bases.
Panatius. Our ancient institutions in part exist ; we
lost the rest when we lost the simplicity of our forefathers.
Let it be our glory that we have resisted the most populous
and wealthy nations, and that, having been conquered,
we have been conquered by the most virtuous ; that every
one of our chief cities hath produced a greater number of
illustrious men than all the remainder of the earth around
us ; that no man can anywhere enter his hall or portico,
and see the countenances of his ancestors from their
marble columels, without a commemorative and grateful
sense of obligation to us ; that neither his solemn feasts
nor his cultivated fields are silent on it ; that not the
lamp which shows him the glad faces of his children, and
prolongs his studies, and watches by his rest, that not
the ceremonies whereby he hopes to avert the vengeance
of the gods, nor the tenderer ones whereon are founded
the affinities of domestic life, nor finally those which lead
tov/ard another, would have existed in his country, if
46 DRAMATIC.
Greece had not conveyed them. Bethink thee, Scipio,
how little hath been done by any other nation to pro-
mote the moral dignity or enlarge the social pleasures of
the human race. What parties ever met, in their most
populous cities, for the enjoyment of liberal and specula-
tive conversation ? What Alcibiades, elated with war and
glory, turned his youthful mind from general admiration
and from the cheers and caresses of coeval friends, to
strengthen and purify it under the cold reproofs of the
aged ? What Aspasia led Philosophy to smile on Love,
or taught Love to reverence Philosophy ? These, as thou
knowest, are not the safest guides for either sex to follow ;
yet in these were united the gravity and the graces of
wisdom, never seen, never imagined, out of Athens.
I would not offend thee by comparing the genius of the
Roman people with ours : the offence is removable, and
in part removed already by thy hand. The little of sound
learning, the little of pure wit, that hath appeared in
Rome from her foundation, hath been concentrated under
thy roof : one tile would cover it. Have we not walked
together, O Scipio, by starlight, on the shores of Surren-
tum and Baiae, of Ischia, and Caprea, and hath it not
occurred to thee that the heavens themselves, both what
we see of them and what lieth above our vision, are
peopled with our heroes and heroines ? The ocean, that
roars so heavily in the ears of other men, hath for us its
tuneful shells, its placid nymphs, and its beneficent ruler.
The trees of the forest, the flowers, the plants, passed
indiscriminately elsewhere, awaken and warm our affection ;
they mingle with the objects of our worship ; they breathe
the spirit of our ancestors ; they lived in our form ; they
spoke in our language ; they suffered as our daughters
may suffer ; the deities revisit them with pity ; and some
(we think) dwell among them.
Scipio. Poetry ! poetry 1
METELLUS AND MARIUS. 47
Pancetius. Yes ; I own it. The spirit of Greece, pass-
ing through and ascending above the world, hath so
animated universal nature, that the very rocks and woods,
the very torrents and wilds burst forth with it and it
falls, ^Emilianus, even from me.
Scipio. It is from Greece I have received my friends
Panoetius and Polybius.
Pancetius. Say more, ^Emilianus ! You have indeed
said it here already ; but say it again at Rome : it is
Greece who taught the Romans all beyond the rudiments
of war : it is Greece who placed in your hand the sword
that conquered Carthage.
METELLUS AND MARIUS.
At the siege of Numantia, the Roman centurion Caius
Marius enters the besieged city at the desire of the
tribune Ccecilius Metellus, and reports to him what he
has seen 'within.
Metellus. Well met, Caius Marius ! My orders are to
find instantly a centurion who shall mount the walls ;
one capable of observation, acute in remark, prompt,
calm, active, intrepid. The Numantians are sacrificing
to the gods in secrecy : they have sounded the horn once
only ; and hoarsely, and low, and mournfully.
Marius. Was that ladder I see yonder among the caper-
bushes and purple lilies, under where the fig-tree grows
out of the rampart, left for me ?
Metellus Even so, wert thou willing. Wouldst thou
mount it ?
Marius. Rejoicingly. If none are below or near, may
I explore the state of things by entering the city ?
Metellus. Use thy discretion in that.
48 DRAMATIC.
What seest thou ? Wouldst thou leap down ? Lift the
ladder.
Marius. Are there spikes in it where it sticks in the
turf? I should slip else.
Metellus. How ! bravest of our centurions, art even
thou afraid ? Seest thou any one by ?
Marius. Ay ; some hundreds close beneath me.
Metellus. Retire then. Hasten back ; I will protect
thy descent.
Maritis. May I speak, O Metellus, without an offence
to discipline ? .
Metellus. Say.
Marius. Listen ! dost thou not hear ?
Metellus. Shame on thee ! alight, alight ! my shield
shall cover thee.
Marius. There is a murmur like the hum of bees in the
beanfield of Cereatse 1 ; for the sun is hot, and the ground is
thirsty. When will it have drunk up for me the blood that
has run, and is yet oozing on it, from those fresh bodies !
Metellus. How ? We have not fought for many days ;
what bodies then are fresh ones ?
Marius. Close beneath the wall are those of infants and
girls : in the middle of the road are youths, emaciated ;
some either unwounded or wounded months ago ; some on
their spears, others on their swords : no few have re-
ceived in mutual death the last interchange of friendship ;
their daggers unite them, hilt to hilt, bosom to bosom.
Metellus. Mark rather the living what are they about ?
Marius. About the sacrifice, which portends them, I
conjecture, but little good ; it burns sullenly and slowly.
The victim will lie upon the pyre till morning, and still
be unconsumed, unless they bring more fuel. I will leap
down and walk on cautiously, and return with tidings, if
death should spare me.
1 The farm of Marius, near Arpinum.
METELLUS AND MARIUS. 49
Never was any race of mortals so unmilitary as these
Numantians : no watch, no stations, no palisades across
the streets.
Metellus. Did they want then all the wood for the altar ?
Marius. It appears so I will return anon.
Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave honest Marius !
Marius (returning after an interval}. The ladder
should have been better spiked for that slippery ground.
I am down again safe however. Here a man may walk
securely, and without picking his steps.
Metellus. Tell me, Cains, what thou sawest.
Mariiis. The streets of Numantia.
Metellus. Doubtless ; but what else ?
Marius. The temples and markets and places of exer-
cise and fountains.
Metellus. Art thou crazed, centurion ! what more ?
speak plainly, at once, and briefly.
Marius. I beheld then all Numantia.
Metellus. Has terror maddened thee? hast thou des-
cried nothing of the inhabitants but those carcases under
the ramparts ?
Marius. Those, O Metellus, lie scattered, although not
indeed far asunder. The greater part of the soldiers and
citizens, of the fathers, husbands, widows, wives, espoused,
were assembled together.
Metellus. About the altar ?
Marius. Upon it.
Metellus. So busy and earnest in devotion ! but how
all upon it ?
Marius. It blazed under them and over them and
round about them.
Metellus. Immortal gods ! Art thou sane, Caius
Marius ? Thy visage is scorched : thy speech may
wander after such an enterprise : thy shield burns my
hand.
E
50 DRAMATIC.
Marius. I thought it had cooled again. Why, truly,
it seems hot : I now feel it.
Metellus. Wipe off those embers.
Marius. 'Twere better : there will be none opposite to
shake them upon, for some time.
The funereal horn that sounded with such feebleness,
sounded not so from the faint heart of him who blew it.
Him I saw ; him only of the living. Should I say it ?
there was another : there was one child whom its parent
could not kill, could not part from. She had hidden it
in her robe, I suspect ; and when the fire had reached it,
either it shrieked or she did. For suddenly a cry pierced
through the crackling pine wood, and something of round
in figure fell from brand to brand, until it reached the
pavement, at the feet of him who had blown the horn.
I rushed toward him, for I wanted to hear the whole
story, and felt the pressure of time. Condemn not my
weakness, O Caecilius ! I wished an enemy to live an
hour longer ; for my orders were to explore and bring
intelligence. When I gazed on him, in highth almost
gigantic, I wondered not that the blast of his trumpet was
so weak : rather did I wonder that Famine, whose hand
had indented every limb and feature, had left him any
voice articulate. I rushed toward him, however, ere my
eyes had measured either his form or strength. He held
the child against me, and staggered under it.
"Behold," he exclaimed, "the glorious ornament of
a Roman triumph !"
I stood horror - stricken ; when suddenly drops, as of
i rain, pattered down from the pyre. I looked ; and many
' were the precious stones, many were the amulets and
rings and bracelets, and other barbaric ornaments, un-
known to me in form or purpose, that tinkled on the
hardened and black branches, from mothers and wives
and betrothed maids ; and some, too, I can imagine,
METELLUS AND MARIUS. 5T
from robuster arms, things of joyance won in battle.
The crowd of incumbent bodies was so dense and heavy,
that neither the fire nor the smoke could penetrate upward
from among them ; and they sank, whole and at once,
into the smouldering cavern eaten out below. He at
whose neck hung the trumpet, felt this, and started.
" There is yet room," he cried, "and there is strength
enough yet, both in the element and in me. "
He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the
gaunt links of his throat, and upon gnarled knees, that
smote each other audibly, tottered into the civic fire. It,
like some hungry and strangest beast on the innermost
wild of Africa, pierced, broken, prostrate, motionless,
gazed at by its hunter in the impatience of glory, in the
delight of awe, panted once more, and seized him !
I have seen within this hour, O Metellus ! what Rome
in the cycle of her triumphs will never see, what the Sun
in his eternal course can never show her, what the Earth
has borne but now and must never rear again for her,
what Victory herself has envied her a Numantian.
Metellus. We shall feast to-morrow. Hope, Caius
Marius, to become a tribune : trust in fortune.
Marius. Auguries are surer : surest of all is perseverance.
Metellus. I hope the wine has not grown vapid in my tent:
I have kept it waiting, and must now report to Scipio the
intelligence of our discovery. Come after me, Caius.
Marius (alone). The tribune is the discoverer ! the
centurion is the scout ! Caius Marius must enter more
Numantias. Light-hearted Caecilius, thou mayest per-
haps hereafter, and not with humbled but with exulting
pride, take orders from this hand. If Scipio's words are
fate, and to me they sound so, the portals of the Capitol
may shake before my chariot, as my horses plunge back
at the applauses of the people, and Jove in his high domi-
cile may welcome the citizen of Arpinum.
52 DRAMATIC.
TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA.
Tiberius Claudius Nero having been compelled by his mother
Livia and by Augustus to put away his first wife Vip-
sania, the daughter of Agrippa, and to marry Julia,
the daughter of Augustus, afterwards meets Vipsania
^tnexpectedly.
Tiberius. Vipsania, my Vipsania, whither art thou
walking ?
Vipsania. Whom do I see ? my Tiberius ?
Tiberius. Ah ! no, no, no ! but thou seest the father
of thy little Drusus. Press him to thy heart the more
closely for this meeting, and give him
Vipsania. Tiberius ! the altars, the gods, the destinies,
are between us I will take it from this hand ; thus,
thus shall he receive it.
Tiberius. Raise up thy face, my beloved ! I must not
shed tears. Augustus ! Livia ! ye shall not extort them
from me. Vipsania, I may kiss thy head for I have saved
it. Thou sayest nothing. I have wronged thee ; ay ?
Vipsania. Ambition does not see the earth she treads
on : the rock and the herbage are of one substance to her.
Let me excuse you to my heart, O Tiberius. It has
many wants ; this is the first and greatest.
Tiberius. My ambition, I swear by the immortal gods,
placed not the bar of severance between us. A stronger
hand, the hand that composes Rome and sways the
world
Vipsania. Overawed Tiberius. I know it ; Augustus
willed and commanded it.
Tiberius. And overawed Tiberius ! Power bent,
Death terrified, a Nero ! What is our race, that any
TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 53
should look down on us and spurn us ! Augustus, my
benefactor, I have wronged thee ! Livia, my mother,
this one cruel deed was thine ! To reign forsooth is a
lovely thing ! O womanly appetite ! Who would have
been before me, though the palace of Caesar cracked and
split with emperors, while I, sitting in idleness on a cliff
of Rhodes, eyed the sun as he swahg his golden censer
athwart the heavens, or his image as it overstrode the sea.
I have it before me ; and though it seems falling on me,
I can smile at it ; just as I did from my little favourite
skiff, painted round with the marriage of Thetis, when
the sailors drew their long shaggy hair across their eyes,
many a stadium away from it, to mitigate its effulgence.
These too were happy days : days of happiness like these
I could recall and look back upon with unaching brow.
O land of Greece ! Tiberius blesses thee, bidding thee
rejoice and flourish.
Why can not one hour, Vipsania, beauteous and light
as we have led, return ?
Vipsania. Tiberius ! is it to me that you were speak-
ing ? I would not interrupt you ; but I thought I heard
my name as you walked away and looked up toward the
East. So silent !
Tiberius. Who dared to call thee ? Thou wert mine
before the gods do they deny it ? was it my fault ?
Vipsania. Since we are separated, and for ever, O
Tiberius, let us think no more on the cause of it. Let
neither of us believe that the other was to blame ; so
shall separation be less painful.
Tiberius. O mother ! and did I not tell thee what she
was ? patient in injury, proud in innocence, serene in grief !
Vipsania. Did you say that too ? but I think it was so :
I had felt little. One vast wave has washed away the
impression of smaller from my memory. Could Livia,
could your mother, could she who was so kind to me
54. DRAMATIC.
Tiberius. The wife of Caesar did it. But hear me now,
hear me : be calm as I am. No weaknesses are such as
those of a mother who loves her only son immoderately ;
and none are so easily worked upon from without. Who
knows what impulses she received? She is very, very
kind ; but she regards me only ; and that which at her
bidding is to encompass and adorn me. All the weak
look after power, protectress of weakness. Thou art a
woman, O Vipsania ! is there nothing in thee to excuse
my mother ? So good she ever was to me ! so loving !
Vipsania. I quite forgive her : be tranquil, O Tiberius !
Tiberius. Never can I know peace never can I pardon
any one. Threaten me with thy exile, thy separation,
thy seclusion ! remind me that another climate might
endanger thy health ! There death met me and turned
me round. Threaten me to take our son from us ! our
one boy ! our helpless little one ! him whom we made
cry because we kissed him both together. Rememberest
thou? or dost thou not hear? turning thus away from
me !
Vipsania. I hear ; I hear. O cease, my sweet Tiberius!
Stamp not upon that stone : my heart lies under it.
Tiberius. Ay, there again death, and more than death,
stood before me. O she maddened me, my mother did,
she maddened me she threw me to where I am at one
breath. The gods cannot replace me where I was, nor
atone to me, nor console me, nor restore my senses. To
whom can I fly ? to whom can I open my heart ? to whom
speak plainly ? There was upon the earth a man I could
converse with, and fear nothing : there was a woman too
I could love, and fear nothing. What a soldier, what a
Roman, was thy father, O my young bride ! How could
those who never saw him have discoursed so rightly upon
virtue !
Vipsania. These words cool my breast like pressing
TIBERIUS AND VIPSANIA. 55
his urn against it. He was brave : shall Tiberius want
courage ?
Tiberius. My enemies scorn me. I am a garland
dropped from a triumphal car, and taken up and looked on
for the place I occupied ; and tossed away and laughed at.
Senators ! laugh, laugh ! Your merits may be yet re-
warded be of good cheer ! Counsel me in your wisdom,
what services I can render you, conscript fathers !
Vipsania. This seems mockery : Tiberius did not
smile so, once.
Tiberius. They had not then congratulated me.
Vipsania. On what ?
Tibcritts. And it was not because she was beautiful, as
they thought her, and virtuous as I know she is, but be-
cause the flowers on the altar were to be tied together by
my heart-string. On this they congratulated me. Their
day will come. Their sons and daughters are what I
would wish them to be : worthy to succeed them.
Vipsania. Where is that quietude, that resignation,
that sanctity, that heart of true tenderness ?
Tiberius. Where is my love ? my love ?
Vipsania. Cry not thus aloud, Tiberius ! there is an echo
in the place. Soldiers and slaves may burst in upon us.
Tiberius. And see my tears? There is no echo,
Vipsania ! why alarm and shake me so ? We are too
high here for the echoes : the city is below us. Methinks
it trembles and totters : would it did ! from the marble
quays of the Tiber to this rock. There is a strange buzz
and murmur in my brain ; but I should listen so intensely,
I should hear the rattle of its roofs, and shout with joy.
Vipsania. Calm, O my life ! calm this horrible trans-
port.
Tiberius. Spake I so loud ? Did I indeed then send
my voice after a lost sound, to bring it back ; and thou
fanciedst it an echo ? Will not thou laugh with me, as
56 DRAMATIC.
them wert wont to do, at such an error ? What was 1
saying to thee, my tender love, when I commanded I
know not whom to stand back, on pain of death ? Why
starest thou on me in such agony ? Have I hurt thy
fingers, child ? I loose them : now let me look ! Thou
turnest thine eyes away from me. Oh ! oh ! I hear my
crime ! Immortal gods ! I cursed then audibly, and
before the sun, my mother !
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA.
The Lady Godiva, riding -with her Jnisband Earl Lcofric
into the city of Coventry, makes intercession with him
on behalf of the people, and learns from his lips on what
condition he will pardon them.
Godiva. There is a dearth in the land, my sweet Leo-
fric ! Remember how many weeks of drought we have
had, even in the deep pastures of Leicestershire ; and
how many Sundays we have heard the same prayers for
rain, and supplications that it would please the Lord in
his mercy to turn aside his anger from the poor pining
cattle. You, my dear husband, have imprisoned more
than one malefactor for leaving his dead ox in the public
way ; and other hinds have fled before you out of the
traces, in which they and their sons and their daughters,
and haply their old fathers and mothers, were dragging
the abandoned wain homeward. Although we were ac-
companied by many brave spearmen and skilful archers,
it was perilous to pass the creatures which the farm-yard
dogs, driven from the hearth by the poverty of their
masters, were tearing and devouring ; while others, bitten
and lamed, filled the air either with long and deep howls
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 57
or sharp and quick barkings, as they struggled with
hunger and feebleness or were exasperated by heat and
pain. Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor the
bruised branches of the fir-tree, extinguish or abate the
foul odour.
Leofric. And now, Godiva my darling, thou art afraid
we should be eaten up before we enter the gates of
Coventry; or perchance that in the gardens there are
no roses to greet thee, no sweet herbs for thy mat and
pillow.
Godiva. Leofric, I have no such fears. This is the
month of roses : I find them everywhere since my blessed
marriage : they, and all other sweet herbs, I know not
why, seem to greet me wherever I look at them, as
though they knew and expected me. Surely they cannot
feel that I am fond of them.
Leofric. O light laughing simpleton ! But what wouldst
thou ? I came not hither to pray ; and yet if praying
would satisfy thee, or remove the drought, I would ride
up straightway to Saint Michael's and pray until morning.
Godiva. I would do the same, O Leofric ! but God
hath turned away his ear from holier lips than mine.
Would my own dear husband hear me, if I implored him
for what is easier to accomplish ? What he can do like
God.
Leofric. How ! What is it ?
Godiva. I would not, in the first hurry of your wrath,
appeal to you, my loving lord, in behalf of these unhappy
men who have offended you.
Leofric. Unhappy ! is that all ?
Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be to have offended
you so grievously. What a soft air breathes over us !
how quiet and serene and still an evening ! how calm are
the heavens and the earth ! shall none enjoy them? Not
even we, my Leofric ! The sun is ready to set : let it
5 8 DRAMATIC.
never set, O Leofric, on your anger. These are not my
words ; they are better than mine ; should they lose their
virtue from my unworthiness in uttering them !
Leofric. Godiva, wouldst thou plead to me for rebels ?
Godiva. They have then drawn the sword against you !
Indeed I knew it not.
Leofric. They have omitted to send me my dues,
established by my ancestors, well knowing of our nuptials,
and of the charges and festivities they require, and that in
a season of such scarcity my own lands are insufficient.
Godiva. If they were starving as they said they were
Leofric. Must I starve too ! Is it not enough to lose
my vassals ?
Godiva. Enough ! O God ! too much ! too much ! may
you never lose them ! Give them life, peace, comfort,
contentment. There are those among them who kissed
me in my infancy, and who blessed me at the baptismal
font. Leofric, Leofric ! the first old man I meet I shall
think is one of those ; and I shall think on the blessing
he gave and (ah me !) on the blessing I bring back to
him. My heart will bleed, will burst and he will weep
at it ! he will weep, poor soul ! for the wife of a cruel
lord who denounces vengeance on him, who carries death
into his family.
Leofric. We must hold solemn festivals.
Godiva. We must indeed.
Leofric. Well then.
Godiva. Is the clamourousness that succeeds the death of
God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered
cattle, festivals ? are maddening songs and giddy dances,
and hireling praises from party-coloured coats ? Can the
voice of a minstrel tell us better things of ourselves than
our own internal one might tell us? or can his breath
make our breath softer in sleep ? O my beloved ! let
everything be a joyance to us : it will, if we will. Sad is
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 59
the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the black-
bird in the garden and do not throb with joy. But, Leo-
fric, the high festival is strown by the servant of God upon
the heart of man. It is gladness, it is thanksgiving ; it
is the orphan, the starveling pressed to the bosom, and
bidden as its first commandment to remember its bene-
factor. We will hold this festival, the guests are ready :
we may keep it up for weeks, and months, and years
together, and always be the happier and the richer for it.
The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter than bee
or flower or vine can give us : it flows from heaven ; and
in heaven will it abundantly be poured out again, to him
who pours it out here unsparingly.
Leofric. Thou art wild.
Godiva. I have indeed lost myself. Some Power,
some good, kind Power, melts me (body and soul and
voice) into tenderness and love. O, my husband, we
must obey it. Look upon me ! look upon me ! lift your
sweet eyes from the ground ! I will not cease to suppli-
cate ; I dare not.
Leofric. We may think upon it.
Godiva. Never say that ! What ! think upon goodness
when you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for
sustenance ! The mother of our blessed Lord will hear
them ; us never, never afterward.
Leofric. Here comes the bishop : we are but one mile
from the walls. Why dismountest thou ? No bishop can
expect it. Godiva ! my honour and rank among men are
humbled by this : Earl Godwin will hear of it : up ! up !
the bishop hath seen it : he urgeth his horse onward : dost
thou not hear him now upon the solid turf behind thee ?
Godiva. Never, no, never will I rise, O Leofric, until
you remit this most impious tax, this tax on hard labour,
on hard life.
Leofric. Turn round : look how the fat nag canters, as
60 DRAMATIC.
to the tune of a sinner's psalm, slow and hard-breathing.
What reason or right can the people have to complain,
while thuir bishop's steed is so sleek and well caparisoned ?
Inclination to change, desire to abolish old usages. Up !
up ! for shame ! They shall smart for it, idlers ! Sir
bishop, I must blush for my young bride.
Godiva. My husband, my husband ! will you pardon
the city ?
Leofric. Sir bishop ! I could not think you would have
seen her in this plight. Will I pardon ? Yea, Godiva,
by the holy rood, will I pardon the city, when thou ridest
naked at noontide through the streets.
Godiva. O my dear cruel Leofric, where is the heart
you gave me ! It was not so ! can mine have hardened
it!
Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse ; she turneth
pale and weepeth. Lady Godiva, peace be with thee.
Godiva, Thanks, holy man ! peace will be with me
when peace is with your city. Did you hear my lord's
cruel word ?
Bishop. I did, lady.
Godiva. Will you remember it, and pray against it ?
Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter ?
Godiva. I am not offended.
Bishop. Angel of peace and purity !
Godiva. But treasure it up in your heart : deem it
an incense, good only when it is consumed and spent,
ascending with prayer and sacrifice. And now what
was it ?
Bishop. Christ save us ! that he will pardon the city
when thou ridest naked through the streets at noon.
Godiva. Did he not swear an oath ?
Bishop. He sware by the holy rood.
Godiva. My Redeemer ! thou hast heard it ! Save the
city !
LEOFRIC AND GODIVA. 6 1
Leofric. We are now upon the beginning of the pave-
ment : these are the suburbs : let us think of feasting : we
may pray afterward : to-morrow we shall rest.
Godiva. No judgments then to-morrow, Leofric ?
Leofric. None : we will carouse.
Godiva. The saints of heaven have given me strength
and confidence : my prayers are heard : the heart of my
beloved is now softened.
Leofric (aside}. Ay, ay they shall smart though.
Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed no other
hope, no other mediation ?
Leofric. I have sworn : beside, thou hast made me
redden and turn my face away from thee, and all the
knaves have seen it ; this adds to the city's crime.
Godiva. I have blushed too, Leofric, and was not rash
nor obdurate.
Leofric. But thou, my sweetest, art given to blushing ;
there is no conquering it in thee. I wish thou hadst not
alighted so hastily and roughly : it hath shaken down a
sheaf of thy hair : take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it
anguish thee. Well done ! it mingleth now sweetly with
the cloth of gold upon the saddle, running here and there,
as if it had life and faculties and business, and were work'
ing there upon some newer and cunninger device. O my
beauteous Eve ! there is a Paradise about thee ! the world
is refreshed as thou movest and breathest on it. I cannot
see or think of evil where thou art. I could throw my
arms even here about thee. No signs for me ! no shaking
of sunbeams ! no reproof or frown or wonderment I will
say it now then for worse I could close with my kisses
thy half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and loving eyes,
before the people.
Godiva. To-morrow you shall kiss me, and they shall
bless you for it. I shall be very pale, for to-night I must
fast and pray.
62 DRAMATIC.
Leofric. I do not hear thee ; the voices of the folk are
so loud under this archway.
Godiva (to herself}. God help them ! good kind souls !
I hope they will not crowd about me so to-morrow. O
Leofric ! could my name be forgotten ! and yours alone
remembered ! But perhaps my innocence may save me
from reproach ! and how many as innocent are in fear and
famine ! No eye will open on me but fresh from tears.
What a young mother for so large a family ! Shall my
youth harm me ! Under God's hand it gives me courage.
Ah, when will the morning come ! ah, when will the
noon be over !
The story of Godiva, at one of whose festivals or fairs I was pre-
sent in my boyhood, has always interested me ; and I wrote a poem
on it, sitting, I remember, by the square pool at Rugby. When I
showed it to the friend in whom I had most confidence, he began to
scoff at the subject ; and on his reaching the last line his laughter
was loud and immoderate. This Conversation has brought both
laughter and stanza back to me, and the earnestness with which I
entreated and implored my friend not to tell the lads; so heart-
strickenly and desperately was I ashamed. The verses are these,
if any one else should wish another laugh at me :
In every hour, in every mood,
O lady, it is sweet and good
To bathe the soul in prayer ;
And at the close of such a day,
When we have ceased to bless and pray,
To dream on thy long hair.
May the peppermint be still growing on the bank in that place !
W. S. L.
TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA. 63
XII.
TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA.
During the struggle for the crown of Sicily between the
Emperor Henry VI r ., married to Constance daughter
of the Sicilian King William //., and Tancred Count
of Lecce, natural son of King Roger II. , Constance lias
fallen a prisoner into the hands of Tancred.
Constantia. Is this in mockery, sir ? Do you place me
under a canopy, and upon what (no doubt) you presume
to call a throne, for derision ?
Tancredi. Madonna ! if it never were a throne before,
henceforward let none approach it but with reverence."
The greatest, the most virtuous, of queens and empresses
(it were indecorous in such an inferior as I am to praise in
your presence aught else in you that raises men's admira-
tion) leaves a throne for homage wherever she has rested.
Constantia. Count Tancred i ! your past conduct ill
accords with your present speech. Your courtesy, great
as it is, would have been much greater, if you yourself
had taken me captive, and had not turned your horse
and rode back, on purpose that villanous hands might
seize me.
Tancredi. Knightly hands (I speak it with all sub-
mission) are not villanous. I could not in my heart
command you to surrender ; and I would not deprive
a brave man, a man distinguished for deference and
loyalty, of the pleasure he was about to enjoy in en-
countering your two barons. I am confident he never
was discourteous.
Constantia. He was ; he took my horse's bridle by the
bit, turned his back on me, and would not let me go.
64 DRAMATIC.
Tancredi. War sometimes is guilty of such enormities,
and even worse.
Constantia. I would rather have surrendered myself
to the most courageous knight in Italy.
Tancredi. Which may that be ?
Constantia. By universal consent, Tancredi, Count of
Lecce.
Tancredi. To possess the highest courage, is but small
glory ; to be without it, is a great disgrace.
Constantia. Loyalty, not only to ladies, but to princes,
is the true and solid foundation of it. Count of Lecce !
am I not the daughter of your king ?
Tancredi. I recognise in the Lady Constantia the
daughter of our late sovran lord, King William, of glorious
memory.
Constantia. Recognise then your queen.
Tancredi. Our laws, and the supporters of these laws.,
forbid it.
Constantia. Is that memory a glorious one, as you call
it, which a single year is sufficient to erase? And did
not my father nominate me his heir ?
Tancredi. A kingdom is not among the chattels of a
king : a people is paled within laws, and not within parks
and chases : the powerfullest have no privilege to sport
in that inclosure. The barons of the realm and the
knights and the people assembled in Palermo, and there
by acclamation called and appointed me to govern the state.
Certainly the Lady Constantia is nearer to the throne in
blood, and much worthier : I said so then. The unani-
mous reply was that Sicily should be independent of all
other lands, and that neither German Kings nor Roman
Emperors should control her.
Constantia. You must be aware, sir, that an armed
resistance to the Emperor is presumptuous and traitorous.
Tancredi. He has carried fire and sword into my
TANCREDI AND CONSTANTIA. 65
country, and has excited the Genoese and Pisans, men
speaking the same language as ourselves, to debark on
our coasts, to demolish our villages, and to consume our
harvests.
Constantia. Being a sovran, he possesses the undoubted
right.
Tancredi. Being a Sicilian, I have no less a right to
resist him.
Constantia. Right ? Do rights appertain to vassals ?
Tancredi. Even to them ; and this one particularly.
Were I still a vassal, I should remember that I am a
king by election, by birth a Sicilian, and by descent a
Norman.
Constantia. All these fine titles give no right whatever to
the throne, from which an insuperable bar precludes you.
Tancredi. What bar can there be which my sword and
my people's love are unable to bear down ?
Constantia. Excuse my answer.
Tancredi. Deign me one, I entreat you, Madonna !
although the voice of my country may be more persuasive
with me even than yours.
Constantia. Count Lecce ! you are worthy of all honour,
excepting that alone which can spring only from lawful
descent.
Tancredi. My father was the first-born of the Norman
conqueror, King of Sicily : my mother, in her own right,
Countess of Lecce. I have no reason to blush at my
birth; nor did ever the noble breast which gave me
nourishment heave with a sense of ignominy as she pressed
me to it. She thought the blessing of the poor equivalent
to the blessing of the priest.
Constantia. I would not refer to her ungently : but she
by her alliance set at nought our Holy Father.
Tancredi. In all her paths, in all her words and actions,
she obeyed him,
F
66 DRAMATIC.
Constantia. Our Holy Father ?
Tancredi. Our holiest, our holy one, "our Father
which is in heaven." She wants no apology : precedent
is nothing : but remember our ancestors : I say ours ; for
I glory in the thought that they are the same, and so near.
Among the early dukes of Normandy, vanquishers of
France, and (what is greater) conquerors of England, fewer
were born within the pale of wedlock than without.
Nevertheless the ladies of our nation were always as
faithful to love and duty, as if hoods and surplices and
psalms had gone before them, and the church had been
the vestibule to the bed-chamber.
Constantia. My cousin the countess was irreproachable,
and her virtues have rendered you as popular as your ex-
ploits. Who is this pretty boy who holds down his head
so, with the salver in his hand ?
Tancredi. He is my son.
Constantia. Why then does he kneel before me ?
Tancredi. To teach his father his duty
Constantia. You acknowledge the rights of my husband ?
Tancredi. To a fairer possession than fair Sicily.
Constantia. I must no longer hear this language.
Tancredi. I utter it from the depths of a heart as pure
as the coldest.
Constantia (to the boy). Yes, my sweet child ! I accept
the refreshments you have been holding so patiently and
present so gracefully. But you should have risen from
your knees, such a posture is undue to a captive.
Boy. Papa ! what did the lady say ? Do you ever
make ladies captives ?
(To Constantia]. Run away : I will hold his hands for
him.
Constantia. I intend to run away ; but you are quite
as dangerous as your father. Count ! you must name my
ransom.
MAHOMET AND SERGIUS. 67
Tancredi. Madonna, I received it when you presented
your royal hand to my respectful homage. The barons
who accompanied you are mounted at the door, in order
to reconduct you ; and the most noble and the most
venerable of mine will be proud of the same permission.
Constantia. I also am a Sicilian, Tancredi ! I also am
sensible to the glories of the Norman race. Never shall
my husband, if I have any influence over him, be the
enemy of so courteous a knight. I could almost say
prosper ! prosper ! for the defence, the happiness, the
example, of our Sicily.
Tancredi. We may be deprived of territory and power ;
but never of knighthood. The brave alone can merit it,
the brave alone can confer it, the recreant alone can lose
it. So long as there is Norman blood in my veins I am
a knight : and our blood and our knighthood are given us
to defend the sex. Insensate ! I had almost said the
weaker ! and with your eyes before me !
Constantia. He cannot be a rebel, nor a false bad man.
Tancredi. Lady ! the sword which I humbly lay at
your feet was, a few years ago, a black misshapen mass
of metal : the gold that surrounds it, the jewel that sur-
mounts it, the victories it hath gained, constitute now its
least value ; it owes the greatest to its position.
XIII.
MAHOMET AND SERGIUS.
Mahomet confides his schemes and his aspirations to hi*
friend^ the Nestorian monk Sergius.
Mahomet. I should rather like, if convenient to Sergius,
to extend my empire over the plains of Damascus ; chiefly
because this empire must be extended by the sword, which
68 DRAMATIC.
is tempered nowhere in such perfection as by the waters
of Abbana and Pharphar.
Sergius. I demur to this.
Mahomet. I would engage to give thee in exchange
the whole of Europe.
Sergius. Mahomet, thou art ambitious.
Mahomet. To serve my friend ; otherwise no mortal
was ever so far removed from it. I have many other
faults ; none however which a friend can suffer from, or
ought to see.
Sergius. Although I little doubt that any plausible new
religion would subvert the old rottenness that lies accumu-
lated around us, now that people find the priests of Christ
assuming the garb and language of despots, with the
temper and trade of executioners, yet it may be the labour
of years to penetrate with an army from the centre of
Arabia into this country.
Mahomet. Of two or three at most. I have had visions
that promise me Syria.
Sergius. Mahomet, the system I laid down for thee
contains no visions.
Mahomet. Many spring from it.
Sergius. Thou wouldst alter it, I see.
Mahomet. It was too pure : people have fed upon pro-
digies ; they must have them still. Situate the native of
a watery plain upon the mountain, and he will regret the
warm comfortable fogs and the low fleeting lights of his
marsh. I would continue on the best terms with my
adviser and guide ; but verily my entrails yearn for the
good people of Damascus.
Sergius. Leave them to me ; and if thy entrails yearn
take a goblet of Cyprus.
Mahomet. I dare not drink wine : it aggravates my
malady, the only one to which I am subject. Another
inspiration here comes over me. I will forbid the use
MAHOMET AND SERGIUS. 69
of this beverage. Why should others enjoy what I can
not?
Sergius. True religionist ! But, Mahomet ! Mahomet !
will vision upon vision, revelation upon revelation,^ super-
sede this delicious habit? Relinquish such an imprac-
ticable conceit. Forbid wine indeed ! God himself, if
he descended on earth, and commanded it in a louder
and clearer voice than that at which the creation sprang
forth, unless first he altered the composition both of body
and soul, would utterly fail in this commandment.
Mahomet. I will order it : I will see it executed : for
now thou urgest me. Yea, Sergius ! men shall abstain
from wine in all those regions of the earth where wine
hath fragrance and captivation : and they shall continue
to drink it and be damned where it is nauseous and fiery
ind ^Ethiopian in complexion : and the priests in those
regions shall drink the most of it. Thus saith the Lord.
Sergius. He hath said many things which nobody
minds. If whole nations abstain from wine, by any
ordinance, prophetic or angelic, and from such wine as
Syria and Cyprus and Chios and Crete afford us, there
will be a miracle not resembling most others ; no miracle
of a moment, witnessed by the ignorant and run away
with by the impostor, a sacrilege to examine ; but a mir-
acle to be touched and interrogated, as long, as attentively,
as intrinsically, as the most incredulous could require,
and such as all the world must acknowledge to be irresist-
ible, and must bend before its divinity. # * *
Mahomet. Hitherto, when I dreamed that thou madest
to me any cession of territory for the plantation of the
faith, thou didst give me thy blessing and cede it.
Sergitis. And thou didst to me in like manner. But
now thy dreams cover nation after nation ; let us agree,
my friend Mahomet, to dream no more. Lie on thy left
side, man, on thy noble camel-hair couch, white and
70 DRAMATIC.
black like a zebra (as thou boastest in thy poetry), and
never turn thy face again toward Syria.
Mahomet. This seems, my friend, like a threat.
Sergius. Say rather, like divination.
Mahomet. I can divine better than thou canst.
Sergius. Contentment is better than divination or
visions. Thou wert born and educated in Arabia : and
nothing can transcend the description thou hast given me
of thy native country.
Mahomet. All native countries are most beautiful ; yet
we want something from them which they will not give
us. Our first quarrels of any seriousness are with them ;
as the first screams and struggles of infants, the first tear-
ing of robes and sobs of anger, are against their mothers.
Delightful is it to bathe in the moonsea on the sands,
and to listen to tales of genii in the tent : but then in
Arabia the anxious heart is thrown into fierce and
desperate commotion, by the accursed veil that separates
beauty from us. There we never see the blade of that
sweet herbage rise day after day into light and loveliness,
never see the blossom expand ; but receive it unselected,
unsolicited, and unwon. Happy the land where the
youthful are without veils, the aged without suspicion ;
where the antelope may look to what resting-place she
listeth, and bend her slender foot to the fountain that
most invites her.
Odoriferous gales ! whether of Deban or of Dafar, if
ye bring only fragrance with you, carry it to the thought-
less and light-hearted ! carry it to the drinker of wine, to
the feaster and the dancer at the feast. If ye never have
played about the beloved of my youth, if ye bring me no
intelligence of her, pass on ! away with you 1
FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV.
XIV.
FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV.
The fainter Fro, Filippo Lippi, on his return from
captivity in Barbary, is questioned 6y Pope Eugenius
IV. concerning his experiences in the service of the
corsair Abdul.
Eugenius. How wert thou mainly occupied ?
Filippo. I will give your Holiness a sample both of my
employments and of Abdul's character. He was going
one evening to a country house, about fifteen miles from
Tunis ; and he ordered* me to accompany him. I found
there a spacious garden, overrun with wild-flowers and
most luxuriant grass, in irregular tufts, according to the
dryness or the humidity of the spot. The clematis over-
topped the lemon and orange trees ; and the perennial
pea sent forth here a pink blossom, here a purple, here
a white one, and, after holding (as it were) a short
conversation with the humbler plants, sprang up about
an old cypress, played among its branches, and miti-
gated its gloom. White pigeons, and others in colour
like the dawn of day, looked down on us and ceased
to coo, until some of their companions, in whom they
had more confidence, encouraged them loudly from re-
moter boughs, or alighted on the shoulders of Abdul,
at whose side I was standing. A few of them examined
me in every position their inquisitive eyes could take ;
displaying all the advantages of their versatile necks,
and pretending querulous fear in the midst of petulant
approaches.
Eugenius. Is it of pigeons thou art talking, O Filippo?
I hope it may be.
72 DRAMATIC.
Filippo. Of Abdul's pigeons. He was fond of taming
all creatures ; men, horses, pigeons, equally : but he tamed
them all by kindness. In this wilderness is an edifice not
unlike our Italian chapter-houses built by the Lombards,
with long narrow windows, high above the ground. The
centre is now a bath, the waters of which, in another
part of the enclosure, had supplied a fountain, at present
in ruins, and covered by tufted canes, and by every variety
of aquatic plants. The structure has no remains of roof :
and, of six windows, one alone is unconcealed by ivy.
This had been walled up long ago, and the cement in the
inside of it was hard and polished. "Lippi!" said
Abdul to me, after I had long admired the place in silence,
" I leave to thy superintendence this bath and garden.
Be sparing of the leaves and branches : make paths only
wide enough for me. Let me see no mark of hatchet or
pruning-hook, and tell the labourers that whoever takes
a nest or an egg shall be impaled."
Eugenius. Monster ! so then he would really have
impaled a poor wretch for eating a bird's egg? How
disproportionate is the punishment to the offence !
Filippo. He efficiently checked in his slaves the desire
of transgressing his command. To spare them as much
as possible, I ordered them merely to open a few spaces,
and to remove the weaker trees from the stronger. Mean-
while I drew on the smooth blank window the figure of
Abdul and of a beautiful girl.
E^tgeni^ts. Rather say handmaiden : choicer expres-
sion : more decorous.
Filippo. Holy Father ! I have been lately so much out
of practice, I take the first that comes in my way. Hand-
maiden I will use in preference for the future.
Eugenius. On then ! and God speed thee !
Filippo. I drew Abdul with a blooming handmaiden.
One of his feet is resting on her lap, and she is drying
IUS IV.
FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 73
the ankle with a saffron robe, of which the greater part is
fallen in doing it. That she is a bondmaid is discernible,
not only by her occupation, but by her humility and
patience, by her loose and flowing brown hair, and by
her eyes expressing the timidity at once of servitude and
of fondness. The countenance was taken from fancy, and
was the loveliest I could imagine : of the figure I had
some idea, having seen it to advantage in Tunis. After
seven days Abdul returned. He was delighted with the
improvement made in the garden. I requested him to
visit the bath. " We can do nothing to that," answered
he impatiently. " There is no sudatory, no dormitory, no
dressing-room, no couch. Sometimes I sit an hour there
in the summer, because I never found a fly in it : the
principal curse of hot countries, and against which
plague there is neither prayer nor amulet, nor indeed
any human defence." He went away into the house.
At dinner he sent me from his table some quails and
ortolans, and tomatoes and honey and rice, beside a
basket of fruit covered with moss and bay-leaves, under
which I found a verdino fig, deliciously ripe, and bear-
ing the impression of several small teeth, but certainly
no reptile's.
Eugenius. There might have been poison in them for
all that.
Filippo. About two hours had passed, when I heard a
whirr and a crash in the windows of the bath (where I
had dined and was about to sleep) occasioned by the
settling and again the flight of some pheasants. Abdul
entered. " Beard of the Prophet ! What hast thou been
doing ? That is myself ! No, no, Lippi ! thou never
canst have seen her : the face proves it : but those limbs !
thou hast divined them aright : thou hast had sweet
dreams then ! Dreams are large possessions : in them
the possessor may cease to possess his own. To the slave,
74 DRAMATIC.
O Allah ! to the slave is permitted what is not his ! 1
burn with anguish to think how much yea, at that very
hour. I would not another should, even in a dream but,
Lippi ! thou never canst have seen above the sandal?"
To which I answered, " I never have allowed my eyes to
look even on that. But if any one of my lord Abdul's
fair slaves resembles, as they surely must all do, in duty
and docility, the figure I have represented, let it express
to him my congratulation on his happiness." "I be-
lieve," said he, "such representations are forbidden by
the Koran ; but as I do not remember it, I do not sin.
There it shall stay, unless the angel Gabriel comes to
forbid it." He smiled in saying so.
Eugenius. There is hope of this Abdul. His faith
hangs about him more like oil than pitch.
Filippo. He inquired of me whether I often thought of
those I loved in Italy, and whether I could bring them'
before my eyes at will. To remove all suspicion from
him, I declared I always could, and that one beautiful
object occupied all the cells of my brain by night and
day. He paused and pondered, and then said, "Thou
dost not love deeply." I thought I had given the true
signs. "No, Lippi ! we who love ardently, we, with all
our wishes, all the efforts of our souls, can not bring
before us the features which, while they were present, we
thought it impossible we ever could forget. Alas ! when
we most love the absent, when we most desire to see her,
we try in vain to bring her image back to us. The
troubled heart shakes and confounds it, even as ruffled
waters do with shadows. Hateful things are more hate-
ful when they haunt our sleep : the lovely flee away, or
are changed into less lovely."
Eugenius. What figures now have these unbelievers ?
Filippo. Various in their combinations as the letters or
the numerals ; but they all, like these, signify something.
FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 75
Almeida (did I not inform your Holiness?) has large
hazel eyes.
Eugenius. Has she? thou never toldest me that.
Well, well ! and what else has she ? Mind ! be cautious !
use decent terms.
Filippo. Somewhat pouting lips.
Eugenius. Ha ! ha ! What did they pout at ?
Filippo. And she is rather plump than otherwise.
Eugenius. No harm in that.
Filippo. And moreover is cool, smooth, and firm as a
nectarine gathered before sunrise.
Eugenius. Ha ! ha ! do not remind me of nectarines.
I am very fond of them ; and this is not the season !
Such females as thou describest, are said to be among
the likeliest to give reasonable cause for suspicion. I
would not judge harshly, I would not think uncharitably ;
but unhappily, being at so great a distance from spiritual
aid, perad venture a desire, a suggestion, an inkling ay ?
If she, the lost Almeida, came before thee when her
master was absent which I trust she never did But
those flowers and shrubs and odours and alleys and
long grass and alcoves, might strangely hold, perplex,
and entangle, two incautious young persons ay ?
Filippo. I confessed all I had to confess in this matter,
the evening I landed.
Eugenius. Ho ! I am no candidate for a seat at the
rehearsal of confession : but perhaps my absolution
might be somewhat more pleasing and unconditional.
Well ! well ! since I am unworthy of such confidence, go
about thy business paint ! paint !
Filippo. Am I so unfortunate as to have offended your
Beatitude ?
Eugenius. Offend me, man ! who offends me ? I took
an interest in thy adventures, and was concerned lest
thou mightest have sinned ; for by my soul ! Filippo !
76 DRAMATIC.
those are the women that the devil hath set his mark
on.
Filippo. It would do your Holiness's heart good to rub
it out again, wherever he may have had the cunning to
make it.
Eugenius. Deep ! deep !
Filippo. Yet it may be got at ; she being a Biscayan
by birth, as she told me, and not only baptised, but
going by sea along the coast for confirmation, when she
was captured.
Eugenius. Alas ! to what an imposition of hands was
this tender young thing devoted ! Poor soul !
Filippo. I sigh for her myself when I think of her.
Eugenius. Beware lest the sigh be mundane, and lest
the thought recur too often. I wish it were presently in
my power to examine her myself on her condition. What
thinkest thou ? Speak.
Filippo. Holy Father ! she would laugh in your face.
Eugenius. So lost !
Filippo. She declared to me she thought she should
have died, from the instant she was captured until she
was comforted by Abdul : but that she was quite sure she
should if she were ransomed.
Eugenius. Has the wretch then shaken her faith ?
Filippo. The very last thing he would think of doing.
Never did I see the virtue of resignation in higher perfec-
tion than in the laughing light-hearted Almeida.
Eugenius. Lamentable ! Poor lost creature ! lost in
this world and in the next.
Filippo. What could she do? how could she help
herself?
Eugenius. She might have torn his eyes out, and have
died a martyr.
Filippo. Or have been bastinadoed, whipped, and given
up to the cooks and scullions for it
FILIPPO LIPPI AND EUGENIUS IV. 77
Engenius. Martyrdom is the more glorious the greater
the indignities it endures.
Filippo. Almeida seems unambitious. There are many
in our Tuscany who would jump at the crown over those
sloughs and briars, rather than perish without them : she
never sighs after the like.
Engenius. Nevertheless, what must she witness ! what
abominations ! what superstitions !
Filippo. Abdul neither practises nor exacts any other
superstition than ablutions.
Eugenius. Detestable rites ! without our authority. I
venture to affirm that in the whole of Italy and Spain no
convent of monks or nuns contains a bath ; and that the
worst inmate of either would shudder at the idea of
observing such a practice in common with the unbeliever.
For the washing of the feet indeed we have the authority
of the earlier Christians ; and it may be done ; but
solemnly and sparingly. Thy residence among the
Mahometans, I am afraid, hath rendered thee more
favourable to them than beseems a Catholic, and thy
mind, I do suspect, sometimes goes back into Barbary
unreluctantly.
'Filippo. While I continued in that country, although
I was well treated, I often wished myself away, thinking
of my friends in Florence, of music, of painting, of our
villeggiatura at the vintage-time ; whether in the green
and narrow glades of Pratolino, with lofty trees above
us, and little rills unseen, and little bells about the necks
of sheep and goats, tinkling together ambiguously ; or
amid the grey quarries or under the majestic walls of
ancient Fiesole ; or down in the woods of the Doccia,
where the cypresses are of such a girth that, when a youth
stands against one of them, and a maiden stands opposite,
and they clasp it, their hands at the time do little more
than meet. Beautiful scenes, on which Heaven smiles
78 DRAMATIC.
eternally, how often has my heart ached for you ! He
who hath lived in this country, can enjoy no distant one.
He breathes here another air ; he lives more life ; a
brighter sun invigorates his studies, and serener stars
influence his repose. Barbary hath also the blessing of
climate ; and although I do not desire to be there again,
I feel sometimes a kind of regret at leaving it. A bell
warbles the more mellifluously in the air when the sound
of the stroke is over, and when another swims out from
underneath it, and pants upon the element that gave it
birth. In like manner the recollection of a thing is fre-
quently more pleasing than the actuality ; what is harsh
is dropped in the space between.
XV.
LEONORA DI ESTE AND FATHER PANIGAROLA.
Leonora di Este, sister to the Duke of Ferrara, beloved by
Tasso, questions Panigarola on her death-bed concern-
ing the manner in 'which the poet (being in confinement
as a htnatic) has borne the news that she is about to die.
Leonora. You have then seen him, father ? Have you
been able, you who console so many, you who console
even me, to comfort poor Torquato ?
Panigarola. Madonna ! the ears of the unhappy man
are quickened by his solitude and his sorrow. He seemed
aware, or suspicious at least, that somebody was listening
at his prison -door ; and the cell is so narrow that every
sound in it is audible to those who stand outside.
Leonora. He might have whispered.
Panigarola. It would have been most imprudent.
Leonora. Said he nothing? not a word? to prove to
prove that he had not lost his memory ; his memory ? of
LEONORA AND PANIGAROLA. 79
what ? of reading his verses to me, and of my listening to
them. Lucrezia listened to them as attentively as I did,
until she observed his waiting for my applause first.
When she applauded, he bowed so gracefully : when I
applauded he only held down his head. I was not angry
at the difference. But tell me, good father ! tell me,
pray, whether he gave no sign of sorrow at hearing how
soon I am to leave the world. Did you forget to men-
tion it ! or did you fear to pain him ?
Panigarola. I mentioned it plainly, fully.
Leonora. And was he, was gentle Torquato, very
sorry?
Panigarola. Be less anxious. He bore it like a Chris-
tian. He said deliberately, but he trembled and sighed,
as Christians should sigh and tremble, that, although he
grieved at your illness, yet that to write either in verse
or prose, on such a visitation of Providence, was repug-
nant to his nature.
Leonora. He said so ? could he say it ? But I thought
you told me he feared a listener. Perhaps too he feared
to awaken in me the sentiments he once excited. How-
ever it may be, already I feel the chilliness of the grave :
his words breathe it over me. I would have entreated
him to forget me ; but to be forgotten before I had en-
treated it ! O father, father !
Panigarola. Human vanity still is lingering on the
precincts of the tomb. Is it criminal, is it censurable in
him, to anticipate your wishes ?
Leonora. Knowing the certainty and the nearness of
my departure, he might at least have told me through
you that he lamented to lose me.
Panigarola. Is there no voice within your heart that
clearly tells you so ?
Leonora. That voice is too indistinct, too troubled with
the throbbings round about it. We women want some-
80 DRAMATIC.
times to hear what we know ; we die unless we hear
what we doubt.
Panigarola. Madonna ! this is too passionate for the
hour. But the tears you are shedding are a proof of
your compunction. May the Virgin, and the Saints
around her throne, accept and ratify it.
Leonora. Father ! what were you saying ? What were
you asking me? Whether no voice whispered to me,
assured me ? I know not. I am weary of thinking. He
must love me. It is not in the nature of such men ever
to cease from loving. Was genius ever ungrateful?
Mere talents are dry leaves, tossed up and down by gusts
of passion, and scattered and swept away ; but Genius
lies on the bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet.
Panigarola. Be composed, be calm, be resigned to the
will of Heaven, be ready for that journey's end where the
happier who have gone before, and the enduring who
soon must follow, will meet.
Leonora. I am prepared to depart ; for I have struggled
(God knows) to surmount what is insurmountable ; and
the wings of angels will sustain and raise me, seeing my
descent toward earth too rapid, too unresisted, and too
prone. Pray, father, for my deliverance : pray also for
poor Torquato's : do not separate us in your prayers.
! could he leave his prison as surely and as speedily as
1 shall mine ! it would not be more thankfully. O ! that
bars of iron were as fragile as bars of clay ! O ! that
princes were as merciful as Death ! But tell him, tell
Torquato go again ; entreat, persuade, command him,
to forget me.
Panigarola. Alas ! even the command, even the com-
mand from you and from above, might not avail perhaps.
You smile, Madonna !
Leonora. I die happy.
MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 8 1
XVI.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL.
Jeanne d'Arc is introd^lced into the presence of Agnes Sorel,
mistress of the French king, Charles VII.
Agnes, If a boy could ever be found so beautiful and so
bashful, I should have taken you for a boy about fifteen
years old. Really, and without flattery, I think you very
lovely.
Jeanne. I hope I shall be greatly more so.
Agnes. Nay, nay : do not expect to improve, except a
little in manner. Manner is the fruit, blushes are the
blossom : these must fall off before the fruit sets.
Jeanne. By God's help I may be soon more comely in
the eyes of men.
Agnes. Ha ! ha ! even in piety there is a spice of vanity.
The woman can only cease to be the woman when angels
have disrobed her in Paradise.
Jeanne. I shall be far from loveliness, even in my own
eyes, until I execute the will of God in the deliverance of
his people.
Agnes. Never hope it.
Jeanne. The deliverance that is never hoped seldom
comes. We conquer by hope and trust.
Agnes. Be content to have humbled the proud islanders.
O how I rejoice that a mere child has done so.
Jeanne. A child of my age, or younger, chastised the
Philistines, and smote down the giant their leader.
Agnes. But Talbot is a giant of another mould : his
will is immovable, his power irresistible, his word of com-
mand is Conquer.
G
82 DRAMATIC.
Jeanne. It shall be heard no longer. The tempest of
battle drowning it in English blood.
Agnes. Poor simpleton ! The English will recover
from the stupor of their fright, believing thee no longer
to be a sorceress. Did ever sword or spear intimidate
them ? Hast thou never heard of Creci ? hast thou never
heard of Agincourt ? hast thou never heard of Poictiers ?
where the chivalry of France was utterly vanquished by
sick and starving men, one against five. The French are
the eagle's plume, the English are his talon.
Jeanne. The talon and the plume shall change places.
Agnes. Too confident !
Jeanne. O lady ! is any one too confident in God?
Agnes. We may mistake his guidance. Already not
only the whole host of the English, but many of our wisest
and most authoritative churchmen, believe you in their
consciences to act under the instigation of Satan.
Jeanne. What country or what creature has the Evil-
one ever saved ? With what has he tempted me ? With
reproaches, with scorn, with weary days, with slumberless
nights, with doubts, distrusts, and dangers, with absence
from all who cherish me, with immodest soldierly lan-
guage, and perhaps an untimely and a cruel death.
Agnes. But you are not afraid.
Jeanne. Healthy and strong, yet always too timorous,
a few seasons ago I fled away from the lowings of a young
steer, if he ran opposite ; I awaited not the butting of
a full-grown kid; the barking of a house-dog at our
neighbour's gate turned me pale as ashes. And (shame
upon me !) I scarcely dared kiss the child, when he
called on me with burning tongue in the pestilence of a
fever.
Agnes. No wonder ! A creature in a fever ! What a
frightful thing !
Jeanne. It would be were it not so piteous.
MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 83
Agnes. And did you kiss it ? Did you really kiss the
lips?
Jeanne. I fancied mine would refresh them a little.
Agnes. And did they? I should have thought mine
could do but trifling good in such cases.
Jeanne. Alas ! when I believed I had quite cooled
them, it was death had done it.
Agnes. Ah ! this is courage.
Jeanne. The courage of the weaker sex, inherent in us
all, but as deficient in me as in any, until an infant taught
me my duty by its cries. Yet never have I quailed in the
front of the fight, where I directed our ranks against the
bravest. God pardon me if I err ! but I believe his
Spirit flamed within my breast, strengthened my arm, and
led me on to victory.
Agnes. Say not so, or they will burn thee alive, poor
child ! Why fallest thou before me ? I have some power
indeed, but in this extremity I could little help thee.
The priest never releases the victim.
What ! how ! thy countenance is radiant with a heavenly
joy : thy humility is like an angel's at the feet of God : I
am unworthy to behold it. Rise, Jeanne, rise !
Jeanne. Martyrdom too ! The reward were too great
for such an easy and glad obedience. France will become
just and righteous : France will praise the Lord for her
deliverance.
Agnes. Sweet enthusiast ! I am confident, I am cer-
tain, of thy innocence.
Jeanne. O Lady Agnes !
Agnes. Why fixest thou thy eyes on me so piteously ?
Why sobbest thou ? thou, to whom the representation of
an imminent death to be apprehended for thee, left un-
troubled, joyous, exulting. Speak ; tell me.
Jeanne. I must. This also is commanded me. You
believe me innocent ?
84 DRAMATIC.
Agnes. In truth I do : why then look abashed ? Alas !
alas ! could I mistake the reason ? I spoke of innocence !
Leave me, leave me. Return another time. Follow thy
vocation.
Jeanne. Agnes Sorel ! be thou more than innocent, if
innocence is denied thee. In the name of the Almighty,
I call on thee to earn his mercy.
Agnes. I implore it incessantly, by day, by night.
Jeanne. Serve him as thou mayest best serve him ; and
thy tears, I promise thee, shall soon be less bitter than
those which are dropping on this jewelled hand, and on
the rude one which has dared to press it.
Agnes. What can I, what can I do ?
Jeanne. Lead the king back to his kingdom.
Agnes. The king is in France.
Jeanne. No, no, no.
Agnes. Upon my word of honour.
Jeanne. And at such a time, O Heaven ! in idleness
and sloth !
Agnes. Indeed no. He is busy (this is the hour) in
feeding and instructing two young hawks. Could you
but see the little miscreants, how they dare to bite and
claw and tug at him. He never hurts or scolds them for
it; he is so good-natured : he even lets them draw blood \
he is so very brave !
Running away from France ! Who could have raised
such a report ? Indeed he is here. He never thought of
leaving the country : and his affairs are becoming more
and more prosperous ever since the battle. Can you not
take my asseveration ? Must I say it ? he is now in this
very house.
Jeanne. Then not in France. In France all love their
country. Others of our kings, old men tell us, have been
captives ; but less ignominously. Their enemies have
respected their misfortunes and their honour.
MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 85
Agnes. The English have always been merciful and
generous.
Jeanne. And will you be less generous, less merciful ?
Agnes. I ?
Jeanne. You ; the beloved of Charles.
Agnes. This is too confident. No, no : do not draw
back : it is not too confident : it is only too reproachful.
But your actions have given you authority. I have,
nevertheless, a right to demand of you what creature on
earth I have ever treated ignominiously or unkindly.
Jeanne. Your beloved ; your king.
Agnes. Never. I owe to him all I have, all I am.
Jeanne. Too true ! But let him in return owe to you,
O Lady Agnes, eternal happiness, eternal glory. Con-
descend to labour with the humble handmaiden of the
Lord, in fixing his throne and delivering his people.
Agne*. I can not fight : I abominate war.
Jeanne. Not more than I do ; but men love it.
Agnes. Too much.
Jeanne. Often too much, for often unjustly. But when
God's right hand is visible in the vanguard, we who are
called must follow.
Agnes. I dare not ; indeed I dare not.
Jeanne. You dare not? you who dare withhold the
king from his duty !
Agnes. We must never talk of their duties to our
princes.
Jeanne. Then we omit to do much of our own. It is
now mine : but above all it is yours.
Agnes. There are learned and religious men who might
more properly.
Jeanne. Are these learned and religious men in the
court ? Pray tell me : since, if they are, seeing how
poorly they have sped, I may peradventure, however un-
willingly, however blameably, abate a little of my rever-
86 DRAMATIC.
ence for learning, and look for pure religion in lower
places.
Agnes. They are modest ; and they usually ask of me
in what manner they may best please their master.
Jeanne. They believe then that your affection is pro-
portional to the power you possess over him. I have
heard complaints that it is usually quite the contrary.
But can such great men be loved? And do you love
him ? Why do you sigh so ?
Agnes. Life is but sighs, and when they cease 'tis over.
Jeanne. Now deign to answer me : do you truly love
him?
Agnes. From my soul ; and above it.
Jeanne. Then save him.
Lady ! I am grieved at your sorrow, although it will
hereafter be a source of joy to you. The purest water
runs from the hardest rock. Neither worth nor wisdom
come without an effort ; and patience and piety and
salutary knowledge spring up and ripen from under the
harrow of affliction. Before there is wine or there is oil,
the grape must be trodden and the olive must be pressed.
I see you are framing in your heart the resolution.
Agnes. My heart can admit nothing but his image.
Jeanne. It must fall thence at last.
Agnes. Alas ! alas ! Time loosens man's affections.
I may become unworthy. In the sweetest flower there
is much that is not fragrance, and which transpires when
the freshness has passed away.
Alas ! if he should ever cease to love me !
Jeanne. Alas ! if God should !
Agnes. Then indeed he might afflict me with so
grievous a calamity.
Jeanne. And none worse after ?
Agnes. What can there be ?
O Heaven ! mercy ! mercy !
MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 87
Jeanne. Resolve to earn it : one hour suffices.
Agnes. I am lost. Leave me, leave me.
Jeanne. Do we leave the lost ? Are they beyond
our care? Remember who died for them, and them
only.
Agnes. You subdue me. Spare me : I would only
collect my thoughts.
Jeanne. Cast them away. Fresh herbage springs from
under the withered. Be strong, and, if you love, be
generous. Is it more glorious to make a captive than to
redeem one ?
Agnes. Is he in danger ! O ! you see all things is
he ? is he ? is he ?
Jeanne. From none but you.
Agnes. God, it is evident, has given to thee alone the
power of rescuing both him and France.
He has bestowed on thee the mightiness of virtue.
Jeanne. Believe, and prove thy belief, that he has left
no little of it still in thee.
Agttes. When we have lost our chastity, we have lost
all, in his sight and in man's. But man is unforgiving,
God is merciful.
Jeanne. I am so ignorant, I know only a part of my
duties : yet those which my Maker has taught me I am
earnest to perform. He teaches me that divine love
has less influence over the heart than human : He teaches
me that it ought to have more : finally, He commands me
to announce to thee, not His anger, but His will.
Agnes. Declare it ; O declare it. I do believe His
holy word is deposited in thy bosom.
Jeanne. Encourage the king to lead his vassals to the
field.
Agnes. When the season is milder.
Jeanne. And bid him leave you for ever.
Agnes. Leave me ! one whole campaign ! one entire
88 DRAMATIC.
summer ! Oh anguish ! It sounded in my ears as if you
said "for ever."
Jeanne. I say it again.
Agnes. Thy power is superhuman, mine is not.
Jeanne. It ought to be, in setting God at defiance.
The mightiest of the angels rued it.
Agnes. We did not make our hearts.
Jeanne. But we can mend them.
Agnes. Oh ! mine (God knows it) bleeds.
Jeanne. Say rather it repels from it the last stagnant
drop of its rebellious sin. Salutary pangs may be pain-
fuller than mortal ones.
Agnes. Bid him leave me ! wish it ! permit ! think it
near! believe it ever can be! Go, go I am lost
eternally.
Jeanne. And Charles too.
Agnes. Hush ! hush ! What has he done that other
men have not done also ?
Jeanne. He has left undone what others do.
Other men fight for their country.
I always thought it was pleasant to the young and
beautiful to see those they love victorious and applauded.
Twice in my lifetime I have been present at wakes, where
prizes were contended for : what prizes I quite forget :
certainly not kingdoms. The winner was made happy :
but there was one made happier. Village maids love
truly : ay, they love glory too ; and not their own. The
tenderest heart loves best the courageous one : the gentle
voice says, "Why wert thou so hazardous?" the deeper-
toned replies, " For thee, for thee."
Agnes. But if the saints of heaven are offended, as I
fear they may be, it would be presumptuous in the king
to expose his person in battle, until we have supplicated
and appeased them.
Jeanne. One hour of self-denial, one hour of stern exer-
MAID OF ORLEANS AND AGNES SOREL. 89
tion against the assaults of passion, outvalues a life of
prayer.
Agnes. Prayer, if many others will pray with us, can do
all things. I will venture to raise up that arm which has
only one place for its. repose : I will steal away from that
undivided pillow, fragrant with fresh and unextinguishable
love.
Jeanne. Sad earthly thoughts !
Agnes. You make them sad, you cannot make them
earthly. There is a divinity in a love descending from on
high, in theirs who can see into the heart and mould it to
their will.
Jeanne. Has man that power ?
Agnes. Happy, happy girl ! to ask it, and unfeignedly.
Jeanne. Be happy too.
Agnes. How? how?
Jeanne. By passing resolutely through unhappiness.
It must be done.
Agnes. I will throw myself on the pavement, and pray
until no star is in the heavens. Oh ! I will so pray, so
weep.
feanne. Unless you save the tears of others, in vain you
shed your own.
Agnes. Again I ask you what can I do ?
Jeanne. When God has told you what you ought to do,
he has already told you what you can.
Agnes. I will think about it seriously.
Jeanne. Serious thoughts are folded up, chested, and
unlocked at : lighter, like dust, settle all about the chamber.
The promise to think seriously dismisses and closes the
door on the thought. Adieu ! God pity and pardon you.
Through you the wrath of Heaven will fall upon the
kingdom.
Agnes. Denouncer of just vengeance, recall the sentence !
I tremble before that countenance severely radiant : I
90 DRAMATIC.
sink amid that calm, more appalling than the tempest.
Look not into my heart with those gentle eyes ! O how
they penetrate ! They ought to see no sin : sadly must
it pain them.
Jeanne. Think not of me : pursue .thy destination : save
France.
Agnes (after a long pause]. Glorious privilege ! divine
appointment ! Is it thus, O my Redeemer ! my crimes
are visited ? Come with me, blessed Jeanne ! come in-
stantly with me to the king : come to him whom thy
virtue and valour have rescued.
Jeanne. Not now ; nor ever with thee. Again I shall
behold him ; a conqueror at Orleans, a king at Rheims.
Regenerate Agnes ! be this thy glory, if there be any that
is not God's.
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN.
The King presents himself siiddenly and in disguise before
his cast-off 'wife after she has been condemned to death.
Henry. Dost thou know me, Nanny, in this yeoman's
dress? 'Sblood ! does it require so long and vacant a
stare to recollect a husband, after a week or two ? No
tragedy-tricks with me ! a scream, a sob, or thy kerchief
a trifle the wetter, were enough. Why ! verily the little
fool faints in earnest. These whey faces, like their kins-
folk the ghosts, give us no warning. (Sprinkling water
over her.} Hast had water enough upon thee ? take that
thenr art thyself again ?
Anne. Father of mercies ! do I meet again my husband,
as was my last prayer on earth ! do I behold my beloved
lord in peace and pardoned, my partner in eternal
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 9 1
bliss ! It was his voice. I cannot see him why cannot
I? O why do these pangs interrupt the transports of
the blessed !
Henry. Thou openest thy arms : faith ! I came for
that : Nanny, thou art a sweet slut : thou groanest,
wench : art in labour ? Faith ! among the mistakes of
the night, I am ready to think almost that thou hast
been drinking, and that I have not.
Anne. God preserve your Highness : grant me your
forgiveness for one slight offence. My eyes were heavy ;
I fell asleep while I was reading ; I did not know of
your presence at first, and when I did I could not speak.
I strove for utterance ; I wanted no respect for my liege
and husband.
Henry. My pretty warm nestling, thou wilt then lie !
Thou wert reading, and aloud, too, with thy saintly cup
of water by thee, and what ! thou art still girlishly fond
of those dried cherries !
Anne. I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the
first time I saw you, and you were then pleased to invent
for me some reason why they should be acceptable. I did
not dry these : may I present them such as they are ?
We shall have fresh next month.
Henry. Thou art always driving away from the dis-
course. One moment it suits thee to know me, another
not.
Anne. Remember, it is hardly three months since I
miscarried ; I am still weak and liable to swoons.
Henry. Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with
lustre upon them when there is none elsewhere, and
obstinate lips, resisting all impression ; but, now thou
talkest about miscarrying, who is the father of that boy ?
Anne. The father is yours and mine he who has taken
him to his own home, before (like me) he could struggle
or cry for it.
92 DRAMATIC.
Henry. Pagan, or worse, to talk so ! He did not
come into the world alive : there was no baptism.
Anne. I thought only of our loss: my senses are
confounded. I did not give him my milk, and yet I
loved him tenderly ; for I often fancied, had he lived,
how contented and joyful he would have made you and
England.
Henry. No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou
canst not say, whether at my entrance, thou wert waking
or wandering.
Anne. Faintness and drowsiness came upon me sud-
denly.
Henry. Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst,
what didst dream of?
Anne. I begin to doubt whether I did indeed sleep.
Henry. Ha ! false one never two sentences of truth
together. But come, what didst think about, asleep or
awake ?
Anne. I thought that God had pardoned me my
offences, and had received me unto him.
Henry. And nothing more ?
Anne. That my prayers had been heard and my wishes
were accomplishing : the angels alone can enjoy more
beatitude than this.
Henry. Vexatious little devil ! she says nothing now
about me, merely from perverseness. Hast thou never
thought about me, nor about thy falsehood and adultery ?
Anne. If I had committed any kind of falsehood, in
regard to you or not, I should never have rested until I
had thrown myself at your feet and obtained your par-
don : but if ever I had been guilty of that other crime,
I know not whether I should have dared to implore it,
even of God's mercy.
Henry. Thou hast heretofore cast some soft glances
upon Smeaton ; hast thou not ?
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 93
Anne. He taught me to play on the virginals, as you
know, when I was little, and thereby to please your
Highness.
Henry. And Brereton and Norris, what have they
taught thee ?
Anne. They are your servants, and trusty ones.
Henry. Has not Weston told thee plainly that he
loved thee ?
Anne. Yes ; and
Henry. What didst thou ?
Anne. I defied him.
Henry. Is that all ?
Anne. I could have done no more if he had told me
that he hated me. Then indeed I should have incurred
more justly the reproaches of your Highness : I should
have smiled.
Henry. We have proofs abundant : the fellows shall
one and all confront thee ay, clap thy hands and kiss
my sleeve, harlot !
Anne. O that so great a favour is vouchsafed me ! my
honour is secure ; my husband will be happy again ; he
will see my innocence.
Henry. Give me an account of the monies thou hast
received from me, within these nine months : I want
them not back : they are letters of gold in record of thy
guilt. Thou hast had no fewer than fifteen thousand
pounds within that period, without even thy asking ;
what hast done with it, wanton ?
Anne. I have regularly placed it out to interest.
Henry. Where ? I demand of thee.
Anne. Among the needy and ailing. My lord arch-
bishop has the account of it, sealed by him weekly : I
also had a copy myself : those who took away my papers
may easily find it, for there are few others, and they
lie open.
94 DRAMATIC.
Henry. Think on my munificence to thee ; recollect
who made thee dost sigh for what thou hast lost ?
Anne. I do indeed.
Henry. I never thought thee ambitious ; but thy vices
creep out one by one.
Anne. I do not regret that I have been a queen and
am no longer one ; nor that my innocence is called in
question by those who never knew me : but I lament
that the good people, who loved me so cordially, hate
and curse me ; that those who pointed me out to their
daughters for imitation, check them when they speak
about me ; and that he whom next to God I have served
with most devotion, is my accuser. O my lord, my hus-
band, and king ! the judgments of God are righteous ; on
this surely we must think alike.
Henry. And what then ? speak out again I command
thee, speak plainly thy tongue was not so torpid but
this moment.
Anne. If any doubt remains upon your royal mind of
your equity in this business, should it haply seem possible
to you that passion or prejudice, in yourself or another,
may have warped so strong an understanding, do but
supplicate the Almighty to strengthen and enlighten it,
and he will hear you.
Henry. What ! thou wouldst fain change thy quarters,
ay?
Anne. My spirit is detached and ready, and I shall
change them shortly, whatever your Highness may deter-
mine.
Henry. Yet thou appearest hale and resolute, and (they
tell me) smirkest and smilest to them all.
Anne. The withered leaf catches the sun sometimes,
little as it can profit by it ; and I have heard stories of
the breeze in other climates, that sets in when daylight is
about to close, and how constant it is, and how refreshing.
HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 95
My heart indeed is now sustained strangely : it became the
more sensibly so from that time forward when power and
grandeur and all things terrestrial were sunk from sight.
Every act of kindness from those about me gives satisfac-
tion and pleasure, such as I did not feel formerly. I was
worse before God chastened me ; yet I was never an
ingrate. What pains have I taken to find out the village
girls who placed their posies in my chamber ere I arose
in the morning ! how gladly would I have recompensed
the forester who lit up a brake on my birthnight which
else had warmed him half the winter ! But these are
times past : I was not Queen of England.
Henry. Nor adulterous, nor heretical.
Anne. God be praised !
Henry. Learned saint, thou knowest nothing of the
lighter, but perhaps canst inform me about the graver of
them.
Anne. Which may it be, my liege ?
Henry. Which may it be, pestilence ! I marvel that
the walls of this tower do not crack around us at such
impiety.
Anne. I would be instructed by the wisest of theo-
logians ; such is your Highness.
Henry. Are the sins of the body, foul as they are, com-
parable to those of the soul ?
Anne. When they are united they must be worst.
Henry. Go on, go on : thou pushest thy own breast
against the sword : God has deprived thee of thy reason
for thy punishment. I must hear more ; proceed, I charge
thee.
Anne. An aptitude to believe one thing rather than
another from ignorance or weakness, or from the more
persuasive manner of the teacher, or from his purity of
life, or from the strong impression of a particular text at
a particular time, and various things besides, may influ-
96 DRAMATIC.
ence and decide our opinion ; and the hand of the Al-
mighty, let us hope, will fall gently on human fallibility.
Henry. Opinion in matters of faith ! rare wisdom ! rare
religion ! Troth ! Anne, thou hast well sobered me : I
came rather warmly and lovingly ; but these light ring-
lets, by the holy rood, shall not shade this shoulder much
longer. Nay, do not start ; I tap it for the last time,
my sweetest. If the Church permitted it, thou shouldst
set forth on the long journey with the eucharist between
thy teeth, however loth.
Anne. Love your Elizabeth, my honoured Lord, and
God bless you ! She will soon forget to call me ; do
not chide her ; think how young she is.
Could I, could I kiss her, but once again ! it would
comfort my heart or break it.
ROGER ASCII AM AND LADY JANE GREY.
Roger Ascham prepares the mind of his pripil Lady Jane
Grey for the perils that "will encompass her after hey
'marriage.
Ascham. Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a
most awful state ; thou art passing into matrimony and
great wealth. God hath willed it : submit in thankfulness.
Thy affections are rightly placed and well distributed.
Love is a secondary passion in those who love most, a
primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by
it in a high degree is inspired by honour in a higher : it
never reaches its plenitude of growth and perfection but
in the most exalted minds. Alas ! alas !
Jane. What aileth my virtuous Ascham? what is
amiss ? why do I tremble ?
ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 97
Ascham. I remember a sort of prophecy, made three
years ago : it is a prophecy of thy condition and of my
feelings on it. Recollectest thou who wrote, sitting upon
the sea-beach the evening after an excursion to the Isle
of Wight, these verses ?
Invisibly bright water ! so like air,
On looking down I feared thou couldst not bear
My little bark, of all light barks most light,
And look'd again, and drew me from the sight,
And, hanging back, breath'd each fresh gale aghast,
And held the bench, not to go on so fast.
Jane. 1 was very childish when I composed them ;
and, if I had thought any more about the matter, I
should have hoped you had been too generous to keep
them in your memory as witnesses against me.
Ascham. Nay, they are not much amiss for so young a
girl, and there being so few of them, I did not reprove
thee. Half-an-hour, I thought, might have been spent
more unprofitably ; and I now shall believe it firmly, if
thou wilt but be led by them to meditate a little on the
similarity of situation in which thou then wert to what
thou art now in.
Jane. I will do it, and whatever else you command ;
for I am weak by nature, and very timorous, unless where
a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. There
God acteth, and not his creature.
Those were with me at sea who would have been
attentive to me if I had seemed to be afraid, even though
worshipful men and women were in the company ; so
that something more powerful threw my fear overboard.
Vet I never will go again upon the water.
Ascham. Exercise that beauteous couple, that mind
and body, much and variously, but at home, at home,
Jane ! indoors, and about things indoors ; for God is
H
98 DRAMATIC.
there too. We have rocks and quicksands on the banks
of our Thames, O lady, such as Ocean never heard of ;
and many (who knows how soon !) may be engulfed in
the current under their garden-walls.
Jane. Thoroughly do I now understand you. Yes
indeed, I have read evil things of courts ; but I think
nobody can go out bad who entereth good, if timely and
true warning shall have been given.
Ascham. I see perils on perils which thou dost not see,
albeit thou art wiser than thy poor old master. And it
is not because Love hath blinded thee, for that surpasseth
his supposed omnipotence ; but it is because thy tender
heart, having always leant affectionately upon good, hath
felt and known nothing -of evil.
I once persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now per-
suade thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, to lay
aside books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on what
is under and before thee.
Jane. I have well bethought me of my duties : O how
extensive they are ! what a goodly and fair inheritance !
But tell me, would you command me never more to read
Cicero and Epictetus and Plutarch and Polybius ? The
others I do resign : they are good for the arbour and for
the gravel-walk : yet leave unto me, I do beseech you,
my friend and father, leave unto me for my fireside and
for my pillow, truth, eloquence, courage, constancy.
Ascham. Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy child-
bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotless undrooping lily,
they have fenced thee right well. These are the men for
men : these are to fashion the bright and blessed creatures
whom God one day shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom.
Mind thou thy husband.
Jane, I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused
me ; I love him with the fondest, the most solicitous
affection ; I pray to the Almighty for his goodness and
ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 99
happiness, and do forget at times, unworthy supplicant !
the prayers I should have offered for myself. Never fear
that I will disparage my kind religious teacher, by dis-
disobedience to my husband in the most trying duties.
Ascham. Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous : but time
will harden him : time must harden even thee, sweet
Jane ! Do thou, complacently and indirectly, lead him
from ambition.
Jane. He is contented with me and with home.
Ascham. Ah, Jane ! Jane ! men of high estate grow
tired of contentedness.
Jane. He told me he never liked books unless I read
them to him : I will read them to him every evening : I
will open new worlds to him richer than those discovered
by the Spaniard : I will conduct him to treasures, O
what treasures ! on which he may sleep in innocence and
peace.
Ascham. Rather do thou walk with him, ride with
him, play with him, be his faery, his page, his everything
that love and poetry have invented ; but watch him well ;
sport with his fancies ; turn them about like the ringlets
round his cheek ; and if ever he meditate on power, go toss
up thy baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into
his heart by the music of thy discourse.
Teach him to live unto God and unto thee; and he
will discover that women, like the plants in woods, derive
their softness and tenderness from the shade.
1 00 DRAMATIC.
XIX.
ESSEX AND SPENSER.
The poet Spenser, newly returned from Ireland after the
burning of his house and infant son, has been summoned
to confer with the Earl of Essex, who as yet is ignorant
of his misfortune.
Essex. Instantly on hearing of thy arrival from Ireland,
I sent a message to thee, good Edmund, that I might
learn from one so judicious and dispassionate as thou art,
the real state of things in that distracted country; it
having pleased the queen's majesty to think of appointing
me her deputy, in order to bring the rebellious to sub-
mission.
Spenser. Wisely and well considered ; but more worthily
of her judgment than her affection. May your lordship
overcome, as you have ever done, the difficulties and
dangers you foresee.
Essex. We grow weak by striking at random ; and
knowing that I must strike, and strike heavily, I would
fain see exactly where the stroke shall fall.
Some attribute to the Irish all sorts of excesses ; others
tell us that these are old stories ; that there is not a more
inoffensive race of merry creatures under heaven, and that
their crimes are all hatched for them here in England, by
the incubation of printers' boys, and are brought to
market at times of distressing dearth in news. From all
that I myself have seen of them, I can only say that the
civilised (I mean the richer and titled) are as susceptible of
heat as iron, and as impenetrable to light as granite. The
half barbarous are probably worse ; the utterly barbarous
may be somewhat better. Like game-cocks, they must
spur when they meet. One fights because he fights an
ESSEX AND SPENSER. IOI
Englishman; another because the fellow he quarrels
with comes from a distant county ; a third tccaivsc the
next parish is an eye-sore to him, aid jjis fis^-nate fsj'nm'
it. The only thing in which they all agree as proper law-
is the tooth for tooth act * * *
Various plans have been laid before us for civilising or
coercing them. Among the pacific, it was proposed to
make an offer to five hundred of the richer Jews in the
Hanse-towns, and in Poland, who should be raised to the
dignity of the Irish peerage, and endowed with four
thousand acres of good forfeited land, on condition of
each paying two thousand pounds, and of keeping up ten
horsemen and twenty foot, Germans or Poles, in readiness
for service.
The Catholics bear nowhere such ill-will toward Jews
as toward Protestants. Brooks make even worse neigh-
bours than oceans do.
I myself saw no objection to the measure : but our
gracious queen declared she had an insuperable one;
they stank ! We all acknowledged the strength of the
argument, and took out our handkerchiefs. Lord Burleigh
almost fainted ; and Raleigh wondered how the Emperor
Titus could bring up his men against Jerusalem.
" Ah !" said he, looking reverentially at her majesty,
"the star of Berenice shone above him! and what evil
influence could that star not quell ! What malignancy
could it not annihilate ! "
Hereupon he touched the earth with his brow until
the queen said,
" Sir Walter ! lift me up those laurels."
At which manifestation of princely good-will he was
advancing to kiss her majesty's hand, but she waved it,
and said sharply,
" Stand there, dog !"
Now what tale have you for us ?
102 DRAMATIC.
Spenser. Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer
each question distinctly, my mind being in sad confusion
at what I have seen and undergone.
Essex. Give me thy account and opinion of these very
affairs as thou leftest them ; for I would rather know one
part well, than all imperfectly ; and the violences of which
I have heard within the day surpass belief.
Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? Have the
rebels sacked thy house ?
Spenser. They have plundered and utterly destroyed it.
Essex. I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted.
Spenser. In this they have little harmed me.
Essex. How ! I have heard it reported that thy grounds
are fertile, and thy mansion large and pleasant.
Spenser. If river and lake and meadow - ground and
mountain could render any place the abode of pleasant-
ness, pleasant was mine, indeed !
On the lovely banks of Mulla I found deep content-
ment. Under the dark alders did I muse and meditate.
Innocent hopes were my gravest cares, and my play-
fullest fancy was with kindly wishes. Ah ! surely of all
cruelties the worst is to extinguish our kindness. Mine is
gone : I love the people and the land no longer. My
lord, ask me not about them ; I may speak injuriously.
Essex. Think rather then of thy happier hours and
busier occupations ; these likewise may instruct me.
Spenser. The first seeds I sowed in the garden, ere the
old castle was made habitable for my lovely bride, were
acorns from Penshurst. I planted a little oak before my
mansion at the birth of each child. My sons, I said to
myself, shall often play in the shade of them when I am
gone, and every year shall they take the measure of their
growth, as fondly as I take theirs.
Essex. Well, well ; but let not this thought make thee
weep so bitterly.
ESSEX AND SPENSER. 103
Spenser. Poison may ooze from beautiful plants ; deadly
grief from dearest reminiscences.
I must grieve ; I must weep : it seems the law of God,
and the only one that men are not disposed to contravene.
In the performance of this alone do they effectually aid
one another.
Essex. Spenser ! I wish I had at hand any arguments
or persuasions, of force sufficient to remove thy sorrow :
but really I am not in the habit of seeing men grieve at
anything, except the loss of favour at court, or of a hawk,
or of a buck hound. And were I to swear out my condol-
ences to a man of thy discernment, in the same round
roll-call phrases we employ with one another on these
occasions, I should be guilty, not of insincerity but of
insolence. True grief hath ever something sacred in it ;
and when it visiteth a wise man, and a brave, is most holy.
Nay, kiss not my hand : he whom God smiteth hatb
God with him. In his presence what am I ?
Spenser. Never so great, my lord, as at this hour, when
you see aright who is greater. May He guide your
counsels, and preserve your life and glory !
Essex. Where are thy friends ? Are they with thee ?
Spenser. Ah, where indeed ! Generous, true-hearted
Philip ! where art thou ! whose presence was unto me
peace and safety; whose smile was contentment and
whose praise renown. My lord ! I can not but think of
him among still heavier losses : he was my earliest friend,
and would have taught me wisdom.
Essex. Pastoral poetry, my dear Spenser, doth not
require tears and lamentations. Dry thine eyes ; rebuild
thine house : the queen and council, I venture to promise
thee, will make ample amends for every evil thou hast sus-
tained. What! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder ?
Spenser. Pardon me, bear with me, most noble heart ! I
have lost what no council, no queen, no Essex, can restore
104 DRAMATIC.
Essex. We will see that. There are other swords, and
other arms to wield them, beside a Leicester's and a
Raleigh's. Others can crush their enemies and serve
their friends.
Spenser. O my sweet child ! And of many so power-
ful, many so wise and so beneficent, was there none to
save thee ? None ! none !
Essex. I now perceive that thou lamentest what almost
every father is destined, to lament. Happiness must be
bought, although the payment may be delayed. Con-
sider ; the same calamity might have befallen thee here
in London. Neither the houses of ambassadors, nor the
palaces of kings, nor the altars of God himself, are
asylums against death. How do I know but under this
very roof there may sleep some latent calamity, that in
an instant shall cover with gloom every inmate of the
house, and every far dependant ?
Spenser. God avert it !
Essex. Every day, every hour of the year, do hundreds
mourn what thou mournest.
Spenser. Oh, no, no, no ! Calamities there are around
us ; calamities there are all over the earth ; calamities
there are in all seasons ; but none in any season, none in
any place, like mine.
Essex. So say all fathers, so say all husbands. Look
at any old mansion-house, and let the sun shine as glori-
ously as it may on the golden vanes, or the arms recently
quartered over the gateway, or the embayed window, and
on the happy pair that haply is toying at it ; never-
theless, thou mayest say that of a certainty the same
fabric hath seen much sorrow within its chambers, and
heard many waitings : and each time this was the heaviest
stroke of all. Funerals have passed along through
the stout-hearted knights upon the wainscot, and amid
the laughing nymphs upon the arras. Old servants
ESSEX AND SPENSER. 105
have shaken their heads, as if somebody had deceived them,
when they found that beauty and nobility could perish.
Edmund ! the things that are too true pass by us as if
they were not' true at all ; and when they have singled us
out, then only do they strike us. Thou and I must go
too. Perhaps the next year may blow us away with its
fallen leaves. 1
Spenser. For you, my lord, many years (I trust) are
waiting : I shall never see those fallen leaves. No leaf,
no bud, will spring upon the earth before I sink into her
breast for ever.
Essex. Thou, who art wiser than most men, shouldst
bear with patience, equanimity, and courage, what is
common to all.
Spenser. Enough ! enough ! enough ! Have all men
seen their infant burned to ashes before their eyes ?
Essex. Gracious God ! Merciful Father ! what is this ?
Spenser. Burned alive ! burned to ashes ! burned to
ashes ! The flames dart their serpent tongues through
the nursery-window. I cannot quit thee, my Elizabeth !
I cannot lay down our Edmund. Oh these flames !
they persecute, they enthrall me, they curl round my
temples, they hiss upon my brain, they taunt me with
their fierce foul voices, they carp at me, they wither me,
they consume me, throwing back to me a little of life, to
roll and suffer in, with their fangs upon me. Ask me,
my lord, the things you wish to know from me; I may
answer them, I am now composed again. Command me,
my gracious lord ! I would yet serve you ; soon I shall
be unable. You have stooped to raise me up ; you have
borne with me ; you have pitied me, even like one not
powerful ; you have brought me comfort, and will leave
it with me ; for gratitude is comfort.
Oh ! my memory stands all a tip -toe on one burning
1 It happened so.
1 06 DRAMATIC.
point : when it drops from it, then it perishes. Spare
me : ask me nothing ; let me weep before you in peace ;
the kindest act of greatness.
Essex, I should rather have dared to mount into the
midst of the conflagration, than I now dare intreat thee
not to weep. The tears that overflow thy heart, my
Spenser, will staunch and heal it in their sacred stream,
but not without hope in God.
Spenser. My hope in God is that I may soon see again
what he has taken from me. Amid the myriads of angels
there is not one so beautiful : and even he (if there be
any) who is appointed my guardian, could never love me
so. Ah ! these are idle thoughts, vain wanderings, dis-
tempered dreams. If there ever were guardian angels,
he who so wanted one, my helpless boy, would not have
left these arms upon my knees.
Essex. God help and sustain thee, too gentle Spenser !
I never will desert thee. But what an; I ? Great they
have called me ! Alas, how powerless then and infantile
is greatness in the presence of calamity !
Come, give me thy hand : let us walk up and down
the gallery. Bravely done ! I will envy no more a Sidney
or a Raleigh.
xx.
LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT.
Alice Lisle and Elizabeth Gaunt ', condemned to death for
sheltering the adherents of Monmouth, converse in prison
before their execution.
Lady Lisle. Madam, I am confident you will pardon
me ; for affliction teaches forgiveness.
Elizabeth Gaunt. From the cell of the condemned we
LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 107
are going, unless my hopes mislead me, where alone we
can receive it. Tell me, I beseech you, lady ! in what
matter or manner do you think you can have offended a
poor sinner such as I am. Surely we come into this
dismal place for our offences ; and it is not here that any
can be given or taken.
Lady Lisle. Just now, when I entered the prison, I saw
your countenance serene and cheerful ; you looked upon
me for a time with an unaltered eye : you turned away
from me, as I fancied, only to utter some expressions of
devotion, and again you looked upon me, and tears rolled
down your face. Alas ! that I should by any circum-
stance, any action or recollection, make another unhappy.
Alas ! that I should deepen the gloom in the very shadow
of death.
Elizabeth Gaunt. Be comforted : you have not done
it. Grief softens and melts and flows away with tears.
I wept because another was greatly more wretched than
myself. I wept at that black attire ; at that attire of
modesty and of widowhood.
Lady Lisle. It covers a wounded, almost a broken
heart : an unworthy offering to our blessed Redeemer.
Elizabeth Gaunt. In his name let us now rejoice ! Let
us offer our prayers and our thanks at once together !
We may yield up our souls perhaps at the same hour.
Lady Lisle. Is mine so pure ? Have I bemoaned as I
should have done the faults I have committed ? Have
my sighs arisen for the unmerited mercies of my God ?
and not rather for him, the beloved of my heart, the ad-
viser and sustainer I have lost !
Open, O gates of death !
Smile on me, approve my last action in this world, O
virtuous husband ! O saint and martyr ! my brave, com-
passionate, and loving Lisle !
Elizabeth Gaunt. And cannot you too smile, sweet
108 DRAMATIC.
lady? are not you with him even now? Doth body,
doth clay, doth air, separate and estrange free spirits ?
Bethink you of his gladness, of his glory; and begin to
partake them. O ! how could an Englishman, how could
twelve, condemn to death, condemn to so great an evil
as they thought it, and may find it, this innocent and
helpless widow !
Lady Lisle. Blame not that jury ! blame not the jury
which brought against me the verdict of guilty. I was
so : I received in my house a wanderer who had fought
under the rash and giddy Monmouth. He was hungry
and thirsty, and I took him in. My Saviour had com-
manded, my king had forbidden it.
Yet the twelve would not have delivered me over to
death unless the judge had threatened them with an accusa-
tion of treason in default of it. Terror made them unani-
mous : they redeemed their properties and lives at the
stated price.
Elizabeth Gaunt. I hope at least the unfortunate man,
whom you received in the hour of danger, may avoid his
penalty.
Lady Lisle. Let us hope it.
Elizabeth Gaunt. I too am imprisoned for the same
offence ; and I have little expectation that he who was
concealed by me hath any chance of happiness, although
he hath escaped. Could I find the means of conveying
to him a small pittance, I should leave the world the
more comfortably.
Lady Lisle. Trust in God ; not in one thing or another,
but in all. Resign the care of this wanderer to his guid-
ance.
Elizabeth Gaunt. He abandoned that guidance.
Lady Lisle. Unfortunate ! how can money then avail
him !
Elizabeth Gaunt. It might save him from distress and
LADY LISLE AND ELIZABETH GAUNT. 1 09
despair, from the taunts of hard-hearted and from the
inclemency of the godly.
Lady Lisle. In godliness, O my friend ! there can not
be inclemency.
Elizabeth Gaunt. You are thinking of perfection, my
dear lady ; and I marvel not at it ; for what else hath
ever occupied your thoughts ! But godliness, in almost
the best of us, often is austere, often uncompliant and
rigid, proner to reprove than to pardon, to drag back or
thrust aside than to invite and help onward.
Poor man ! I never knew him before : I cannot tell
how he shall endure his self-reproach, or whether it will
bring him to calmer thoughts hereafter.
Lady Lisle. I am not a busy idler in curiosity ; nor, if
I were, is there time enough left me for indulging in it ;
yet gladly would I learn the history of events, at the first
appearance so resembling those in mine.
Elizabeth Gaunt. The person's name I never may dis-
close ; which would be the worst thing I could betray of
the trust he placed in me. He took refuge in my humble
dwelling, imploring me in the name of Christ to harbour
him for a season. Food and raiment were afforded him
unsparingly ; yet his fears made him shiver through them.
Whatever I could urge of prayer and exhortation was not
wanting ; still, although he prayed, he was disquieted.
Soon came to my ears the declaration of the king, that
his majesty would rather pardon a rebel than the con-
cealer of a rebel. The hope was a faint one : but it was
a hope ; and I gave it him. His thanksgivings were
now more ardent, his prayers more humble, and often er
repeated. They did not strengthen his heart ; it was
unpurified and unprepared for them. Poor creature ! he
consented with it to betray me ; and I am condemned to be
burnt alive. Can we believe, can we encourage the hope,
that in his weary way through life he will find those only
110 DRAMATIC.
who will conceal from him the knowledge of this execu-
tion ? Heavily, too heavily, must it weigh on so irresolute
and infirm a breast.
Let it not move you to weeping.
Lady Lisle. It does not : oh ! it does not.
Elizabeth Gaunt. What then?
Lady Lisle. Your saintly tenderness, your heavenly
tranquillity.
Elizabeth Gaunt. No, no : abstain ! abstain ! It was
I who grieved : it was I who doubted. Let us now be
firmer : we have both the same rock to rest upon. See !
I shed no tears. I saved his life, an unprofitable and (I
fear) a joyless one : he, by God's grace, has thrown open
to me, and at an earlier hour than ever I ventured tc
expect it, the avenue to eternal bliss.
Lady Lisle. O my good angel ! that bestrewest with
fresh flowers a path already smooth and pleasant to me,
may those timorous men who have betrayed, and those
misguided ones who have prosecuted us, be conscious on
their deathbeds that we have entered it ! And they too
will at last find rest.
XXI.
PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS.
Peter the Great reprimands and orders for trial his son
Alexis , who had fled to Vienna : the Chancellor reports
the result.
Peter. And so, after flying from thy father's house, thou
hast returned again from Vienna. After this affront in
the face of Europe, thou darest to appear before me ?
Alexis. My emperor and father ! I am brought before
your majesty, not at my own desire.
PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. I I 1
Peter. I believe it well.
Alexis. I would not anger you.
Peter. What hope hadst thou, rebel, in thy flight lo
Vienna ?
Alexis. The hope of peace and privacy ; the hope of
security ; and above all things, of never more offending
you.
Peter. That hope thou hast accomplished.
Thou imaginedst then that my brother of Austria would
maintain thee at his court Speak !
Alexis. No, sir! I imagined that he would have af-
forded me a place of refuge.
Peter. Didst thou then take money with thee ?
Alexis. A few gold pieces.
Peter. How many ?
Alexis. About sixty.
Peter. He would have given thee promises for half the
money ; but the double of it does not purchase a house :
ignorant wretch !
Alexis. I knew as much as that ; although my birth
did not appear to destine me to purchase a house any-
where ; and hitherto your liberality, my father, hath sup-
plied my wants of every kind.
Peter. Not of wisdom, not of duty, not of spirit, not of
courage, not of ambition. I have educated thee among
my guards and horses, among my drums and trumpets,
among my flags and masts. When thou wert a child, and
couldst hardly walk, I have taken thee into the arsenal,
though children should not enter, according to regula-
tions ; I have there rolled cannon-balls before thee over
iron plates ; and I have shown thee bright new arms,
bayonets and sabres ; and I have pricked the back of my
hands until the blood came out in many places ; and I
have made thee lick it ; and I have then done the same
to thine. Afterward from thy tenth year, I have mixed
1 1 2 DRAMATIC.
gunpowder in thy grog ; I have peppered thy peaches ; I
have poured bilge-water (with a little good wholesome
tar in it) upon thy melons ; I have brought out girls to
mock thee and cocker thee, and talk like mariners, to
make thee braver. Nothing would do. Nay, recollect
thee ! I have myself led thee forth to the window when
fellows were hanged and shot ; and I have shown thee
every day the halves and quarters of bodies ; and I have
sent an orderly or chamberlain for the heads ; and I have
pulled the cap up from over the eyes ; and I have made
thee, in spite of thee, look steadfastly upon them ; incor-
rigible coward ! And now another word with thee
about thy scandalous flight from the palace ; in time
of quiet too ! To the point ! did my brother of Austria
invite thee? Did he, or did he not ?
Alexis. May I answer without doing an injury or dis-
service to his imperial majesty?
Peter. Thou mayest. What injury canst thou or any
one do, by the tongue, to such as he is ?
Alexis. At the moment, no ; he did not. Nor indeed
can I assert that he at any time invited me : but he said
he pitied me.
Peter. About what ? hold thy tongue : let that pass.
Princes never pity but when they would make traitors :
then their hearts grow tenderer than tripe. He pitied
thee, kind soul, when he would throw thee at thy father's
head ; but rinding thy father too strong for him, he now
commiserates the parent, laments the son's rashness and
disobedience, and would not make God angry for the
world. At first, however, there must have been some
overture on his part ; otherwise thou art too shame-faced
for intrusion. Come thou hast never had wit enough
to lie tell me the truth, the whole truth.
Alexis. He said that, if ever I wanted an asylum, his
court was open to me.
PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. 113
Peter. Open ! so is the tavern ; but folks pay for
what they get there. Open truly ! and didst thou find
it so?
Alexis. He received me kindly.
Peter. I see he did.
Alexis. Derision, O my father, is not the fate I merit.
Peter. True, true ! it was not intended.
Alexis. Kind father ! punish me then as you will.
Peter. Villain ! wouldst thou kiss my hand too ? Art
thou ignorant that the Austrian threw thee away from
him, with the same indifference as he would the outermost
leaf of a sandy sunburnt lettuce ?
Alexis. Alas ! I am not ignorant of this.
Peter. He dismissed thee at my order. If I had de-
manded from him his daughter, to be the bed-fellow of a
Kalmuc, he would have given her, and praised God.
Alexis. O father ! is his baseness my crime ?
Peter. No ; thine is greater. Thy intention, I know,
is to subvert the institutions it has been the labour of my
lifetime to establish. Thou hast never rejoiced at my
victories.
Alexis. I have rejoiced at your happiness and your
safety.
Peter. Liar ! coward ! traitor ! when the Polanders and
Swedes fell before me, didst thou from thy soul congratu-
late me ? Didst thou get drunk at home or abroad, or
praise the Lord of Hosts and Saint Nicolas ? Wert thou
not silent and civil and low-spirited ?
Alexis. I lamented the irretrievable loss of human life ;
I lamented that the bravest and noblest were swept away
the first ; that the gentlest and most domestic were the
earliest mourners; that frugality was supplanted by in-
temperance ; that order was succeeded by confusion ; and
that your Majesty was destroying the glorious plans you
alone were capable of devising.
I
114 DRAMATIC.
Peter. I destroy them ! how ? Of what plans art thou
speaking ?
Alexis. Of civilising the Muscovites. The Polanders
in part were civilised : the Swedes more than any other
nation on the continent ; and so excellently versed were
they in military science, and so courageous, that every
man you killed cost you seven or eight.
Peter. Thou liest : nor six. And civilised forsooth !
Why, the robes of the Metropolitan, him at Upsal, are
not worth three ducats, between Jew and Livornese. I
have no notion that Poland and Sweden shall be the
only countries that produce great princes. What right
have they to such as Gustavus and Sobieski? Europe
ought to look to this, before discontent becomes general,
and the people does to us what we have the privilege of
doing to the people. I am wasting my words : there is
no arguing with positive fools like thee. So thou wouldst
have desired me to let the Polanders and Swedes lie still
and quiet ! Two such powerful nations !
Alexis. For that reason and others I would have gladly
seen them rest, until our own people had increased in
numbers and prosperity.
Peter. And thus thou disputest my right, before my
face, to the exercise of the supreme power.
Alexis. Sir ! God forbid !
Peter. God forbid indeed ! What care such villains as
thou art what God forbids ! He forbids the son to be
disobedient to the father : he forbids he forbids twenty
things. I do not wish, and will not have, a successor
who dreams of dead people.
Alexis. My father ! I have dreamt of none such.
Peter. Thou hast ; and hast talked about them
Scythians I think they call 'em. Now who told thee,
Mr. Professor, that the Scythians were a happier people
than we are ; that they were inoffensive ; that they were
PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. I 1 5
free ; that they wandered with their carts from pasture to
pasture, from river to river ; that they traded with good
faith ; that they fought with good courage ; that they in-
jured none, invaded none, and feared none ? At this rate
I have effected nothing. The great founder of Rome, I
heard in Holland, slew his brother for despiting the
weakness of his walls : and shall the founder of this
better place spare a degenerate son, who prefers a vaga-
bond life to a civilised one, a cart to a city, a Scythian to
a Muscovite ? Have I not shaved my people, and breeched
them ? Have I not formed them into regular armies, with
bands of music and havresacs? Are bows better than
cannon, shepherds than dragoons, mare's milk than brandy,
raw steaks than broiled ? Thine are tenets that strike at
the root of politeness and sound government. Every
prince in Europe is interested in rooting them out by fire
and sword. There is no other way with false doctrines :
breath against breath does little.
Alexis. Sire, I never have attempted to disseminate my
opinions.
Peter. How couldst thou? the seed would fall only
on granite. Those, however, who caught it brought it
to me.
Alexis. Never have I undervalued civilisation : on the
contrary, I regretted whatever impeded it. In my
opinion, the evils that have been attributed to it, sprang
from its imperfections and voids ; and no nation has yet
acquired it more than very scantily.
Peter. How so ? give me thy reasons ; thy fancies
rather ; for reason thou hast none.
Alexis. When I find the first of men, in rank and
genius, hating one another, and becoming slanderers and
liars in order to lower and vilify an opponent ; when I
hear the God of mercy invoked to massacres, and thanked
for furthering what he reprobates and condemns ; I look
1 1 6 DRAMATIC.
back in vain on any barbarous people for worse barbarism,
I have expressed my admiration of our forefathers, who,
not being Christians, were yet more virtuous than those
who are ; more temperate, more just, more sincere, more
chaste, more peaceable.
Peter. Malignant atheist !
Alexis. Indeed, my father, were I malignant I must be
an atheist ; 'for malignity is contrary to the command,
and inconsistent with the belief, of God.
Peter. Am I Czar of Muscovy, and hear discourses on
reason and religion ! from my own son too ! No, by the
Holy Trinity ! thou art no son of mine. If thou touchest
my knee again, I crack thy knuckles with this tobacco-
stopper : I wish it were a sledge-hammer for thy sake.
Off, sycophant! off, run-away slave!
Alexis. Father ! father ! my heart is broken ! If I
have offended, forgive me !
Peter. The state requires thy signal punishment.
Alexis. If the state requires it, be it so : but let my
father's anger cease.
Peter. The world shall judge between us. I will
brand thee with infamy.
Alexis. Until now, O father ! I never had a proper
sense of glory. Hear me, O Czar ! let not a thing so vile
as I am stand between you and the world ! Let none
accuse you !
Peter. Accuse me ! rebel ! Accuse me ! traitor !
Alexis. Let none speak ill of you, O my father ! The
public voice shakes the palace ; the public voice pene-
trates the grave ; it precedes the chariot of Almighty God,
and is heard at the judgment seat.
Peter Let it go to the devil ! I will have none of it
here in Petersburgh. Our church says nothing about it ;
our laws forbid it. As for thee, unnatural brute, I have
no more to do with thee neither !
PETER THE GREAT AND ALEXIS. I 1 7
Ho there ! Chancellor ! What ! come at last ! Wert
napping, or counting thy ducats ?
Chancellor (entering). Your Majesty's will and pleasure !
Peter. Is the Senate assembled in that room ?
Chancellor. Every member, sire.
Peter. Conduct this youth with thee, and let them
judge him : thou understandest me.
Chancellor. Your Majesty's commands are the breath
of our nostrils.
Peter. If these rascals are remiss, I will try my new
cargo of Livonian hemp upon 'em.
Chancellor (returning after an interval). Sire ! sire !
Peter. Speak, fellow ! Surely they have not condemned
him to death, without giving themselves time to read the
accusation, that comest back so quickly.
Chancellor. No, sire ! nor has either been done,
Peter. Then thy head quits thy shoulders.
Chancellor. O sire !
Peter. Curse thy silly sires ! What art thou about ?
Chancellor. Alas ! he fell.
Peter. Tie him up to thy chair then. Cowardly beast !
what made him fall ?
Chancellor. The hand of Death ; the name of father.
Peter. Thou puzzlest me ; prythee speak plainer.
Chancellor. We told him that his crime was proven
and manifest ; that his life was forfeited.
Peter. So far, well enough.
Chancellor. He smiled.
Peter. He did ! did he 1 Impudence shall do him
little good. Who could have expected it from that
smock-face ! Go on : what then ?
Chancellor. He said calmly, but not without sighing
twice or thrice, "Lead me to the scaffold : I am weary
of life : nobody loves me." I condoled with him, and
wept upon his hand, holding the paper against my bosom.
I 1 8 DRAMATIC.
He took the corner of it between his fingers, and said,
" Read me this paper : read my death-warrant. Your
silence and tears have signified it; yet the law has its
forms. Do not keep me in suspense. My father says,
too truly, I am not courageous : but the death that leads
me to my God shall never terrify me."
Peter. I have seen these white-livered knaves die reso-
lutely : I have seen them quietly fierce like white ferrets,
with their watery eyes and tiny teeth. You read it ?
Chancellor. In part, sire ! When he heard your Majesty's
name, accusing him of treason and attempts at rebellion
and parricide, he fell speechless. We raised him up : he
was motionless : he was dead !
Peter. Inconsiderate and barbarous varlet as thou art,
dost thou recite this ill accident to a father ! and to one
who has not dined ! Bring me a glass of brandy.
Chancellor. And it please your Majesty, might I call a
a
Peter. Away, and bring it : scamper ! All equally
and alike shall obey and serve me.
Harkye ! bring the bottle with it : I must cool myself
and harkye ! a rasher of bacon on thy life ! and some
pickled sturgeon, and some krout and caviar, and pood
strong cheese.
NARRATIVE.
THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAR.
Gebir, a prince of Spain, meets and falls in love with
his enemy Charoba, Queen of Egypt, -whose country
he has invaded in revenge for ancestral wrongs. He
sets o^tt to confide his passion to his shepherd brother
Tamar. Tamar on his part discloses his own love for
a sea-nymph, who in the guise of a sailor had cliallengeA
him to wrestle and overthrown him.
GEBIR, at Egypt's youthful queen's approach,
Laid by his orbed shield ; his vizor-helm,
His buckler and his corslet he laid by,
And bade that none attend him ; at his side
Two faithful dogs that urge the silent course,
Shaggy, deep-chested, crouch'd ; the crocodile,
Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid ears
And push their heads within their master's hand.
There was a brightening paleness in his face,
Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks
Shower'd on the lonely Latmian ; on his brow
Sorrow there was, yet nought was there severe.
But when the royal damsel first he saw,
Faint, hanging on her handmaid, and her knees
Tottering as from the motion of the car,
His eyes look'd earnest on her, and those eyes
Show'd, if they had not, that they might have, loved,
120 NARRATIVE.
For there was pity in them at that hour.
With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks,
He sooth'd her ; but lest Pity go beyond
And cross' d Ambition lose her lofty aim,
Bending, he kiss'd her garment, and retired.
He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry noon,
When viands, couches, generous wines, persuade,
And slumber most refreshes ; nor at night,
When heavy dews are laden with disease,
And blindness waits not there for lingering age.
Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he arrived
At those rich meadows where young Tamar fed
The royal flocks entrusted to his care.
" Now," said he to himself, "will I repose
At least this burthen on a brother's breast."
His brother stood before him : he, amazed,
Rear'd suddenly his head, and thus began.
" Is it thou, brother? Tamar, is it thou?
Why, standing on the valley's utmost verge,
Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore
Where beyond sight Nile blackens all the sand ?
And why that sadness ? When I past our sheep
The dew-drops were not shaken off the bar,
Therefore if one be wanting, 'tis untold. "
"Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold,"
Said Tamar ; "and this dull and dreary shore
Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours."
Whereon the tear stole silent down his cheek,
Silent, but not by Gebir unobserved :
Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake.
" Let me approach thee ; does the morning light
Scatter this wan suffusion o'er thy brow,
This faint blue lustre under both thine eyes ?"
" O brother, is this pity or reproach ?"
Cried Tamar, "cruel if it be reproach,
THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAR. 121
If pity, O how vain !" " Whate'er it be
That grieves thee, I will pity, thou but speak,
And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang."
" Gebir ! then more than brothers are we now !
Everything (take my hand) will I confess.
I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold ;
How can I, lost in love ? But, Gebir, why
That anger which has risen to your cheek ?
Can other men ? could you ? what, no reply !
And still more anger, and still worse conceal'd !
Are these your promises? your pity this?"
"Tamar, I well may pity what I feel
Mark me aright I feel for thee proceed
Relate me all." "Then will I all relate,"
Said the young shepherd, gladden'd from his heart.
" 'Twas evening, though not sunset, and the tide
Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher
Twas pleasant, and I loosen'd from my neck
The pipe you gave me, and began to play.
that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art !
It always brings us enemies or love.
Well, I was playing, when above the waves
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ;
I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe
Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed.
Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine !
1 cannot wait describing how she came,
How I was sitting, how she first assumed
The Sailor ; of what happen'd there remains
Enough to say, and too much to forget.
The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank
Before I was aware ; for with surprise
Moments fly rapid as with love itself.
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed,
I heard a rustling, and where that arose
OF
122 NARRATIVE.
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet.
Her feet resembled those long shells explored
By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye.
Her eyes too ! O immortal gods ! her eyes
Resembled what could they resemble ? what
Ever resemble those ? Even her attire
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art :
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod,
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene.
* Shepherd,' said she, 'and will you wrestle no*.v..
And with the sailor's hardier race engage ? '
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived
How to keep up contention : could I fail
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ?
' Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,
Or whether of the hardier race you boast,
I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage.'
'But first,' said she, 'what wager will you lay?'
'A sheep,' I answered : ' add whate'er you will.*
' I cannot,' she replied, ' make that return :
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave :
Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
And I have others given me by the nymphs,
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have ;
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend ;
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
THE LOVES OF GEBIR AND OF TAMAR. 123
Now came she forward eager to engage,
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd,
And heaved it, doubting if she could deceive.
Her bosom seem'd, inclosed in haze like heaven,
To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined :
Above her knee she drew the robe succinct,
Above her breast, and just below her arms.
* This will preserve my breath when tightly bound,
If struggle and equal strength should so constrain. '
Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake,
And, rushing at me, closed : I thrill'd throughout
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold.
Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood,
And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd,
I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein,
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air.
Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms
I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined :
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside and trembled till replaced :
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd
That life was almost quivering on my lips.
Yet nothing was there painful : these are signs
Of secret arts and not of human might ;
What arts I cannot tell ; I only know
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength decay'd ;
I was indeed o'ercome with what regret,
And more, with what confusion, when I reach'd
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried,
* This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.'
She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip,
And eyes that languish'd, lengthening, just like love.
124 NARRATIVE.
She went away ; I on the wicker gate
Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone.
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip,
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd,
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down the tide ;
And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand
Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd. "
XXIII.
THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS.
Dalica, the nurse of Charoba, repairs by night to her nath\
city ofMasar, to concoct an incantation against Gebir,
and encounters her sister Myrthyr among the ruins.
ONCE a fair city, courted then by kings,
Mistress of nations, throng'd by palaces,
Raising her head o'er destiny, her face
Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresh'd,
Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth,
Bereft of beauty, bare of ornament,
Stood, in the wilderness of woe, Masar.
Ere far advancing, all appear'd a plain ;
Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced :
Her glory so gone down, at human step
The fierce hyaena frighted from the walls
Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed,
THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS. 125
Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired.
Yet were remaining some of ancient race,
And ancient arts were now their sole delight.
With Time's first sickle they had mark'd the hour
When at their incantation would the Moon
Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted light.
The rifted rays they gather'd, and immersed
In potent portion of that wondrous wave,
Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect,
And led her armies through his crystal gates.
Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none)
Hied the Masarian Dalica : 'twas night,
And the still breeze fell languid on the waste.
She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts,
Stopp'd ; and before the city she descried
A female form emerge above the sands :
Intent she fix'd her eyes, and on herself
Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way ;
Nor disappear'd the woman ; but exclaim'd,
(One hand retaining tight her folded vest)
" Stranger ! who loathest life, there lies Masar.
Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn
The cormorant in his solitary haunt
Of insulated rock or sounding cove
Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for prey,
My lips can scatter them o'er every sea
Under the rising and the setting sun,
So shrivell'd in one breath as all the sands
We tread on, could not in a hundred years.
Wretched who die nor raise their sepulchre !
Therefore begone. " But Dalica unawed,
(Though in her wither'd but still firm right hand,
Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep,
Glimmer' d her brazen sickle, and enclosed
Within its figured curve the fading moon)
126 NARRATIVE.
Spake thus aloud. " By yon bright orb of Heaven,
In that most sacred moment when her beam
(Guided first thither by the forked shaft,)
Strikes thro' the crevice of Arishtah's tower "
" Sayest thou?" astonished cried the sorceress,
" Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death,
From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss,
Hast thou invisible that spell o'erheard ?
What potent hand hath touched thy quicken'd corse,
What song dissolved thy cerements ? who unclosed
Those faded eyes, and fill'd them from the stars ?
But if with inextinguish'd light of life
Thou breathest, soul and body unamerced,
Then whence that invocation ? who hath dared
Those hallow'd words, divulging, to profane?"
Dalica cried, " To heaven not earth address'd
Prayers for protection cannot be profane. "
Here the pale sorceress turn'd her face aside
Wildly, and mutter' d to herself amazed,
" I dread her who, alone at such an hour,
Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine
The words of reason with our gifted rites.
Yet will I speak once more. If thou hast seen
The city of Charoba, hast thou marked
The steps of Dalica?"
" What then?"
" The tongue
Of Dalica has then our rites divulged."
"Whose rites?"
"Her mother's."
" Never. "
" One would think,
Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica."
* ' I am ;
Woman ! and who art thou?"
THE MEETING OF THE WEIRD SISTERS. 127
With close embrace
Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried,
" Art thou then not my sister? ah ! I fear
The golden lamps and jewels of a court
Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity :
O Dalica ! mine watch the waning moon,
For ever patient in our mother's art,
And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts
Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power :
Studies intense of stern and strong delight !
And thou too, Dalica, so many years
Wean'd from the bosom of thy native land,
Returnest back and seekest true repose.
O what more pleasant than the short-breath'd sigh
When, laying down your burthen at the gate
And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace
The cool and quiet of a homespun bed."
"Alas!" said Dalica, " tho' all commend
This choice, and many meet with no control,
Yet none pursue it ! Age by care oppress'd
Feels for the couch and drops into the grave.
The tranquil scene lies further still from Youth :
Frenzied Ambition and desponding Love
Consume Youth's fairest flowers ; compared with Youth
Age has a something something like repose.
Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary
Like the horizon, which, as you advance,
Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes :
But mind my errand, and my suit perform."
128 NARRATIVE.
THE MARRIAGE MORNING.
Gebir and Charoba are to be united in the presence of tfoir
respective hosts. TJie poet describes the excitement in
the camp and in the city, and how the bridegroom ana
bride severally rise and begin the day.
THE long awaited day at last arrived,
When, link'd together by the seven-arm'd Nile,
Egypt with proud Iberia should unite.
Here the Tartessian, there the Gadite tents
Rang with impatient pleasure : here engaged
Woody Nebrissa's quiver-bearing crew,
Contending warm with amicable skill ;
While they of Durius raced along the beach
And scatter'd mud and jeers on all behind.
The strength of Baetis too removed the helm
And stripp'd the corslet off, and stanch'd the foot
Against the mossy maple, while they tore
Their quivering lances from the hissing wound.
Others push forth the prows of their compeers,
And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak,
Swells up the sides, and closes far astern :
The silent oars now dip their level wings,
And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave.
Others, afraid of tardiness, return :
Now, entering the still harbour, every surge
Runs with a louder murmur up their keel,
And the slack cordage rattles round the mast.
Sleepless with pleasure and expiring fears
Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn,
THE MARRIAGE MORNING. I2Q
And o'er the plains appointed for the feast
Hurried with ardent step : the swains admired
What so transversely could have swept the dew :
For never long one path had Gebir trod,
Nor long unheeding man one pace preserved.
Not thus Charoba : she despair'd the day :
The day was present ; true ; yet she despair'd.
In the too tender and once tortured heart
Doubts gather strength from habit, like disease ;
Fears, like the needle verging to the pole,
Tremble and tremble into certainty.
How often, when her maids with merry voice
Call'd her and told the sleepless queen 'twas morn,
How often would she feign some fresh delay,
And tell them (though they saw) that she arose.
Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors,
A bath of purest marble, purest wave,
On its fair surface bore its pavement high :
Arabian gold enchased the crystal roof,
With fluttering boys adorn' d and girls unrobed :
These, when you touch the quiet water, start
From their aerial sunny arch, and pant
Entangled mid each other's flowery wreaths,
And each pursuing is in turn pursued.
Here came at last, as ever wont at morn,
Charoba : long she linger'd at the brink ;
Often she sigh'd, and, naked as she was,
Sate down, and leaning on the couch's edge
On the soft inward pillow of her arm
Rested her burning cheek : she moved her eyes :
She blush'd ; and blushing plunged into the wave.
Now brazen chariots thunder through each street
And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay,
While o'er the palace breathes the dulcimer,
Lute, and aspiring harp, and lisping reed ;
K
130 NARRATIVE.
Loud rush the trumpets bursting through the throng
And urge the high-shoulder'd vulgar ; now are heard
Curses and quarrels and constricted blows,
Threats and defiance and suburban war.
Hark ! the reiterated clangour sounds !
Now murmurs like the sea or like the storm
Or like the flames on forests, move and mount
From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll,
Till all the people is one vast applause.
Yes, 'tis herself, Charoba now the strife
To see again a form so often seen !
Feel they some partial pang, some secret void,
Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again ?
Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight
To reproduce in hour of bitterness ?
She goes, the king awaits her from the camp :
Him she descried, and trembled ere he reach' d
Her car, but shudder'd paler at his voice.
So the pale silver at the festive board
Grows paler fill'd afresh and dew'd with wine ;
So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring
To whiten, bending from a balmy gale.
xxv.
THE DEATH OF CHRYSAOR.
Neptune, at the request of Jove, severs the rock of Cades
from the mainland in order to chastise tJie insolence of
the Iberian king, Chrysaor.
THOUGH seated then on Afric's further coast,
Yet sudden, at his voice, so long unheard,
(For he had griev'd, and treasured ap his grief)
With short kind greeting meet from every side
THE DEATH OF CHRYSAOR. 131
The Triton herds, and warm with melody
The azure concave of their curling shells.
Swift as an arrow, as the wind, as light,
He glided through the deep, and now arrived,
Leapt from his pearly beryl-studded car.
Earth trembled ; the retreating tide, black-brow'd,
Gather'd new strength, and rushing on, assail'd
The promontory's base ; but when the god
Himself, resistless Neptune, struck one blow,
Rent were the rocks asunder, and the sky
Was darkened with their fragments ere they fell.
Lygeia vocal, Xantho yellow-haired,
Spio with sparkling eyes, and Beroe
Demure, and sweet lone, youngest born,
Of mortal race, but grown divine by -song
Had you seen playing round her placid neck
The sunny circles, braidless and unbound,
O ! who had call'd them boders of a storm ?
These and the many sister Nereids,
Forgetful of their lays and of their loves,
All, unsuspicious of the dread intent,
Stop suddenly their gambols, and with shrieks
Of terror plunge amid the closing wave.
Still, just above, one moment more, appear
Their darken'd tresses floating in the foam.
Thrown prostrate on the earth, the Sacrilege
Rais'd up his head astounded, and accurs'd
The stars, the destinies, the gods his breast
Panted from consternation and dismay,
And pride untoward, on himself o'erthrown.
From his distended nostrils issued gore,
At intervals, wherewith his wiry locks,
Huge arms, and bulky bosom, shone beslimed :
And thrice he call'd his brethren, with a voice
More dismal than the blasts from Phlegethon
132 NARRATIVE.
Below, that urge along ten thousand ghosts
Wafted loud-wailing o'er the fiery tide.
".",-.*
Shrunken mid brutal hair his violent veins
Subsided, yet were hideous to behold
As dragons panting in the noontide brake.
At last, absorbing deep the breath of heaven,
And stifling all within his deadly grasp,
Struggling, and tearing up the glebe to turn ;
And from a throat that, as it throbb'd and rose,
Seem'd shaking ponderous links of dusky iron,
Uttering one anguish-forced indignant groan,
Fired with infernal rage, the spirit flew.
XXVI.
THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE.
WHO will away to Athens with me ? who
Loves choral songs and maidens crown'd with flowers,
Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist the sail.
I promise ye, as many as are here,
Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard or a plant ill pruned,
But such as anciently the ^Egean isles
Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts :
And the same goblets shall ye grasp, emboss'd
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have lived with and have led.
The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail
Plays yonder ? What pursues it ? Like two hawks
Away they fly. Let us away in time
To overtake them. Are they menaces
THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE. 133
We hear ? And shall the strong repulse the weak,
Enraged at her defender ? Hippias !
Art thou the man ? 'Twas Hippias. He had found
His sister borne from the Cecropian port
By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly ?
Ask, ask the maiden ; I have no reply.
"Brother! O brother Hippias ! O, if love,
If pity, ever touch'd thy breast, forbear !
Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved,
My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone
Protecting his own head and mine from harm."
"Didst thou not once before," cried Hippias,
Regardless of his sister, hoarse with wrath
At Thrasymedes, " didst not thou, dog-eyed,
Dare, as she walk'd up to the Parthenon,
On the most holy of all holy days,
In sight of all the city, dare to kiss
Her maiden cheek ? "
"Ay, before all the gods,
Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis,
Ay, before Aphrodite, before Here,
I dared ; and dare again. Arise, my spouse !
Arise ! and let my lips quaff purity
From thy fair open brow. "
The sword was up,
And yet he kiss'd her twice. Some God withheld
The arm of Hippias ; his proud blood seeth'd slower
And smote his breast less angrily ; he laid
His hand on the white shoulder, and spake thus :
" Ye must return with me. A second time
Offended, will our sire Peisistratos
Pardon the affront ? Thou shouldst have ask'd thyself
This question ere the sail first flapp'd the mast."
" Already thou hast taken life from me ;
Put up thy sword," said the sad youth, his eyes
134 NARRATIVE.
Sparkling ; but whether love or rage or grief
They sparkled with, the gods alone could see.
Peirseeus they re-enter'd, and their ship
Drove up the little waves against the quay,
Whence was thrown out a rope from one above,
And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's waist
Her lover dropp'd his arm and blush'd to think
He had retain'd it there in sight of rude
Irreverent men : he led her forth, nor spake.
Hippias walk'd silent too, until they reach'd
The mansion of Peisistratos her sire.
Serenely in his sternness did the prince
Look on them both awhile : they saw not him,
For both had cast their eyes upon the ground.
" Are these the pirates thou hast taken, son?"
Said he.
"Worse, father! worse than pirates they
Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse
Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites
Twice over."
" Well hast thou performed thy duty,' ;
Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos.
" Nothing then, rash young man ! could turn thy heart
From Eunoe, my daughter ? "
' ' Nothing, sir,
Shall ever turn it. I can die but once
And love but once. O Eunoe ! farewell ! "
" Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her."
" O father ! shut me in my chamber, shut me
In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive,
But never let me see what he can bear ;
I know how much that is, when borne for me. "
" Not yet : come on. And lag not thou behind,
Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts !
Before the people and before the goddess
ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. 135
Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion,
And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness,
To poverty and exile, this my child."
Then shudder'd Thrasymedes, and exclaim'd,
" I see my crime : I saw it not before.
The daughter of Peisistratos was born
Neither for exile nor for poverty,
Ah ! nor for me ! " He would have wept, but one
Might see him, and weep worse. The prince unmoved
Strode on, and said, "To-morrow shall the people,
All who beheld thy trespasses, behold
The justice of Peisistratos, the love
He bears his daughter, and the reverence
In which he holds the highest law of God."
He spake ; and on the morrow they were one.
ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA.
A VISION came o'er three young men at once,
A vision of Apollo : each had heard
The same command ; each followed it ; all three
Assembled on one day before the god
In Lycia, where he gave his oracle.
Bright shone the morning ; and the birds that build
Their nests beneath the column-heads of fanes
And eaves of humbler habitations, dropp'd
From under them and wheel'd athwart the sky,
When, silently and reverently, the youths
March'd side by side up the long steps that led
Toward the awful god who dwelt within.
Of those three youths fame hath held fast the name
136 NARRATIVE.
Of one alone ; nor would that name survive
Unless Love had sustain'd it, and blown off
With his impatient breath the mists of time.
"Ye come," the god said mildly, "of one will
To people what is desert in the isle
Of Lemnos. But strong men possess its shores j
Nor shall you execute the brave emprise
Unless, on the third day from going forth,
To him who rules the waters ye devote
A virgin, cast into the sea alive."
They heard, and look'd in one another's face,
And then bent piously before the shrine
With prayer and praises and thanksgiving hymn,
And, after a short silence, went away,
Taking each other's hand and swearing truth,
Then to the ship in which they came, return'd.
Two of the youths were joyous, one was sad ;
Sad was Enallos ; yet those two by none
Were loved ; Enallos had already won
Cymodameia, and the torch was near.
By night, by day, in company, alone,
The image of the maiden fill'd his breast
To the heart's brim. Ah ! therefore did that heart
So sink within him.
They have sail'd ; they reach
Their home again. Sires, matrons, maidens, throng
The plashing port, to watch the gather'd sail,
And who springs first and farthest upon shore.
Enallos came the latest from the deck.
Swift ran the rumour what the god had said,
And fearful were the maidens, who before
Had urged the sailing of the youths they loved,
That they might give their hands, and have their homes,
And nurse their children ; and more thoughts perhaps
Led up to these, and even ran before.
ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. 137
But they persuaded easily their wooers
To sail without them, and return again
When they had seized the virgin on the way.
Cymodr.meia dreamt three nights, the three
Before their fresh departure, that her own
Enallos had been cast into the deep,
And she had saved him.
She alone embark' d
Of all the maidens, and unseen by all,
And hid herself before the break of day
Among the cloaks and fruits piled high aboard.
But when the noon was come, and the repast
Was call'd for, there they found her, and they call'd
Enallos : when Enallos look'd upon her,
Forebodings shook him : hopes rais'd her, and love
Warm'd the clear cheek while she wiped off the spray
Kindly were all to her and dutiful ;
And she slept soundly mid the leaves of figs
And vines, and far as far could be apart.
Now the third morn had risen, and the day
Was dark, and gusts of wind and hail and fogs
Perplex'd them : land they saw not yet nor knew,
Where land was lying. Sudden lightnings blazed,
Thunder-claps rattled round them. The pale crew
Howl'd for the victim. " Seize her, or we sink."
O maid of Pindus ! I would linger here
To lave my eyelids at the nearest rill,
For thou hast made me weep, as oft thou hast,
Where thou and I, apart from living men,
And two or three crags higher, sate and sang.
Ah ! must I, seeing ill my way, proceed ?
And thy voice too, Cymodameia ! thine
Comes back upon me, helpless as thyself
In this extremity. Sad words ! sad words !
* ' O save me ! save ! Let me not die so young !
138 NARRATIVE.
Loving thee so ! Let me not cease to see thee ! "
Thus prayed Cymodameia.
Thus prayed he :
" O God ! who givest light to all the world,
Take not from me what makes that light most blest !
Grant me, if 'tis forbidden me to save
This hapless helpless sea-devoted maid,
To share with her (and bring no curses up
From outraged Neptune) her appointed fate ! "
They wrung her from his knee ; they hurl'd her down
(Clinging in vain at the hard slippery pitch)
Into the whitening wave. But her long hair
Scarcely had risen up again, before
Another plunge was heard, another form
Clove the straight line of bubbling foam, direct
As ringdove after ringdove. Groans from all
Burst, for the roaring sea engulph'd them both.
Onward the vessel flew ; the skies again
Shone bright, and thunder roll'd along, not wroth,
But gently murmuring to the white-wing'd sails.
Lemnos at close of evening was in sight.
The shore was won ; the fields mark'd out ; and roofs
Collected the dun wings that seek house-fare ;
And presently the ruddy-bosom'd guest
Of winter, knew the doors : then infant cries
Were heard within ; and lastly, tottering steps
Patter'd along the image-station'd hall.
Ay, three full years had come and gone again,
And often, when the flame on windy nights
Suddenly flicker'd from the mountain-ash
Piled high, men push'd almost from under them
The bench on which they talk'd about the dead.
Meanwhile beneficent Apollo saw
With his bright eyes into the sea's calm depth,
And there he saw Enallos, there he saw
ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA. 139
Cymodameia. Gravely-gladsome light
Environed them with its eternal green :
And many nymphs sate round : one blew aloud
The spiral shell ; one drew bright chords across
Shell more expansive ; tenderly a third
With cowering lip hung o'er the flute, and stopp'd
At will its dulcet sob, or waked to joy ;
A fourth took up the lyre and pinch'd the strings,
Invisible by trembling : many rais'd
Clear voices. Thus they spent their happy hours.
I know them all ; but all with eyes downcast,
Conscious of loving, have entreated me,
I would not utter now their names above.
Behold, among these natives of the sea,
There stands but one young man : how fair ! how fond !
Ah ! were he fond, to them I It may not be !
Yet did they tend him morn and eve ; by night
They also watch'd his slumbers : then they heard
His sighs, nor his alone ; for there were two
To whom the watch was hateful. In despair
Upward he rais'd his arms, and thus he prayed.
" O Phoebus ! on the higher world alone
Showerest thou all thy blessings ? Great indeed
Hath been thy favour to me, great to her ;
But she pines inly, and calls beautiful
More than herself the nymphs she sees around,
And asks me, * Are they not more beautiful ?'
Be all more beautiful, be all more blest,
But not with me ! Release her from the sight ;
Restore her to a happier home, and dry
With thy pure beams, above, her bitter tears !"
She saw him in the action of his prayer,
Troubled, and ran to soothe him. From the ground
Ere she had clasp'd his neck, her feet were borne.
He caught her robe ; and its white radiance rose
140 NARRATIVE.
Rapidly, all day long, through the green sea.
Enallos loos'd not from that robe his grasp,
But spann'd one ankle too. The swift ascent
Had stunn'd them into slumber, sweet, serene,
Invigorating her, nor letting loose
The lover's arm below ; albeit at last
It closed those eyes intently fix'd thereon,
And still as fix'd in dreaming. Both were cast
Upon an island till'd by peaceful men
And few, no port nor road accessible,
Fruitful and green as the abode they left,
And warm with summer, warm with love and song.
'Tis said that some, whom most Apollo loves,
Have seen that island guided by his light ;
And others have gone near it, but a fog
Rose up between them and the lofty rocks ;
Yet they relate they saw it quite as well,
And shepherd-boys and pious hinds believe.
XXVIII.
THE HAMADRYAD.
RHAICOS was born amid the hills wherefrom
Gnidos the light of Caria is discern'd,
And small are the white-crested that play near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd
With rose and myrtle if they were inborn ;
If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast
Where stern Athene rais'd her citadel,
Then olive was entwined with violets
Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large ;
For various men wore various coronals,
But one was their devotion ; 'twas to her
THE HAMADRYAD. 141
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws
The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from Zeus,
And whom in his chill caves the mutable
Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres,
And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath pray'd
To turn in pity the averted cheek
Of her he bore away, with promises,
Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx itself,
To give her daily more and sweeter flowers
Than he made drop from her on Enna's dell.
Rhaicos was looking from his father's door
At the long trains that hastened to the town
From all the valleys, like bright rivulets
Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning wave,
And thought it hard he might not also go
And offer up one prayer, and press one hand,
He knew not whose. The father call'd him in
And said, " Son Rhaicos ! those are idle games \
Long enough I have lived to find them so."
And ere he ended, sighed ; as old men do
Always, to think how idle such games are.
'* I have not yet," thought Rhaicos in his heart,
And wanted proof.
' ' Suppose thou go and help
Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak
And lop its branches off, before we delve
About the trunk and ply the root with axe :
This we may do in winter."
Rhaicos went ;
For thence he could see farther, and see more
Of those who hurried to the city-gate.
Echion he found there, with naked arm
Swart-hair'd, strong-sinew'd, and his eyes intent
Upon the place where first the axe should fall :
He held it upright. ' ' There are bees about,
142 NARRATIVE.
Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious eld,
'* Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The youth
Inclined his ear, afar, and warily,
And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a buzz
At first, and then the sound grew soft and clear,
And then divided into what seem'd tune,
And there were words upon it, plaintive words.
He turn'd, and said, " Echion ! do not strike
That tree : it must be hollow ; for some god
Speaks from within. Come thyself near." Again
Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! there sat
Upon the moss below, with her two palms
Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form.
Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale
Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display 'd
Berries of colour like her lip so pure,
Nor were the anemones about her hair
Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face beneath.
" What dost thou here ?" Echion, half-afraid,
Half-angry cried. She lifted up her eyes,
But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one step
Backward, for fear came likewise over him,
But not such fear : he panted, gasp'd, drew in
His breath, and would have turn'd it into words,
But could not into one.
" O send away
That sad old man ! " said she. The old man went
Without a warning from his master's son,
Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd,
And the axe shone behind him in their eyes.
Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the most
innocent
Of blood ? No vow demands it ; no god wills
The oak to bleed.
Rhaicos. Who art thou ? whence ? why here ?
THE HAMADRYAD. 143
And whither wouldst thou go ? Among the robed
In white or saffron, or the hue that most
Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none
Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful
As that gray robe which clings about thee close,
Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to trees,
Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn,
As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the boughs
Of graceful platan by the river-side ?
Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's hoine ?
Rhaicos. Indeed
I love it, well I love it, yet would leave
For thine, where'er it be, my father's house,
With all the marks upon the door, that show
My growth at every birthday since the third,
And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes,
My mother nail'd for me against my bed,
And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt see)
Won in my race last spring from Eutychos.
Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave a home
Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day.
Rhaicos. No, 'tis not hard to leave it : 'tis not hard
To leave, O maiden, that paternal home
If there be one on earth whom we may love
First, last, for ever ; one who says that she
Will love for ever too. To say which word,
Only to say it, surely is enough.
It shows such kindness if 'twere possible
We at the moment think she would indeed.
Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at thy age?
Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have learnt to love.
Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree ?
Rhaicos. My father wants
The bark ; the tree may hold its place awhile.
Hamad. Awhile? thy father numbers then my days?
144 NARRATIVE.
Rhaicos. Are there no others where the moss beneath
Is quite as tufty ? Who would send thee forth
Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thy flock
Anywhere near ?
Hamad. I have no flock : I kill
Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels the air,
The sun, the dew. Why should the beautiful
(And thou art beautiful) disturb the source
Whence springs all beauty? Hast thou never heard
Of Hamadryads ?
Rhaicos. Heard of them I have :
Tell me some tale about them. May I sit
Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? The herbs
Are very soft ; I will not come too nigh ;
Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt.
Stay, stay an instant : let me first explore
If any acorn of last year be left
Within it ; thy thin robe too ill protects
Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small
Acorn may do. Here's none, Another day
Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite.
Hamad. I seat me ; be thou seated, and content.
Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men below ! adore
The Aphrodite. Is she there below ?
Or sits she here before me ? as she sate
Before the shepherd on those heights that shade
The Hellespont, and brought his kindred woe.
Hamad. Reverence the higher Powers; nor deem
amiss
Of her who pleads to thee, and would repay
Ask not how much but very much. Rise not :
No, Rhaicos, no ! Without the nuptial vow
Love is unholy. Swear to me that none
Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss,
Then take thou mine ; then take it, not before.
THE HAMADRYAD. 145
Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above ! O Aphrodite.
Here ! Let my vow be ratified !
But wilt thou come into my father's house ?
Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot give thee part.
Rhaicos. Where is it ?
Hamad. In this oak.
Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins
The tale of Hamadryad : tell it through.
Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut down
My tree ; and promise him, as well thou mayst,
That every year he shall receive from me
More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep,
More wax than he will burn to all the gods.
Why fallest thou upon thy face? Some thorn
May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise up ; for shame !
Rhaicos. For shame I cannot rise. O pity me !
1 dare not sue for love but do not hate !
Let me once more behold thee not once more,
But many days : let me love on unloved !
I aimed too high : on my own head the bolt
Falls back, and pierces to the very brain.
Hamad. Go rather go, than make me say I love.
Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality,
(And whence enjoy it else the gods above?)
I am immortal too : my vow is heard
Hark ! on the left Nay, turn not from me now,
I claim my kiss.
Hamad. Do men take first, then claim ?
Do thus the seasons run their course with them ?
Her lips were seal'd ; her head sank on his breast.
'Tis said that laughs were heard within the wood :
But who should hear them? and whose laughs? and why ?
Savoury was the smell and long past noon,
Thallinos ! in thy house ; for marjoram,
L
146 NARRATIVE.
Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary,
Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted length,
Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at last,
Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen,
With head and eyes just o'er the maple plate.
"Thou seest but badly, coming from the sun,
Boy Rhaicos I" said the father. " That oak's bark
Must have been tough, with little sap between ;
It ought to run ; but it and I are old."
Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread
Increased by chewing, and the meat grew cold
And tasteless to his palate, took a draught
Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he was,
He thought not of, until his father fill'd
The cup, averring water was amiss,
But wine had been at all times pour'd on kid.
It was religion.
He thus fortified
Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash'd,
" Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that oak
Year after year will bring thee wealth from wax
And honey. There is one who fears the gods
And the gods love that one "
(He blush'd, nor said
What one)
" Has promised this, and may do more.
Thou hast not many moons to wait until
The bees have done their best ; if then there come
Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn."
" Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a prudent mind,"
Said the glad sire : " but look thou often therej
And gather all the honey thou canst find
In every crevice, over and above
What has been promised ; would they reckon that ?"
Rhaicos went daily ; but the nymph as oft,
THE HAMADRYAD. 147
Invisible. To play at love, she knew,
Stopping its breathings when it breathes most soft,
Is sweeter than to play on any pipe.
She play'd on his : she fed upon his sighs ;
They pleased her when they gently waved her hair,
Cooling the pulses of her purple veins,
And when her absence brought them out, they pleased
Even among the fondest of them all,
What mortal or immortal maid is more
Content with giving happiness than pain ?
One day he was returning from the wood
Despondently. She pitied him, and said
" Come back !" and twined her fingers in the hem
Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps
To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand
Through lentisk and through oleander, there
Bathed she his feet, lifting them on her lap
When bathed, and drying them in both her hands.
He dared complain ; for those who most are loved
Most dare it ; but not harsh was his complaint.
" O thou inconstant !" said he, "if stern law
Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest law,
O, let me know henceforward when to hope
The fruit of love that grows for me but here.
He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant stem.
" Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus intercept
The answer I would give ? There is a bee
Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my thoughts
And executes my wishes : I will send
That messenger. If ever thou art false,
Drawn by another, own it not, but drive
My bee away : then shall I know my fate,
And for thou must be wretched weep at thine.
But often as my heart persuades to lay
Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest,
148 NARRATIVE.
Expect her with thee, whether it be mom
Or eve, at any time when woods are safe. "
Day after day the Hours beheld them blest,
And season after season : years had past,
Blest were they still. He who asserts that Love
Ever is sated of sweet things, the same
Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days,
Never, by Zeus ! loved he a Hamadryad.
The nights had now grown longer, and perhaps
The Hamadryads find them lone and dull
Among their woods ; one did, alas ! She called
Her faithful bee : 'twas when all bees should sleep.
And all did sleep but hers. She was sent forth
To bring that light which never wintry blast
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes,
The light that shines from loving eyes upon
Eyes that love back, till they can see no more.
Rhaicos was sitting at his father's hearth :
Between them stood the table, not o'erspread
With fruits which autumn now profusely bore,
Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but there
The draft-board was expanded ; at which game
Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son
Was puzzled, vex'd, discomfited, distraught.
A buzz was at his ear : up went his hand
And it was heard no longer. The poor bee
Return'd (but not until the morn shone bright)
And found the Hamadryad with her head
Upon her aching wrist, and show'd one wing
Half-broken off, the other's meshes marr'd,
And there were bruises which no eye could see
Saving a Hamadryad's.
At this sight
Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell down,
A shriek was carried to the ancient hall
AGON AND RHODOPfe. 149
Of Thallinos : he heard it not : his son
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood.
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green,
The trunk was riven through. From that day forth
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor sound
Even of insect wing ; but loud laments
The woodmen and the shepherds one long year
Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would not quit
The solitary place, but moan'd and died.
Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest,
To find set duly on the hollow stone.
ACON AND RHODOPE ; OR, INCONSTANCY.
(A Sequel}
THE Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,
Of measured pace though varying mien all twelve,
Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd
For festival, some reckless of attire.
The snow had left the mountain-top ; fresh flowers
Had withered in the meadow ; fig and prune
Hung wrinkling ; the last apple glow'd amid
Its freckled leaves ; and weary oxen blink'd
Between the trodden corn and twisted vine,
Under whose bunches stood the empty crate.
To creak ere long beneath them carried home.
This was the season when twelve months before,
O gentle Hamadryad, true to love !
Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood
Was blasted and laid desolate : but none
1 50 NARRATIVE.
Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck
The moss beneath it, which alone remain 'd
Of what was thine.
Old Thallinos sat mute
In solitary sadness. The strange tale
(Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole)
Echion had related, whom no force
Could ever make look back upon the oaks.
The father said, " Echion ! thou must weigh,
Carefully, and with steady hand, enough
(Although no longer comes the store as once !)
Of wax to bum all day and night upon
That hollow stone where milk and honey lie :
So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd 1"
Thallinos bore it thither in the morn,
And lighted it and left it.
First of those
Who visited upon this solemn day
The Hamadryad's oak, were Rhodope
And Aeon ; of one age, one hope, one trust.
Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
She sorrowed for : he slender, pale, and first
Lapp'd by the flame of love : his father's lands
Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar.
Now stood the two aside the hollow stone
And look'd with stedfast eyes toward the oak
Shivered and black and bare.
' ' May never we
Love as they loved ! " said Aeon. She at this
Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say,
And thought not of its bliss, but of its end.
He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, and vow'd
Nor time nor other power, whereto the might
Of love hath yielded and may yield again,
Should alter his.
ACON AND RHODOPk I 5 I
The father of the youth
Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not
Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart,
Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world,
Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven ;
Silver and gold and land, not green before
The ancestral gate, but purple under skies
Bending far off, he wanted for his heir.
Fathers have given life, but virgin heart
They never gave ; and dare they then control
Or check it harshly ? dare they break a bond
Girt round it by the holiest Power on high ?
Aeon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly,
But Aeon had complied 'twas dutiful !
Crush thy own heart, Man ! Man ! but fear to wound
The gentler, that relies on thee alone,
By thee created, weak or strong by thee ;
Touch it not but for worship ; watch before
Its sanctuary ; nor leave it till are closed
The temple doors and the last lamp is spent.
Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude,
Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea,
Often not hearing it, and many tears
Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek.
Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks,
Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone
That held the milk and honey, nor to lay
His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid
Opposite hers, when finger playfully
Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side.
He did not think of this, as she would do
If she were there alone. The day was hot ;
The moss invited him ; it cool'd his cheek,
It cool'd his hands ; he thrust them into it
152 NARRATIVE.
And sank to slumber. Never was there dream
Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad.
She took him by the arm and led him on
Along a valley, where profusely grew
The smaller lilies with their pendant bells,
And, hiding under mint, chill drosera,
The violet, shy of butting cyclamen,
The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks,
Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry ;
The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk,
The oleander's light-hair'd progeny
Breathing bright freshness in each other's face,
And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup
Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for gods.
The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight
His senses were bewildered, and he thought
He saw again the face he most had loved.
He stopp'd : the Hamadryad at his side
Now stood between ; then drew him farther off :
He went, compliant as before : but soon
Verdure had ceased : although the ground was smooth,
Nothing was there delightful. At this change
He would have spoken, but his guide repress'd
All questioning, and said,
" Weak youth ! what brought
Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt,
My life-long residence ? this bank, where first
I sate with him the faithful (now I know
Too late !) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home ;
Be happy, if thou canst ; but come no more
Where those whom death alone could sever, died."
He started up : the moss whereon he slept
Was dried and withered : deadlier paleness spread
Over his cheek ; he sickened : and the sire
Had land enough ; it held his only son.
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA. 153
XXX.
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA.
" ARTEMIDORA ! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,
And stand beside thee, ready to convey
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow.
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness
Away, and voices like thine own come nigh,
Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace."
Artemidora sigh'd, and would have press'd
The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.
Iris stood over her dark hair unseen
While thus Elpenor spake. He look'd into
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile
To those above them, those now dim with tears
And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy
Eternal. At that word, that sad word,/0jf/,
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more,
Her head fell back : and now a loud deep sob
S well'd thro' the darken'd chamber ; 'twas not hers
1 54 NARRATIVE.
THE CROWNING OF THELYMNIA.
Paiybius relates how in his youth he was present ivhen
Critolaus and some other young officers invited the
philosopher Euthymedes to a repast in the country near
Olympia, and how Thelymnia, the mistress of Critolaus,
was crowned before the arrival of the guest.
BEHIND us lay the forest of Pholoe, with its many glens
opening to the plain : before us the Temple of Olympian
Zeus, indistinctly discernible, leaned against the azure
heavens : and the rivulet of Selinus ran a few stadions
from us, seen only where it received a smaller streamlet,
originating at a fountain close by.
The cistus, the pomegranate, the myrtle, the serpolet,
bloomed over our heads and beside us ; for we had chosen
a platform where a projecting rock, formerly a stone-
quarry, shaded us, and where a little rill, of which the
spring was there, bedimmed our goblets with the purest
water. The awnings we had brought with us to protect
us from the sun, were unnecessary for that purpose : we
rolled them therefore into two long seats, filling them with
moss, which grew profusely a few paces below. " When
our guest arrives," said Critolaus, "every one of these
flowers will serve him for some moral illustration ; every
shrub will be the rod of Mercury in his hands." We
were impatient for the time of his coming. Thelymnia,
the beloved of Critolaus, had been instructed by him
in a stratagem, to subvert, or shake at least and stagger,
the philosophy of Euthymedes. * * *
Thelymnia wore a dress like ours, and acceded to every
advice of Critolaus, excepting that she would not consent
so readily to entwine her head with ivy. At first she
THE CROWNING OF THELYMNIA. 155
objected that there was not enough of it for all. Instantly
two or three of us pulled down (for nothing is more
brittle) a vast quantity from the rock, which loosened
some stones, and brought down together with them a
bird's nest of the last year. Then she said, " I dare not
use this ivy : the omen is a bad one. "
" Do you mean the nest, Thelymnia?" said Critolaus.
" No, not the nest so much as the stones," replied she,
faltering.
" Ah ! those signify the dogmas of Euthymedes, which
you, my lovely Thelymnia, are to loosen and throw down."
At this she smiled faintly and briefly, and began to
break off some of the more glossy leaves ; and we who
stood around her were ready to take them and place them
in her hair ; when suddenly she held them tighter, and
let her hand drop. On her lover's asking her why she
hesitated, she blushed deeply, and said, "Phoroneus told
me I look best in myrtle."
Innocent and simple and most sweet (I remember) was
her voice, and, when she had spoken, the traces of it were
remaining on her lips. Her beautiful throat itself changed
colour ; it seemed to undulate ; and the roseate predomi-
nated in its pearly hue. Phoroneus had been her admirer :
she gave the preference to Critolaus : yet the name of
Phoroneus at that moment had greater effect upon him
than the recollection of his defeat.
Thelymnia recovered herself sooner. We ran wherever
we saw myrtles, and there were many about, and she took
a part of her coronal from every one of us, smiling on
each ; but it was only of Critolaus that she asked if he
thought that myrtle became her best. " Phoroneus,"
answered he, not without melancholy, "is infallible as
Paris." There was something in the tint of the tender
sprays resembling that of the hair they encircled : the
blossoms too were white as her forehead. She reminded
156 NARRATIVE.
me of those ancient fables which represent the favourites
of the gods as turning into plants ; so accordant and
identified was her beauty with the flowers and foliage she
had chosen to adorn it.
THE DREAM OF EUTHYMEDES.
Euthymedes relates how there was revealed to him in a
dream an allegory of 'Love ; Hope, and Fear.
Euthymedes. I was in a place not very unlike this, my
head lying back against a rock, where its crevices were
tufted with soft and odoriferous herbs, and where vine
leaves protected my face from the sun, and from the bees,
which however were less likely to molest me, being busy
in their first hours of honey-making among the blossoms.
Sleep soon fell upon me ; for of all philosophers I am
certainly the drowsiest, though perhaps there are many
quite of equal ability in communicating the gift of drowsi-
ness. Presently I saw three figures, two of which were
beautiful, very differently, but in the same degree : the
other was much less so. The least of the three, at the
first glance, I recognised to be Love, although I saw no
wings, nor arrows, nor quiver, nor torch, nor emblem of
any kind designating his attributes. The next was not
Venus, nor a grace, nor a nymph, nor goddess of
whom in worship or meditation I had ever conceived an
idea ; and yet my heart persuaded me she was a goddess,
and from the manner in which she spoke to Love, and he
again to her, I was convinced she must be. Quietly and
unmovedly as she was standing, her figure I perceived
was adapted to the perfection of activity. With all the
succulence and suppleness of early youth, scarcely beyond
THE DREAM OF EUTHYMEDES. 157
puberty, it however gave me the idea, from its graceful
and easy languor, of its being possessed by a fondness for
repose Her eyes were large and serene, and of a quality
to exhibit the intensity of thought, or even the habitude
of reflection, but incapable of expressing the plenitude of
joy ; and her countenance was tinged with so delicate a
colour, that it appeared an effluence from an irradiated
cloud, passing over it in the heavens. The third figure,
who sometimes stood in one place and sometimes in
another, and of whose countenance I could only dis-
tinguish that it was pale, anxious and mistrustful, inter-
rupted her perpetually. I listened attentively and with
curiosity to the conversation, and by degrees I caught the
appellations they interchanged. The one I found was
Hope ; and I wondered I did not find it out sooner : the
other was Fear ; which I should not have found out at
all ; for she did not look terrible nor aghast, but more
like Sorrow or Despondency. The first words I could
collect of Hope were these, spoken very mildly, and
rather with a look of appeal, than accusation. "Too
surely you have forgotten, for never was child more for-
getful or more ungrateful, how many times I have carried
you in my bosom, when even your mother drove you
from her, and when you could find no other resting-place
in heaven or earth."
"O unsteady unruly Love!" cried the pale goddess
with much energy, "it has often been by my intervention
that thy wavering authority was fixed. For this I have
thrown alarm after alarm into the heedless breast that
Hope had once beguiled, and that was growing insensible
and torpid under her feebler influence. I do not upbraid
thee ; and it never was my nature to caress thee ; but I
claim from thee my portion of the human heart, mine,
ever mine, abhorrent as it may be of me. Let Hope
stand on one side of thy altars, but let my place be on
158 NARRATIVE.
the other ; or I swear by all the gods ! not any altars
shalt thou possess upon the globe."
She ceased and Love trembled. He turned his
eyes upon Hope, as if in his turn appealing to her. She
said, "It must be so; it was so from the beginning of
the world : only let me never lose you from my sight."
She clasped her hands upon her breast, as she said it,
and he looked on her with a smile, and was going
up (I thought) to kiss her, when he was recalled and
stopped.
" Where Love is, there will I be also, said Fear,
and even thou, O Hope ! never shalt be beyond my
power."
At these words I saw them both depart. I then
looked toward Love : I did not see him go ; but he was
gone.
XXXIII.
A TUSCAN SABBATH.
Francesco Petrarca, staying with Giovanni Boccaccio in
his villa near Certaldo, during his sickness, rises be-
times on the Lord's Day and goes to hear mass in the
parish church.
IT being now the Lord's Day, Messer Francesco thought it
meet that he should rise early in the morning and bestir
himself, to hear mass in the parish church at Certaldo.
Whereupon he went on tiptoe, if so weighty a man could
indeed go in such a fashion, and lifted softly the latch of
Ser Giovanni's chamber-door, that he might salute him
ere he departed, and occasion no wonder at the step he
was about to take. He found Ser Giovanni fast asleep,
with the missal wide open across his nose, and a plea-
sant smile on his genial joyous mouth. Ser Francesco
A TUSCAN SABBATH. I 59
leaned over the couch, closed his hands together, and,
looking with even more than his usual benignity, said in
a low voice,
"God bless thee, gentle soul! the mother of purity
and innocence protect thee ! "
He then went into the kitchen, where he found the
girl Assunta, and mentioned his resolution. She informed
him that the horse had eaten his two beans, 1 and was as
strong as a lion and as ready as a lover. Ser Francesco
patted her on the cheek, and called her semplicetta / She
was overjoyed at this honour from so great a man, the
bosom-friend of her good master, whom she had always
thought the greatest man in the world, not excepting
Monsignore, until he told her he was only a dog confronted
with Ser Francesco. She tripped alertly across the paved
court into the stable, and took down the saddle and bridle
from the farther end of the rack. But Ser Francesco,
with his natural politeness, would not allow her to equip
his palfrey.
" This is not the work for maidens," said he ; " return
to the house, good girl ! "
She lingered a moment, then went away ; but, mis-
trusting the dexterity of Ser Francesco, she stopped and
turned back again, and peeped through the half- closed
door, and heard sundry sobs and wheezes round about
the girth. Ser Francesco's wind ill seconded his inten-
tion ; and, although he had thrown the saddle valiantly '
and stoutly in its station, yet the girths brought him into
extremity. She entered again, and, dissembling the
reason, asked him whether he .would not take a small
beaker of the sweet white wine before he set out, and
offered to girdle the horse while his Reverence bitted and
bridled him. Before any answer could be returned, she
1 Literally, due fave, the expression on such occasions to signify
a small quantity. W. S. L.
1 60 NARRATIVE.
had begun. And having now satisfactorily executed hei
undertaking, she felt irrepressible delight and glee at
being able to do what Ser Francesco had failed in. He
was scarcely more successful with his allotment of the
labour ; found unlooked-for intricacies and complications
in the machinery, wondered that human wit could not
simplify it, and declared that the animal had never ex-
hibited such restiveness before. In fact, he never had
experienced the same grooming. At this conjuncture, a
green cap made its appearance, bound with straw-coloured
ribbon, and surmounted with two bushy sprigs of haw-
thorn, of which the globular buds were swelling, and
some bursting, but fewer yet open. It was young Simplizio
Nardi, who sometimes came on the Sunday morning to
sweep the court-yard for Assunta.
" O ! this time you are come just when you were
wanted," said the girl.
" Bridle, directly, Ser Francesco's horse, and then go
away about your business. "
The youth blushed, and kissed Ser Francesco's hand,
begging his permission. It was soon done. He then
held the stirrup ; and Ser Francesco, with scarcely three
efforts, was seated and erect on the saddle. The horse
however had somewhat more inclination for the stable
than for the expedition ; and, as Assunta was handing to
the rider his long ebony staff, bearing an ivory caduceus,
the quadruped turned suddenly round. Simplizio called
him bestiaccia ! and then, softening it, poco garbato / and
proposed to Ser Francesco that he should leave the bas-
tone behind, and take the crab-switch he presented to
him, giving at the same time a sample of his efficacy,
which covered the long grizzle hair of the worthy quadru-
ped with a profusion of pink blossoms, like embroidery.
The offer was declined ; but Assunta told Simplizio to
carry it himself, and to walk by the side of Ser Canonico
A TUSCAN SABBATH. l6l
quite up to the church-porch, having seen what a sad
dangerous beast his reverence had under him.
With perfect good will, partly in the pride of obedience
to Assunta, and partly to enjoy the renown of accom-
panying a canon of holy church, Simplizio did as she
enjoined.
And now the sound of village bells, in many hamlets
and convents and churches out of sight, was indistinctly
heard, and lost again; and at last the five of Certaldo
seemed to crow over the faintness of them all.
The freshness of the morning was enough of itself to
excite the spirits of youth ; a portion of which never fails
to descend on years that are far removed from it, if the
mind has partaken in innocent mirth while it was its season
and its duty to enjoy it. Parties of young and old passed
the canonico and his attendant with mute respect, bowing
and bare - headed ; for that ebony staff threw its spell
over the tongue, which the frank and hearty salutation of
the bearer was inadequate to break. Simplizio, once or
twice, attempted to call back an intimate of the same age
with himself; but the utmost he could obtain was a
riveritissimo ! and a genuflexion to the rider. It is
reported that a heart-burning rose up from it in the
breast of a cousin, some days after, too distinctly ap-
parent in the long-drawn appellation of Gnor 1 Simplizio.
Ser Francesco moved gradually forward, his steed pick-
ing his way along the lane, and looking fixedly on the
stones with all the sobriety of a mineralogist. He him-
self was well satisfied with the pace, and told Simplizio
to be sparing of the switch, unless in case of a hornet or
gadfly. Simplizio smiled, toward the hedge, and won-
dered at the condescension of so great a theologian and
astrologer, in joking with him about the gadflies and
hornets in the beginning of April. " Ah ! there are men
1 Contraction of signor, customary in Tuscany. W.S.L,
M
1 62 NARRATIVE.
in the world who can make wit out of anything ! " said
he to himself, As they approached the walls of the town,
the whole country was pervaded by a stirring and diversi-
fied air of gladness. Laughter and songs and flutes and
viols, inviting voices and complying responses, mingled
with merry bells and with processional hymns, along the
woodland paths and along the yellow meadows. It was
really the Lord's Day, for he made his creatures happy
in it, and their hearts were thankful. Even the cruel
had ceased from cruelty ; and the rich man alone exacted
from the animal his daily labour. Ser Francesco made
this remark, and told his youthful guide that he had never
been before where he could not walk to church on a
Sunday ; and that nothing should persuade him to urge
the speed of his beast on the seventh day, beyond his
natural and willing foot's pace. He reached the gates of
Certaldo more than half an hour before the time of ser-
vice, and he found laurels suspended over them, and
being suspended ; and many pleasant and beautiful faces
were protruded between the ranks of gentry and clergy
who awaited him. Little did he expect such an attend-
ance ; but Fra Biagio of San Vivaldo, who himself had
offered no obsequiousness or respect, had scattered the
secret of his visit throughout the whole country. A
young poet, the most celebrated in the town, approached
the canonico with a long scroll of verses, which fell below
the knee, beginning,
' How shall we welcome our illustrious guest?'
To which Ser Francesco immediately replied, 4 * Take
your favourite maiden, lead the dance with her, and bid
all your friends follow ; you have a good half hour for it."
Universal applauses succeeded, the music struck up,
couples were instantly formed. The gentry on this occa-
sion led out the cittadinanza, as they usually do in the
A TUSCAN SABBATH. 163
villeggiatura, rarely in the carnival, and never at other
times. The elder of the priests stood round in their
sacred vestments, and looked with cordiality and appro-
bation on the youths, whose hands and arms could indeed
do much, and did it, but whose active eyes could rarely
move upward the modester of their partners.
While the elder of the clergy were thus gathering the
fruits of their liberal cares and paternal exhortations, some
of the younger looked on with a tenderer sentiment, not
unmingled with regret. Suddenly the bells ceased ; the
figure of the dance was broken ; all hastened into the
church ; and many hands that joined on the green, met
together at the font, and touched the brow reciprocally
with its lustral waters, in soul-devotion.
After the service, and after a sermon a good church- hour
in length to gratify him, enriched with compliments from
all authors, Christian and pagan, informing him at the
conclusion that, although he had been crowned in the
Capitol, he must die, being born mortal, Ser Francesco
rode homeward. The sermon seemed to have sunk deeply
into him, and even into the horse under him, for both of
them nodded, both snorted, and one stumbled. Simplizio
was twice fain to cry,
' ' Ser Canonico ! Riverenza ! in this country if we sleep
before dinner it does us harm. There are stones in the
road, Ser Canonico, loose as eggs in a nest, and pretty
nigh as thick together, huge as mountains."
"Good lad!" said Ser Francesco, rubbing his eyes,
" toss the biggest of them out of the way, and never mind
the rest."
The horse, although he walked, shuffled almost into
an amble as he approached the stable, and his master
looked up at it with nearly the same contentment. As-
sunta had been ordered to wait for his return, and cried,
" O Ser Francesco ! you are looking at our long apri-
1 64 NARRATIVE.
cot, that runs the whole length of the stable and barn,
covered with blossoms as the old white hen is with
feathers. You must come in the summer, and eat this
fine fruit with Signor Padrone. You can not think how
ruddy and golden and sweet and mellow it is. There
are peaches in all the fields, and plums, and pears, and
apples, but there is not another apricot for miles and
miles. Ser Giovanni brought the stone from Naples
before I was born : a lady gave it to him when she had
eaten only half the fruit off it : but perhaps you may have
seen her, for you have ridden as far as Rome, or beyond.
Padrone looks often at the fruit, and eats it willingly ;
and I have seen him turn over the stones in his plate, and
choose one out from the rest, and put it into his pocket,
but never plant it."
" Where is the youth?" inquired Ser Francesco.
" Gone away," answered the maiden.
" I wanted to thank him," said the Canonico.
" May I tell him so ? " asked she.
"And give him," continued he, holding a piece of
silver
' ' I will give him something of my own, if he goes on
and behaves well," said she: "but Signore Padrone
would drive him away for ever, I am sure, if he were
tempted in an evil hour to accept a quattrino, for any
service he could render the friends of the house."
Ser Francesco was delighted with the graceful anima-
tion of this ingenuous girl, and asked her, with a little
curiosity, how she could afford to make him a present.
" I do not intend to make him a present," she replied :
"but it is better he should be rewarded by me," she
blushed and hesitated, "or by Signor Padrone," she
added, " than by your reverence. He has not done half
his duty yet ; not half. I will teach him : he is quite a
child ; four months younger than me. "
THE DEATH OF ACCIAIOLI. 165
Ser Francesco went into the house, saying to himself
at the doorway,
"Truth, innocence, and gentle manners have not yet
left the earth. There are sermons that never make the
ears weary. I have heard but few of them, and come
from church for this."
Whether Simplizio had obeyed some private signal
from Assunta, or whether his own delicacy had prompted
him to disappear, he was now again in the stable, and the
manger was replenished with hay. A bucket was soon
after heard ascending from the well ; and then two words,
"Thanks, Simplizio."
xxxiv.
THE DEATH OF ACCIAIOLI.
Boccaccio, lying sick at Certaldo, recounts to Petrarca these
memories of his friend Acciaioli, high seneschal of the
kingdom of Naples.
Boccaccio. Probably, so near as I am to Florence, and
so dear as Florence hath always been to me, I shall see
that city no more. The last time I saw it, I only passed
through. Four years ago, you remember, I lost my
friend Acciaioli. Early in the summer of the preceding,
his kindness had induced him to invite me again to
Naples, and I undertook a journey to the place where my
life had been too happy. There are many who pay dearly
for sunshine early in the season : many, for pleasure in
the prime of life. After one day lost in idleness at
Naples, if intense and incessant thoughts (however fruit-
less) may be called so, I proceeded by water to Sorrento,
and thence over the mountains to Amalfi. Here, amid
whatever is most beautiful and most wonderful in scenery,
1 66 NARRATIVE.
I found the Seniscalco. His palace, his gardens, his
terraces, his woods, abstracted his mind entirely from the
solicitudes of state ; and I was gratified at finding in the
absolute ruler of a kingdom, the absolute master of his
time. Rare felicity ! and he enjoyed it the more after
the toils of business and the intricacies of policy, His
reception of me was most cordial. He showed me his
long avenues of oranges and citrons : he helped me to
mount the banks of slippery short herbage, whence we
could look down on their dark masses, and their broad
irregular belts, gemmed with golden fruit and sparkling
flowers. We stood high above them, but not above their
fragrance, and sometimes we wished the breeze to bring
us it, and sometimes to carry a part of it away : and the
breeze came and went as if obedient to our volition.
Another day he conducted me farther from the palace,
and showed me, with greater pride than I had ever seen
in him before, the pale-green olives, on little smooth
plants, the first year of their bearing. " I will teach my
people here," said he, "to make as delicate oil as any of
our Tuscans." We had feasts among the caverns : we
had dances by day under the shade of the mulberries, by
night under the lamps of the arcade: we had music on
the shore and on the water.
When next I stood before him, it was afar from these.
Torches flamed through the pine-forest of Certosa : priests
and monks led the procession : the sound of the brook
alone filled up the intervals of the dirge : and other
plumes than the dancers' waved round what was
Acciaioli.
THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 1 67
XXXV.
THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO.
Boccaccio, recovering from his sickness, relates to Petrarca
how his old love Fiammetta, daitghter to the King of
Naples, appeared to him. in a dream.
Boccaccio. In vain had I determined not only to mend
in future, but to correct the past ; in vain had I prayed
most fervently for grace to accomplish it, with a final
aspiration to Fiammetta that she would unite with your
beloved Laura, and that, gentle and beatified spirits as
they are, they would breathe together their purer prayers
on mine. See what follows.
Petrarca. Sigh not at it. Before we can see all that
follows from their intercession, we must join them again.
But let me hear anything in which they are concerned.
Boccaccio. I prayed ; and my breast, after some few tears,
grew calmer. Yet sleep did not ensue until the break of
morning, when the dropping of soft rain on the leaves of
the fig-tree at the window, and the chirping of a little
bird, to tell another there was shelter under them, brought
me repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed my eyes,
if indeed time can be reckoned any more in sleep than
in heaven, when my Fiammetta seemed to have led me
into the meadow. You will see it below you : turn away
that branch : gently ! gently ! do not break it ; for the
little bird sat there.
Petrarca. I think, Giovanni, I can divine the place.
Although this fig-tree, growing out of the wall between
the cellar and us, is fantastic enough in its branches, yet
that other which I see yonder, bent down and forced to
crawl along the grass by the prepotency of the young
1 68 NARRATIVE.
shapely walnut-tree, is much more so. It forms a seat,
about a cubit above the ground, level and long enough
for several.
Boccaccio. Ha ! you fancy it must be a favourite spot
with me, because of the two strong forked stakes where-
with it is propped and supported !
Petrarca. Poets know the haunts of poets at first sight ;
and he who loved Laura O Laura ! did I say he who
loved thee? hath whisperings where those feet would
wander which have been restless after Fiammetta.
Boccaccio. It is true, my imagination has often con-
ducted her thither ; but here in this chamber she appeared
to me more visibly in a dream.
"Thy prayers have been heard, O Giovanni," said
she. I sprang to embrace her.
" Do not spill the water ! Ah ! you have spilt a part
of it."
I then observed in her hand a crystal vase. A few
drops were sparkling on the sides and running down the
rim : a few were trickling from the vase and from the
hand that held it.
" I must go down to the brook," said she, " and fill it
again as it was filled before."
What a moment of agony was this to me ! Could 1
be certain how long might be her absence ? She went :
I was following : she made a sign for me to turn back : I
disobeyed her only an instant : yet my sense of disobed-
ience, increasing my feebleness and confusion, made me
lose sight of her. In the next moment she was again at
my side, with the cup quite full. I stood motionless : I
feared my breath might shake the water over. I looked
her in the face for her commands and to see it to see
it so calm, so beneficent, so beautiful. I was forgetting
what I had prayed for, when she lowered her head, tasted
of the cup, and gave it me. I drank ; and suddenly
THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 169
sprang forth before me, many groves and palaces and
gardens, and their statues and their avenues, and their
labyrinths of alaternus and bay, and alcoves of citron, and
watchful loopholes in the retirements of impenetrable
pomegranate. Farther off, just below where the fountain
slipt away from its marble hall and guardian gods, arose,
from their beds of moss and drosera and darkest grass,
the sisterhood of oleanders, fond of tantalising with theii
bosomed flowers and their moist and pouting blossoms
the little shy rivulet, and of covering its face with all the
colours of the dawn. My dream expanded and moved
forward. I trod again the dust of Posilippo, soft as the
feathers in the wings of Sleep. I emerged on Baia ; I
crossed her innumerable arches ; I loitered in the breezy
sunshine of her mole ; I trusted the faithful seclusion of
her caverns, the keepers of so many secrets ; and I
reposed on the buoyancy of her tepid sea. Then Naples,
and her theatres and her churches, and grottoes and dells
and forts and promontories, rushed forward in confusion,
now among soft whispers, now among sweetest sounds,
and subsided, and sank, and disappeared. Yet a memory
seemed to come fresh from every one : each had time
enough for its tale, for its pleasure, for its reflection, for
its pang. As I mounted with silent steps the narrow
staircase of the old palace, how distinctly did I feel against
the palm of my hand the coldness of that smooth stone-
work, and the greater of the cramps of iron in it !
"Ah me! is this forgetting?" cried I anxiously to
Fiammetta.
" We must recall these scenes before us," she replied :
"such is the punishment of them. Let us hope and
believe that the apparition, and the compunction which
must follow it, will be accepted as the full penalty, and
that both will pass away almost together."
I feared to lose anything attendant on her presence : I
170 NARRATIVE.
feared to approach her forehead with my lips : I feared
to touch the lily on its long wavy leaf in her hair, which
filled my whole heart with fragrance. Venerating, ador-
ing, I bowed my head at last to kiss her snow-white robe,
and trembled at my presumption. And yet the effulgence
of her countenance vivified while it chastened me. I
loved her I must not say more than ever better than
ever ; it was Fiammetta who had inhabited the skies. As
my hand opened toward her,
"Beware!" said she, faintly smiling; "beware, Gio-
vanni. Take only the crystal ; take it, and drink again."
"Must all be then forgotten?" said I sorrowfully.
"Remember your prayer and mine, Giovanni! Shall
both have been granted O how much worse than in
vain ! "
I drank instantly; I drank largely. How cool my
bosom grew ; how could it grow so cool before her ! But
it was not to remain in its quiescency ; its trials were not
yet over. I will not, Francesco ! no, I may not com-
memorate the incidents she related me, nor which of us
said, "I blush for having loved first ;" nor which of us
replied, "Say least ^ say least ', and blush again."
The charm of the words (for I felt not the encumbrance
of the body nor the acuteness of the spirit) seemed to
possess me wholly. Although the water gave me strength
and comfort, and somewhat of celestial pleasure, many
tears fell around the border of the vase as she held it up
before me, exhorting me to take courage, and inviting me
with more than exhortation to accomplish my deliverance.
She came nearer, more tenderly, more earnestly ; she held
the dewy globe with both hands, leaning forward, and
sighed and shook her head, drooping at my pusillanimity.
It was only when a ringlet had touched the rim, and per-
haps the water (for a sunbeam on the surface could never
have given it such a golden hue), that I took courage,
THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO. 171
clasped it, and exhausted it. Sweet as was the water,
sweet as was the serenity it gave me alas ! that also
which it moved away from me was sweet !
"This time you can trust me alone," said she, and
parted my hair, and kissed my brow. Again she went
toward the brook : again my agitation, my weakness, my
doubt, came over me : nor could I see her while she
raised the water, nor knew I whence she drew it. When
she returned, she was close to me at once : she smiled :
her smile pierced me to the bones : it seemed an angel's.
She sprinkled the pure water on me; she looked most
fondly ; she took my hand ; she suffered me to press hers
to my bosom ; but, whether by design I cannot tell, she
let fall a few drops of the chilly element between.
" And now, O my beloved !" said she, "we have con-
signed to the bosom of God our earthly joys and sorrows.
The joys cannot return, let not the sorrows. These alone
would trouble my repose among the blessed."
" Trouble thy repose ! Fiammetta ! Give me the
chalice !" cried I "not a drop will I leave in it, not a
drop."
"Take it !" said that soft voice. "O now most dear
Giovanni ! I know thou hast strength enough ; and there
is but little at the bottom lies our first kiss."
"Mine ! didst thou say, beloved one? and is that left
thee still?"
" MineJ 1 said she, pensively; and as she abased her
head, the broad leaf of the lily hid her brow and her
eyes ; the light of heaven shone through the flower.
"O Fiammetta! Fiammetta!" cried I in agony,
" God is the God of mercy, God is the God of love can
I, can I ever?" I struck the chalice against my head,
unmindful that I held it ; the water covered my face and
my feet. I started up, not yet awake, and I heard the
name of Fiammetta in the curtains.
172 NARRATIVE.
XXXVL
THE DREAM OF PETRARCA.
Petrarca relates to Boccaccio how there was revealed to him
in a dream an allegory of 'Love ', Sleep, and Death.
Petrarca. I have had as many dreams as most men.
We are all made up of them, as the webs of the spider
are particles of her own vitality. But how infinitely less
do we profit by them ! I will relate to you, before we
separate, one among the multitude of mine, as coming
the nearest to the poetry of yours, and as having been not
totally useless to me. Often have I reflected on it;
sometimes with pensiveness, with sadness never.
Boccaccio. Then, Francesco, if you had with you as
copious a choice of dreams as clustered on the elm-trees
where the Sibyl led ^Eneas, this, in preference to the
whole swarm of them, is the queen dream for me.
Petrarca. When I was younger I was fond of wander-
ing in solitary places, and never was afraid of slumbering
in woods and grottoes. Among the chief pleasures of my
life, and among the commonest of my occupations, was
the bringing before me such heroes and heroines of anti-
quity, such poets and sages, such of the prosperous and
the unfortunate as most interested me by their courage,
their wisdom, their eloquence, or their adventures. En-
gaging them in the conversations best suited to their
characters, I knew perfectly their manners, their steps,
their voices, and often did I moisten with my tears the
models I had been forming of the less happy. * * * Allegory
had few attractions for me, believing it to be the delight
in general of idle, frivolous, inexcursive minds, in whose
mansions there is neither hall nor portal to receive the
THE DREAM OF PETRARCA. 173
loftier of the Passions. A stranger to the Affections, she
holds a low station among the handmaidens of Poetry,
being fit for little but an apparition in a mask. I had
reflected for some time on this subject, when, wearied
with the length of my walk over the mountains, and
rinding a soft old molehill, covered with grey grass, by
the way-side, I laid my head upon it and slept. I
can not tell how long it was before a species of dream or
vision came over me.
Two beautiful youths appeared beside me ; each was
winged ; but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill
adapted to flight. One of them, whose voice was the
softest I ever heard, looking at me frequently, said to
to the other, "He is under my guardianship for the
present : do not awaken him with that feather. " Me-
thought, on hearing the whisper, I saw something like
the feather on an arrow ; and then the arrow itself ; the
whole of it, even to the point ; although he carried it in
such a manner that it was difficult at first to discover more
than a palm's length of it ; the rest of the shaft (and the
whole of the barb) was behind his ankles.
"This feather never awakens any one," replied he,
rather petulantly ; " but it brings more of confident security,
and more of cherished dreams, than you, without me, are
capable of imparting. "
"Be it so !" answered the gentler; "none is less in-
clined to quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom
you have wounded grievously call upon me for succour ;
but so little am I disposed to thwart you, it is seldom I
venture to do more for them than to whisper a few words
of comfort in passing. How many reproaches on these
occasions have been cast upon me for indifference and
infidelity ! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same
terms, as upon you ! "
" Odd enough that we, O Sleep ! should be thought so
174 NARRATIVE.
alike ! " said Love, contemptuously. ' * Yonder is he who
bears a nearer resemblance to you : the dullest have
observed it." I fancied I turned my eyes to where he
was pointing, and saw at a distance the figure he desig-
nated. Meanwhile the contention went on uninterruptedly.
Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his benefits.
Love recapitulated them ; but only that he might assert
his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to
decide, and to choose my patron. Under the influence,
first of the one, then of the other, I sprang from repose
to rapture, I alighted from rapture on repose, and
knew not which was sweetest. Love was very angry
with me, and declared he would cross me throughout the
whole of my existence. Whatever I might on other
occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too
surely the conviction that he would keep his word. At
last, before the close of the altercation, the third Genius
had advanced, and stood near us. I can not tell how I
knew him, but I knew him to be the Genius of Death.
Breathless as I was at beholding him, I soon became
familiar with his features. First they seemed only calm ;
presently they grew contemplative ; and lastly beautiful :
those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less har-
monious, less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily,
with a countenance in which there was somewhat of
anxiety, somewhat of disdain ; and cried, " Go away ! go
away ! nothing that thou touchest, lives ! "
" Say rather, child ! " replied the advancing form, and
advancing grew loftier and statelier, "say rather that
nothing of beautiful or of glorious lives its own true life
until my wing hath passed over it."
Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his fore-
finger the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head ; but replied
not. Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I
dreaded him less and less and scarcely looked toward him.
THE DREAM OF PETRARCA. 175
The milder and calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I
took courage to contemplate him, regarded me with more
and more complacency. He held neither flower nor
arrow as the others did ; but throwing back the clusters
of dark curls that overshadowed his countenance, he pre-
sented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank
on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him.
He smiled, not without an expression of pity, at perceiving
my diffidence, my timidity : for I remembered how soft
was the hand of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was
Love's. By degrees I became ashamed of my ingratitude ;
and turning my face away, I held out my arms, and I
felt my neck within his. Composure strewed and allayed
all the throbbings of my bosom ; the coolness of freshest
morning breathed around, the heavens seemed to open
above me ; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer
rested on my head. I would now have looked for those
others ; but knowing my intention by my gesture, he said
consolatorily,
"Sleep is on his way to the Earth, where many are
calling him ; but it is not to these he hastens ; for every
call only makes him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely
as he looks, he is nearly as capricious and volatile as the
more arrogant and ferocious one."
"And Love!" said I, "whither is he departed? If
not too late, I would propitiate and appease him."
"He who can not follow me, he who can not overtake
and pass me," said the Genius, " is unworthy of the name,
the most glorious in earth or heaven. Look up ! Love
is yonder, and ready to receive thee. "
I looked : the earth was under me : I saw only the
clear blue sky, and something brighter above it.
176 NARRATIVE.
THE FATE OF A YOUNG POET.
Dr. Glaston> an Oxford preacher ; tells the story of young
Wellerby to one of his Pupils aspiring to become a poet,
ETHELBERT ! I think thou walkest but little ; otherwise
I should take thee with me, some fine fresh morning,
as far as unto the first hamlet on the Cherwell. There
lies young Wellerby, who, the year before, was wont to
pass many hours of the day poetising .amidst the ruins of
Godstow nunnery. It is said that he bore a fondness
toward a young maiden in that place, formerly a village,
now containing but two old farmhouses. In my memory
there were still extant several dormitories. Some love-
sick girl had recollected an ancient name, and had engraven
on a stone with a garden-nail, which lay in rust near it,
Poore Rosamund.
I entered these precincts, and beheld a youth of manly
form and countenance, washing and wiping a stone with
a handful of wet grass ; and on my going up to him, and
asking what he had found, he showed it to me.
The next time I saw him was near the banks of the
CherwelL He had tried, it appears, to forget or overcome
his foolish passion, and had applied his whole mind unto
study. He was foiled by his competitor ; and now he
sought consolation in poetry. Whether this opened the
wounds that had closed in his youthful breast, and malig-
nant Love, in his revenge, poisoned it ; or whether the
disappointment he had experienced in finding others pre-
ferred to him, first in the paths of fortune, then in those of
the muses ; he was thought to have died broken-hearted.
About half a mile from St. John's College is the
termination of a natural terrace, with the Cherwell close
THE FATE OF A YOUNG POET. 177
under it, in some places bright with yellow and red
flowers glancing and glowing through the stream, and
suddenly in others dark with the shadows of many different
trees, in broad overbending thickets, and with rushes
spear-high, and party-coloured flags. After a walk in
midsummer, the immersion of our hands into the cool
and closing grass is surely not the least among our animal
delights. I was just seated, and the first sensation of
rest vibrated in me gently, as though it were music to the
limbs, when I discovered by a hollow in the herbage that
another was near. The long meadow-sweet and bloom-
ing burnet half concealed from me him whom the earth
was about to hide totally and for ever.
" Master Bachelor !" said I, "it is ill-sleeping by the
water-side." No answer was returned. I arose, went to
the place, and recognised poor Wellerby. His brow was
moist, his cheek was warm. A few moments earlier, and
that dismal lake whereunto and wherefrom the waters
of life, the buoyant blood, ran no longer, might have re-
, ceived one vivifying ray reflected from my poor casement.
I might not indeed have comforted I have often failed :
but there is one who never has ; and the strengthener of
the bruised reed should have been with us.
Remembering that his mother did abide one mile
further on, I walked forward to the mansion, and asked
her what tidings she lately had received of her son. She
replied, that having given up his mind to light studies,
the fellows of the college would not elect him. The
master had warned him beforehand to abandon his selfish
poetry, take up manfully the quarter staff of logic, and
wield it for St. John's, come who would into the ring.
" * We want our man,' said he to me, ' and your son hath
/ailed us in the hour of need. Madam, he hath been
foully beaten in the schools by one he might have
swallowed, with due exercise.'
N
1 78 NARRATIVE.
" I rated him, told him I was poor, and he knew it.
He was stung, and threw himself upon my neck, and
wept. Twelve days have passed since, and only three
rainy ones. I hear he has been seen upon the knoll
yonder, but hither he hath not come. I trust he knows
at last the value of time, and I shall be heartily glad to
see him after this accession of knowledge. Twelve days,
it is true, are rather a chink than a gap in time ; yet, O
gentle sir I they are that chink which makes the vase
quite valueless. There are light words which may never
be shaken off the mind they fall on. My child, who was
hurt by me, will not let me see the marks."
"Lady !" said I, "none are left upon him. Be com-
forted ! thou shalt see him this hour. All that thy God
hath not taken is yet thine."
She looked at me earnestly, and would have then
asked something, but her voice failed her. There was
no agony, no motion, save in the lips and cheeks. Being
the widow of one who fought under Hawkins, she remem-
bered his courage and sustained the shock, saying calmly,
" God's will be done ! I pray that he find me as worthy
as he findeth me willing to join them."
Now, in her unearthly thoughts, she had led her only
son to the bosom of her husband ; and in her spirit (which
often is permitted to pass the gates of death with holy
love) she left them both with their Creator.
The curate of the village sent those who should bring
home the body ; and some days afterwards he came unto
me, beseeching me to write the epitaph. Being no friend
to stone-cutter's charges, I entered not into biography,
but wrote these few words :
JOANNES WELLERBY,
LlTERARUM QU^SIVIT GLORIAM,
VIDET DEI.
II.
REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
RELIGION.
XXXVIII. THE ORIGIN OF IDOLATRY.
Dr. Glaston discourses.
IN the earlier ages of mankind, your Greek and Latin
authors inform you, there went forth sundry worthies,
men of might, to deliver, not wandering damsels, albeit
for those likewise they had stowage, but low-conditioned
men, who fell under the displeasure of the higher, and
groaned in thraldom and captivity. And these mighty
ones were believed to have done such services to poor
humanity, that their memory grew greater than they, as
shadows do than substances at day-fall. And the sons
and grandsons of the delivered did laud and magnify
those glorious names ; and some in gratitude, and some
in tribulation, did ascend the hills, which appeared unto
them as altars bestrewn with flowers and herbage for
heaven's acceptance. And many did go far into the
quiet groves, under lofty trees, looking for whatever was
mightiest and most protecting. And in such places did
they cry aloud unto the mighty, who had left them,
Return! return! help us! help us! be blessed! for
ever blessed!
Vain men ! but, had they stayed there, not evil. Out
of gratitude, purest gratitude, rose idolatry. For the
devil sees the fairest, and soils it
In these our days, methinks, whatever other sins we
may fall into, such idolatry is the least dangerous. For,
I 82 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
neither on the one side is there much disposition for
gratitude, nor on the other much zeal to deliver the
innocent and oppressed. Even this deliverance, although
a merit, and a high one, is not the highest. Forgiveness
is beyond it. Forgive, or ye shall not be forgiven.
This ye may do every day ; for if ye find not offences,
ye feign them ; and surely ye may remove your own
work, if ye may remove another's. To rescue requires
more thought and wariness : learn then the easier lesson
first. Afterwards, when ye rescue any from another's
violence, or from his own (which oftentimes is more
dangerous, as the enemies are within not only the pene-
trals of his house but of his heart), bind up his wounds
before ye send him on his way. Should ye at any time
overtake the erring, and resolve to deliver him up, I will
tell you whither to conduct him. Conduct him to his
Lord and Master, whose household he hath left. It is
better to consign him to Christ his Saviour than to man
his murderer : it is better to bid him live than to bid him
die. The one word our Teacher and Preserver said,
the other our enemy and destroyer. Bring him back
again, the stray, the lost one ! bring him back, not with
clubs and cudgels, not with halberts and halters, but
generously and gently, and with the linking of the arm.
In this posture shall God above smile upon ye : in this
posture of yours he shall recognise again his beloved
Son upon earth. Do ye likewise, and depart in peace.
XXXIX.
Melanchthon. The wickedness of idolatry does not
consist in any inadequate representation of the Deity,
for whether our hands or our hearts represent him, the
representation is almost alike inadequate. Every man
does what he hopes and believes will be most pleasing
RELIGION. 183
to his God ; and God, in his wisdom and mercy, will
not punish gratitude in its error.
Calvin. How do you know that ?
Melanchthon. Because I know his loving -kindness,
and experience it daily.
Calvin. If men blindly and wilfully run into error
when God hath shown the right way, he will visit it on
their souls.
Melanchthon. He will observe from the serenity of
heaven, a serenity emanating from his presence, that
there is scarcely any work of his creation on earth which
hath not excited, in some people or other, a remem-
brance, an admiration, a symbol of his power. The
evil of idolatry is this. Rival nations have raised up
rival deities ; war hath been denounced in the name of
heaven ; men have murdered for the love of God : and
such impiety hath darkened all the regions of the world,
that the Lord of all things hath been invoked by all
simultaneously as the Lord of Hosts.
XL. DIFFERENCES OF OPINION IN RELIGION.
Melanchthon. I remember no discussion on religion in
which religion was not a sufferer by it, if mutual forbear-
ance, and belief in another's good motives and intentions,
are (as I must always think they are) its proper and neces-
sary appurtenances.
Calvin. Would you never make inquiries ?
Melanchthon. Yes ; and as deep as possible ; but into
my own heart ; for that belongs to me ; and God hath
entrusted it most especially to my own superintendence.
Calvin. We must also keep others from going astray,
by showing them the right road, and, if they are obsti-
nate in resistance, then by coercing and chastising them
through the magistrate.
1 84 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Melanchthon. It is sorrowful to dream that we art
scourges in God's hand, and that he appoints for us no
better work than lacerating one another. I am no enemy
to inquiry, where I see abuses, and where I suspect false-
hood. The Romanists, our great oppressors, think it
presumptuous to search into things abstruse ; and let us
do them the justice to acknowledge that, if it is a fault,
it is one which they never commit. But surely we are
kept sufficiently in the dark by the infirmity of our
nature : no need to creep into a corner and put our
hands before our eyes. To throw away or turn aside
from God's best gifts is verily a curious sign of obedience
and submission. He not only hath given us a garden tc
walk in, but he hath planted it also for us, and he wills
us to know the nature and properties of everything that
grows up within it. Unless we look into them and
handle them and register them, how shall we discover
this to be salutary, that to be poisonous ; this annual,
that perennial ?
Calvin. Here we coincide ; and I am pleased to find
in you less apathy than I expected. It becomes us, more-
over, to denounce God's vengeance on a sinful world.
Melanchthon. Is it not better and pleasanter to show
the wanderer by what course of life it may be avoided ?
is it not better and pleasanter to enlarge on God's pro-
mises of salvation, than to insist on his denunciations of
wrath ? is it not better and pleasanter to lead the wretched
up to his mercy, than to hurl them by thousands under
his fiery chariot ?
Calvin. We have no option. By our heavenly Father
many are called, but few are chosen.
Melanchthon. There is scarcely a text in the Holy
Scriptures to which there is not an opposite text written
in characters equally large and legible ; and there has
usually been a sword laid upon each. Even the weakest
, TJNIVT
^
RELIGION. 185
disputant is made so conceited by what he calls religion,
as to think himself wiser than the wisest who thinks
differently from him ; and he becomes so ferocious by
what he calls holding it fast, that he appears to me as if
he held it fast much in the same manner as a terrier
holds a rat, and you have about as much trouble in
getting it from between his incisors. When at last it
does come out, it is mangled, distorted, and extinct.
Calvin. M. Melanchthon ! you have taken a very per-
verse view of the subject. Such language as yours would
extinguish that zeal which is to enlighten the nations, and
to consume the tares by which they are overrun.
Melanchthon. The tares and the corn are so intermingled
throughout the wide plain which our God hath given us
to cultivate, that I would rather turn the patient and
humble into it to weed it carefully, than a thresher who
would thresh wheat and tare together before the grain is
ripened, or who would carry fire into the furrows when
it is.
Calvin. Yet even the most gentle, and of the gentler
sex, are inflamed with a holy zeal in the propagation of
the faith.
Melanchthon > I do not censure them for their earnest-
ness in maintaining truth. We not only owe our birth
to them, but also the better part of our education ; and
if we were not divided after their first lesson, we should
continue to live in a widening circle of brothers and
sisters all our lives. After our infancy and removal from
home, the use of the rod is the principal thing we learn
of our alien preceptors ; and, catching their dictatorial
language, we soon begin to exercise their instrument of
enforcing it, and swing it right and left, even after we
are paralysed by age, and until Death's hand strikes it
out of ours. I am sorry you have cited the gentler part
of the creation to appear before you, obliged as I am to
I 86 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
bear witness that I myself have known a few specimens
of the fair sex become a shade less fair, among the per-
plexities of religion. Indeed I am credibly informed that
certain of them have lost their patience, running up and
down in the dust where many roads diverge. This surely
is not walking humbly with their God, nor walking with
him at all ; for those who walk with him are always
readier to hear his voice than their own, and to admit
that it is more persuasive. But at last the zealot is so
infatuated by the serious mockeries he imitates and
repeats, that he really takes his own voice for God's. Is
it not wonderful that the words of eternal life should
have hitherto produced only eternal litigation ; and that,
in our progress heavenward, we should think it expedient
to plant unthrifty thorns over bitter wells of blood in the
wilderness we leave behind us ?
XLI.
Melanchthon. Calvin ! I beseech you, do you who guide
and govern so many, do you (whatever others may) spare
your brethren. Doubtful as I am of lighter texts, blown
backward and forward at the opening of opposite win-
dows, I am convinced and certain of one grand immove-
able verity. It sounds strange ; it sounds contradictory.
Calvin. I am curious to hear it.
Melanchthon. You shall. This is the tenet. There
is nothing on earth divine beside humanity.
Romilly. The worst of unbelief is that which regrets
the goodness of our heavenly Father, and from which
there springs in us a desire of breaking what we cannot
bend, and of twisting wire after wire, and tying knot
RELIGION. 187
after knot, in his scourge. Christianity, as I understand
it, lies not in belief but in action. That servant is a
good servant who obeys the just orders of his master ;
not he who repeats his words, measures his stature, or
traces his pedigree ! On all occasions, it is well to be
a little more than tolerant ; especially when a wiser and
better man than ourselves thinks differently from us.
Washington. Religion is too pure for corporations : it
is best meditated on in our privacy, and best acted on
in our ordinary intercourse with mankind. If we believe
in revelation, we must believe that God wishes us to
converse with him but little, since the only form of
address he has prescribed to us is an extremely short
one. He has placed us where our time may be more
beneficially employed in mutually kind offices, and he does
not desire us to tell him, hour after hour, how dearly we
love him, or how much we want from him : he knows
these things exactly.
Milton. Methinks thou knowest more about the poets
than about the divines. Curious name ! as if the study
and profession of what relates to divinity made the man
himself divine, as the study and profession of physic
entitles one, and justly, to be called a physician.
XLV.
Marvel. Never do I take the liberty to question or
examine any man on his religion, or to look over his
shoulder on his account-book with God. But I know
that Milton and every other great poet must be reli-
1 8 8 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
gious : for there is nothing so godlike as a love of order,
with a power of bringing great things into it. This
power, unlimited in the one, limited (but incalculably
and inconceivably great), in the other, belongs to the
Deity and the poet.
Bishop Parker. I shudder.
Marvel. Wherefore? at seeing a man, what he was
designed to be by his Maker, his Maker's image ? But
pardon me, my lord ! the surprise of such a novelty is
enough to shock you.
XLVI.
Parker. Let us piously hope, Mr. Marvel, that God
in his good time may turn Mr. Milton from the error of
his ways, and incline his heart to repentance, and that
so he may finally be prepared for death.
Marvel. The wicked can never be prepared for it, the
good always are. What is the preparation which so
many ruffled wrists point out ? To gabble over prayer
and praise and confession and contrition. My lord !
heaven is not to be won by short hard work at the last,
as some of us take a degree at the university, after much
irregularity and negligence. Pi prefer a steady pace
from the outset to the end,coming in cool, and dis-
mounting quietly. Instead of which I have known
many old playfellows of the devil spring up suddenly
from their beds and strike at him treacherously ; while
he, without a cuff, laughed and made grimaces in the
corner of the room.
XLVIT.
Lord Brooke. A forced match between a man and his
religion sours his temper, and leaves a barren bed.
RELIGION. 189
XLV1II. THE EFFICACY OF PRAYER.
Magliabecchi. Among your other works I find a manu-
script on the inefficacy of prayer. I defended you to my
superiors by showing that Cicero had asserted things
incredible to himself, merely for the sake of argument,
and had probably written them before he had fixed in his
mind the personages to whom they should be attributed
in his dialogues ; that, in short, they were brought for-
ward for no other purpose than discussion and explo-
sion. This impiety was forgiven. But every man in
Italy has a favourite saint, for whose honour he deems
it meritorious to draw (I had almost said the sword) the
stiletto.
Middleton. It would be safer to attempt dragging God
from his throne than to split a spangle on their petti-
coats, or to puff a grain of powder from their wigs.
This I know. Nothing in my writings is intended to
wound the jealousy of the Italians. Truth, like the
juice of the poppy, in small quantities calms men, in
larger heats and irritates them, and is attended by fatal
consequences in its excess. For which reason, with
plain ground before me, I would not expatiate largely,
and often made an argument, that offered itself, give way
altogether and leave room for inferences. My treatise
on prayer was not to be published in my lifetime.
Magliabecchi. And why at any time ? Supposing
prayer to be totally inefficacious in the object, is not the
mind exalted, the heart purified, are not our affections
chastened, our desires moderated, our enjoyments en-
larged, by this intercourse with the Deity ? and are not
men the better, as certainly they are the happier, for a
belief that he interferes in their concerns. They are
persuaded that there is something conditional between
them, and that, if they labour under the commission of
1 90 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
crimes, their voice will be inaudible as the voice of one
under the nightmare.
Middleton. I wished to demonstrate, that we often
treat God in the same manner as we should treat some
doting or some passionate old man : we feign, we flatter,
we sing, we cry, we gesticulate.
Magliabecchi. Worship him in your own manner,
according to the sense he has given you ; and let those
who cannot exercise that sense, rely upon those who can.
Be convinced, Mr. Middleton, that you never will sup-
plant the received ideas of God : be no less convinced
that the sum of your labours in this field, will be, to
leave the ground loose beneath you, and that he who
comes after you will sink. # # * Suppose a belief in the
efficacy of prayer to be a belief altogether irrational
you may : I never can suppose it to be insanity itself,
would you, meeting a young man who had wandered
over many countries in search of a father, until his
intellects are deranged, and who, in the fulness of his
heart, addresses an utter stranger as the lost parent,
clings to him, kisses him, sobs upon his breast, and
finds comfort only by repeating "Father! father!"
would you, Mr. Middleton, say to this affectionate fond
creature, "Go home, sit quiet, be silent!" and per'
suade him that his father is lost to him ?
Middleton. God forbid.
Magliabecchi. You have done it : do it no more : the
madman has not heard you ; and the father will pardon
you when you meet
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS.
XLIX.
Dante. Greatness is to goodness what gravel is to pro-
phyry ; the one is a moveable accumulation, swept along
the surface of the earth ; the other stands fixed, and solid,
and alone, above the violence of war and of the tempest ;
above all that is residuous of a wasted world. Little
men build up great ones ; but the snow colossus soon
melts : the good stand under the eye of God ; and there-
fore stand.
Diogenes. The great man is he who hath nothing to
fear and nothing to hope from another. It is he who,
while he demonstrates the iniquity of the laws, and is
able to correct them, obeys them peaceably. It is he
who looks on the ambitious both as weak and fraudulent.
It is he who hath no disposition or occasion for any kind
of deceit, no reason for being or for appearing different
from what he is. It is he who can call together the most
select company when it pleases him.
Plato. There are great men of various kinds.
Diogertes. No, by my beard, are there not.
Plato. What ! are there not great captains, great
geometricians, great dialectians ?
IQ2 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Diogenes. Who denied it? A great man was the
postulate. Try thy hand now at the powerful one.
Plato. On seeing the exercise of power, a child cannot
doubt who is powerful, more or less ; for power is rela-
tive. All men are weak, not only if compared to the
Demiurgos, but if compared to the sea or the earth, or
certain things upon each of them, such as elephants and
whales. So placid and tranquil is the scene around us,
we can hardly bring to mind the images of strength and
force, the precipices, the abysses
Diogenes. Prythee hold thy loose tongue, twinkling
and glittering like a serpent's in the midst of luxuriance
and rankness. Did never this reflection of thine warn
thee that, in human life, the precipices and abysses would
be much further from our admiration, if we were less in-
considerate, selfish, and vile ? I will not however stop
thee long, for thou wert going on quite consistently. As
thy great men are fighters and wranglers, so thy mighty
things upon the earth and sea are troublesome and in-
tractable incumbrances. Thou perceivedst not what was
greater in the former case, neither art thou aware what
is greater in this. Didst thou feel the gentle air that
passed us ?
Plato. I did not just then.
Diogenes. That air, so gentle, so imperceptible to thee,
is more powerful not only than all the creatures that
breathe and live by it ; not only than all the oaks of the
forest, which it rears in an age and shatters in a moment ;
not only than all the monsters of the sea, but than the
sea itself, which it tosses up into foam and breaks against
every rock in its vast circumference ; for it carries in its
bosom, with perfect calm and composure, the incontrollable
ocean and the peopled earth, like an atom of a feather.
To the world's turmoils and pageantries is attracted,
not only the admiration of the populace, but the zeal of
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 193
the orator, the enthusiasm of the poet, the investigation
of the historian, and the contemplation of the philosopher :
yet how silent and invisible are they in the depths of air !
Do I say in those depths and deserts ? No ; I say at the
distance of a swallow's flight ; at the distance she rises
above us, ere a sentence brief as this could be uttered.
What are its mines and mountains? Fragments welded
up and dislocated by the expansion of water from below ;
the most part reduced to mud, the rest to splinters.
Afterwards sprang up fire in many places, and again tore
and mangled the mutilated carcase, and still growls over
it. What are its cities and ramparts, and moles and
monuments ? Segments of a fragment, which one man
puts together and another throws down. Here we
stumble upon thy great ones at their work. Show me
now, if thou canst, in history, three great warriors, or
three great statesmen, who have acted otherwise than
spiteful children.
Anaxagoras. It will appear wonderful and perhaps
incredible to future generations, that what are now con-
sidered the two highest gifts of man, oratory and poetry,
should be employed, the one chiefly in exciting, the other
in emblazoning, deeds of slaughter and devastation. If
we could see, in the nature of things, a child capable of
forming a live tiger, and found him exercising his power
of doing it, I think we should say to him,
"You might employ your time better, child 1"
LIII.
Lord Brooke. Merciful heaven ! and for the fruition of
an hour's drunkenness, from which they must awaken
O
194 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
with heaviness, pain, and terror, men consume a whole
crop of their kind at one harvest-home. Shame upon
those light ones who carol at the feast of blood ! and
worse upon those graver ones who nail upon their
escutcheon the name of great.
LIV.
Vittoria Colonna. There are various kinds of greatness,
as we all know ; however, the most part of those who pro-
fess one species is ready to acknowledge no other. The
first and chief is intellectual. But surely those also are to
be admitted into the number of the eminently great, who
move large masses by action, by throwing their own
ardent minds into the midst of popular assemblies or
conflicting armies, compelling, directing, and subjecting.
This greatness is indeed far from so desirable as that
which shines serenely from above, to be our hope, com-
fort, and guidance ; to lead us in spirit from a world of
sad realities into one fresh from the poet's hand, and
blooming with all the variety of his creation. Hence the
most successful generals, and the most powerful kings,
will always be considered by the judicious and dispas-
sionate as invested with less dignity, less extensive and
enduring authority, than great philosophers and great
poets.
Michelangelo. By the wise indeed ; but little men,
like little birds, are attracted and caught by false lights.
LV.
Epicurus. External reverence should be paid unspar-
ingly to the higher magistrates of every country who
perform their offices exemplarily : yet they are not on this
account to be placed in the same degree with men of
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 1 Q 5
primary genius. They never exalt the human race, and
rarely benefit it ; and their benefits are local and transi-
tory, while those of a great writer are universal and
eternal.
LVI.
Sidney. Poets are in general prone to melancholy ; yet
the most plaintive ditty hath imparted a fuller joy, and
of longer duration, to its composer, than the conquest of
Persia to the Macedonian.
LVII.
Many can rule and more can fight,
But few give myriad hearts delight.
Marvel With the greatest rulers upon earth, head and
crown drop together, and are overlooked. It is true, we
read of them in history ; but we also read in history of
crocodiles and hyaenas. With great writers, whether in
poetry or prose, what falls away is scarcely more or other
than a vesture. The features of the man are imprinted on
his works ; and more lamps burn over them, and more
religiously, than are lighted in temples or churches.
LIX.
Sidney. How many, who have abandoned for public
life the studies of philosophy and poetry, may be com-
pared to brooks and rivers, which in the beginning of
their course have assuaged our thirst, and have invited
us to tranquillity by their bright resemblance of it, and
196 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
which afterward partake the nature of that vast body
whereinto they run, its dreariness, its bitterness, its foam,
Us storms, its everlasting noise and commotion.
LX.
Cicero. How much greater would the greatest man
appear, if any one about him could perceive those innumer-
able filaments of thought, which break as they arise from
the brain, and the slenderest of which is worth all the
wisdom of many at whose discretion lies the felicity of
nations !
Lord Peterborough. It is something to have an influ-
ence on the fortunes of mankind : it is greatly more to
have an influence on their intellects. Such is the differ-
ence between men of office and men of genius, between
computed and uncomputed rank.
LXII. THE FAME OF MILTON.
Bishop Parker. Most happy am I to encounter you, Mr.
Marvel. It is some time, I think, since we met. May
I take the liberty of inquiring what brought you into
such a lonely quarter as Bunhill-fields ?
Marvel. My lord, I return at this instant from visiting
an old friend of ours, hard by, in Artillery Walk, who,
you will be happy to hear, bears his blindness and
asthma with truly Christian courage.
Parker. And pray, who may that old friend be, Mr.
Marvel ?
Marvel. Honest John Milton.
Parker. The same gentleman whose ingenious poem,
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 197
on our first parents, you praised in some elegant verses
prefixed to it ?
Marvel. The same who likewise, on many occasions,
merited and obtained your lordship's approbation.
Parker. I am happy to understand that no harsh
measures were taken against him, on the return of our
most gracious Sovereign. And it occurs to me that you,
Mr. Marvel, were earnest in his behalf. Indeed I my-
self might have stirred upon it, had Mr. Milton solicited
me in the hour of need.
Marvel. He is grateful to the friends who consulted
at the same time his dignity and his safety : but gratitude
can never be expected to grow on a soil hardened by
solicitation. Those who are the most ambitious of power
are often the least ambitious of glory. It requires but
little sagacity to foresee that a name will become invested
with eternal brightness by belonging to a benefactor of
Milton. / might have served him ! is not always the
soliloquy of late compassion or of virtuous repentance : it
is frequently the cry of blind and impotent and wounded
pride, angry at itself for having neglected a good bargain,
a rich reversion. Believe me, my lord bishop, there are
few whom God has promoted to serve the truly great.
They are never to be superseded, nor are their names to
be obliterated in earth or heaven
LXIII.
Parker. After all, I doubt whether much of his doc-
trine is remaining in the public mind.
Marvel. Others are not inclined to remember all that
we remember, and will not attend to us if we propose to
tell them half. Water will take up but a certain quantity
of salt, even of the finest and purest. If the short
memories of men are to be quoted against the excellence
1 98 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
of instruction, your lordship would never have censured
them from the pulpit for forgetting what was delivered by
their Saviour * * * I am confident that Milton is heedless
of how little weight he is held by those who are of none ;
and that he never looks towards those somewhat more
eminent, between whom and himself there have crept
the waters of oblivion. As the pearl ripens in the ob-
scurity of its shell, so ripens in the tomb all the fame
that is truly precious. In fame he will be happier than
in friendship. Were it possible that one among the
faithful of the angels could have suffered wounds and
dissolution in his conflict with the false, I should scarcely
feel greater awe at discovering on some bleak mountain
the bones of this our mighty defender, once shining in
celestial panoply, once glowing at the trumpet-blast of
God, but not proof against the desperate and the damned,
than I have felt at entering the humble abode of Milton,
whose spirit already reaches heaven, yet whose corporeal
frame hath no quiet or safe resting-place here below.
And shall not I, who loved him early, have the lonely
and sad privilege to love him still ? or shall fidelity to
power be a virtue, and fidelity to tribulation an offence ?
LXIV.
Southey. Great men will always pay deference to
greater : little men will not ; because the little are
fractious : and the weaker they are, the more obstinate
and crooked.
EtibuHdes (to Demosthenes}. In proportion as men
approach you, they applaud you. To those far distant
and far below, you seem as little as they seem to you.
Fellows who cannot come near enough to reverence you,
FAME, AND TRUE AND FALSE GREATNESS. 1 99
think they are only a stone's throw distant ; and they
throw it.
LXVI.
Eubulides. It appears to be among the laws of Nature
that the mighty of intellect should be pursued and carped
at by the little, as the solitary flight of one great bird is
followed by the twittering petulance of many smaller.
LXVI I.
Marvel. Usually men, in distributing fame, do as old
maids and old misers do : they give everything to those
who want nothing. In literature, often a man's solitude,
and oftener his magnitude, disinclines us from helping
him if we find him down. We are fonder of warming
our hands at a fire already in a blaze than of blowing one.
LXVIII.
Barrow. Very wise men, and very wary and inquisi-
tive, walk over the earth, and are ignorant not only what
minerals lie beneath, but what herbs and foliage they are
treading. Some time afterward, and probably some dis-
tant time, a specimen of ore is extracted and exhibited ;
then another ; lastly the bearing and diameter of the
vein are observed and measured. Thus it is with writers
who are to have a currency through ages. In the begin-
ning they are confounded with most others ; soon they
fall into some secondary class ; next, into one rather less
obscure and humble ; by degrees they are liberated from
the dross and lumber that hamper them ; and, being
once above the heads of contemporaries, rise slowly and
waveringly, then regularly and erectly, then rapidly and
majestically, till the vision strains and aches as it pursues
them in their ethereal elevation.
200 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Barrow. No very great man ever reached the standard
of his greatness in the crowd of his contemporaries.
This hath always been reserved for the secondary.
LXX.
Leontion. The voice comes deepest from the sepulchre,
and a great name hath its root in the dead body.
Diogenes. The sun colours the sky most deeply and
most diffusely when he hath sunk below the horizon ; and
they who never said " How beneficently he shines !" say
at last, " Hovi brightly he set !"
LXXII.
Boccaccio. Not only the fame of Marcellus, but every
Other, Crescit occulto vehit arbor cevo ; and that which
makes the greatest vernal shoot is apt to make the
least autumnal. Authors in general who have met cele-
brity at starting, have already had their reward ; always
their utmost due, and often much beyond it. We cannot
hope for both celebrity and fame : supremely fortunate
are the few who are allowed the liberty of choice between
them.
LXXIII.
Cicero. Everything has its use ; life to teach us the
contempt of death, and death the contempt of life.
Glory, which among all things between stands eminently
the principal, although it has been considered by some
philosophers as mere vanity and deception, moves those
great intellects which nothing else could have stirred, and
places them where they can best and most advantageously
serve the commonwealth. Glory can be safely despised
by those only who have fairly won it.
DEATH AND MORTALITY.
LXXIV.
. Breathe, Rhodope, breathe again those painless
sighs : they belong to thy vernal season. May thy sum-
mer of life be calm, thy autumn calmer, and thy winter
never come.
Rhodop^. I must die then earlier.
SEsop. Laodameia died ; Helen died ; Leda, the
beloved of Jupiter, went before. It is better to repose
in the earth betimes than to sit up late ; better, than to
cling pertinaciously to what we feel crumbling under us,
and to protract an inevitable fall. We may enjoy the
present while we are insensible of infirmity and decay :
but the present, like a note in music, is nothing but as it
appertains to what is past and what is to come. There
are no fields of amaranth on this side of the grave : there
are no voices, O Rhodope, that are not soon mute, how-
ever tuneful : there is no name, with whatever emphasis
of passionate love repeated, of which the echo is not
faint at last.
LXXV.
Epicurus converses with his girl pupils Leontion and Ternissc,.
Leontion. It is as wise to moderate our belief as our
desires.
Epicurus. Some minds require much belief, some
202 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
thrive on little. Rather an exuberance of it is feminine
and beautiful. It acts differently on different hearts : it
troubles some, it consoles others : in the generous it is
the nurse of tenderness and kindness, of heroism and
self-devotion : in the ungenerous it fosters pride, im-
patience of contradiction and appeal, and, like some
waters, what it finds a dry stick or hollow straw, it
leaves a stone.
Ternissa, We want it chiefly to make the way of
death an easy one.
Epicurus. There is no easy path leading out of life,
and few are the easy ones that lie within it. I would
adorn and smoothen the declivity, and make my residence
as commodious as its situation and dimensions may allow :
but principally I would cast underfoot the empty fear of
death.
Ternissa. O ! how can you ?
Epicurus. By many arguments already laid down :
then by thinking that some perhaps, in almost every age,
have been timid and delicate as Ternissa ; and yet have
slept soundly, have felt no parent's or friend's tear upon
their faces, no throb against their breasts : in short, have
been in the calmest of all possible conditions, while those
around were in the most deplorable and desperate.
Ternissa. It would pain me to die, if it were only at
the idea that any one I love would grieve too much
for me.
Epicurus. Let the loss of our friends be our only grief,
and the apprehension of displeasing them our only fear.
Leontion. No apostrophes ! no interjections ! your
argument was unsound ; your means futile.
Epicuriis. Tell me then, whether the horse of a rider
on the road should not be spurred forward if he started
at a shadow.
Leontion. Yes.
DEATH AND MORTALITY. 203
Epicurus. I thought so : it would however be better
to guide him quietly up to it, and to show him that it
was one. Death is less than a shadow : it represents
nothing, even imperfectly.
Leontion. Then at the best what is it ? why care about
it, think about it, or remind us that it must befall us ?
Would you take the same trouble, when you see my hair
entwined with ivy, to make me remember that, although
the leaves are green and pliable, the stem is fragile and
rough, and that before I go to bed I shall have many
knots and entanglements to extricate? Let me have
them ; but let me not hear of them until the time is come.
Epicurus. I would never think of death as an embar-
rassment, but as a blessing.
Ternissa. How ! a blessing ?
Epicurus. What, if it makes our enemies cease to hate
us ? What, if it makes our friends love us the more ?
LXXVI.
Marcus Tnlltns Cicero converses with his brother Qutnctus.
Quinctus. Within how few minutes has the night
closed in upon us ! Nothing is left discernible of the
promontories, or the long irregular breakers under them.
We have before us only a faint glimmering from the shells
in our path, and from the blossoms of the arbutus.
Marctts. The little solitary Circean hill, and even the
nearer, loftier, and whiter rocks of Anxur, are become
indistinguishable. We leave our Cato and our Lucullus,
we leave Cornelia and her children, the scenes of friend-
ship and the recollections of greatness, for Lepidus and
Octavius and Antonius ; and who knows whether this
birthday, between which and us so few days intervene,
204 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
may not be, as it certainly will be the least pleasurable,
the last !
Quinctus. Do not despond, my brother !
Marcus. I am as far from despondency and dejection
as from joy and cheerfulness. Death has two aspects :
dreary and sorrowful to those of prosperous, mild and
almost genial to those of adverse, fortune. Her counte-
nance is old to the young, and youthful to the aged : to
the former her voice is importunate, her gait terrific ; the
latter she approaches like a bedside friend, and calls in
a whisper that invites to rest. To us, my Quinctus,
advanced as we are on our way, weary from its per-
plexities and dizzy from its precipices, she gives a calm
welcome ; let her receive a cordial one.
If life is a present which any one foreknowing its con-
tents would have willingly declined, does it not follow
that any one would as willingly give it up, having well
tried what they are ? I speak of the reasonable, the firm,
the virtuous ; not of those who, like bad governors, are
afraid of laying down the powers and privileges they have
been proved unworthy of holding. Were it certain that
the longer we live the wiser we become and the happier,
then indeed a long life would be desirable : but since on
the contrary our mental strength decays, and our enjoy-
ments of every kind not only sink and cease, but diseases
and sorrows come in place of them, if any wish is rational,
it is surely the wish that we should go away unshaken by
years, undepressed by griefs, and undespoiled of our better
faculties. Life and death appear more certainly ours
than whatsoever else : and yet hardly can that be called
curs, which comes without our knowledge, and goes with-
out it ; or that which we cannot put aside if we would,
and indeed can anticipate but little. There are few who
can regulate life to any extent ; none who can order the
things it shall receive or exclude. What value then
DEATH AND MORTALITY. 205
should be placed upon it by the prudent man when duty
or necessity calls him away ? Or what reluctance should
he feel on passing into a state where at least he must be
conscious of fewer checks and inabilities? Such, my
brother, as the brave commander, when from the secret
and dark passages of some fortress wherein implacable
enemies besieged him, having performed all his duties,
and exhausted all his munition, he issues at a distance
into open day.
LXXVII.
Ctzsar. To stand upon one's guard against Death
exasperates her malice, and protracts our sufferings.
LXXVIII.
Ccesar. Life may concern us, death not ; for in death
we neither can act nor reason, we neither can persuade
nor command ; and our statues are worth more than we
are, let them be but wax.
LXXIX.
Milton. We are all of the earth, earthly. They who
are proud of family antiquity ought to be ashamed of
beating a dog, who, we are certified, is of older creation.
Probably the worms are of older still. Happily they are
deaf and dumb ; if they had ears and tongues they would
never so misapply them as we often do. We shall soon
lie in the midst of them as quiet and mute as they are.
We cause the bloodshed one of another, and often go far
afield to chase the unoffending. The greediest worms
are guiltless of the like ; they only exact what is their
206 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
inheritance ; we must pay them the debt we owe them ;
let it be unreluctantly.
LXXX.
Vittoria Colonna. Before we go into another state of
existence, a thousand things occur to detach us imper-
ceptibly from this. To some (who knows to how many ?)
the images of early love return with an inviting yet a
saddening glance, and the breast that was laid out for
the sepulchre bleeds afresh. Such are ready to follow
where they are beckoned, and look keenly into the daik-
ness they are about to penetrate.
LIFE AND HUMAN NA TURE.
LXXXI.
Barrow. We must not indulge in unfavourable views
of mankind, since by doing it we make bad men believe
that they are no worse than others, and we teach the
good that they are good in vain.
Sidney. Goodness does not more certainly make men
happy than happiness makes them good.
LXXXIII.
Vittoria Colonna. The beautiful in itself is useful by
awakening our finer sensibilities, which it must be our
own fault if we do not often carry with us into action.
Barrow. Those who are quite satisfied, sit still and
do nothing ; those who are not quite satisfied, are the
sole benefactors of the world.
LXXXV.
Epicurus. Abstinence from low pleasures is the only
means of meriting or of obtaining the higher.
208 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
LXXXVI,
Bossiiet. There is no funeral so sad to follow as the
funeral of our own youth, which we have been pampering
with fond desires, ambitious hopes, and all the bright
berries that hang in poisonous clusters over the path oi
life.
LXXXVII. LOVE OF POWER.
La Fontaine. When I think, as you make me do, how
ambitious men are, even those whose teeth are too loose
(one would fancy) for a bite at so hard an apple as the
devil of ambition offers them, I am inclined to believe
that we are actuated not so much by selfishness as you
represent it, but under another form, the love of power.
Not to speak of territorial dominion or political office,
and such other things as we usually class under its ap
purtenances, do we not desire an exclusive control ovei
what is beautiful and lovely ? the possession of pleasant
fields, -of well-situated houses, of cabinets, of images, of
pictures, and indeed of many things pleasant to see but
useless to possess ; even of rocks, of streams, and of foun-
tains ? These things, you will tell me, have their utility.
True, but not to the wisher, nor does the idea of it enter
his mind. Do not we wish that the object of our love
should be devoted to us only; and that our children
should love us better than their brothers and sisters, or
even than the mother who bore them ? Love would be
arrayed in the purple robe of sovereignty, mildly as he
may resolve to exercise his power.
LXXXVIII.
Aspasia. We may be introduced to Power by Human-
ity, and at first may love her less for her own sake than
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 2OQ
for Humanity's, but by degrees we become so accustomed
to her as to be quite uneasy without her.
LXXXIX.
Aspasia. Three affections of the soul predominate ;
Love, Religion, and Power. The first two are often
united ; the other stands widely apart from them, and
neither is admitted nor seeks admittance to their society.
Galileo. When Satan would have led our Saviour into
temptation, he did not conduct him where the looser
passions were wandering ; he did not conduct him amid
flowers and herbage, where a fall would have only been
a soilure to our frail human nature ; no, he led him up
to an exceeding high mountain, and showed him palaces,
and towers, and treasuries, knowing that it was by those
alone that he himself could have been so utterly lost to
rectitude and beatitude. Our Saviour spurned the temp-
tation, and the greatest of his miracles was accomplished.
xci.
Diogenes. Great men too often have greater faults than
little men can find room for.
XCII.
Marvel. Your conscientious men are oftener conscien-
tious in withholding than in bestowing.
Weak minds return men hatred for contempt,
Strong ones contempt for hatred. Which is best ?
P
210 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
XCIV.
Pericles. Ridicule often parries resentment, but resent-
ment never yet parried ridicule.
xcv.
Lucian. He who brings ridicule to bear against truth,
finds in his hand a blade without a hilt.
xcvi.
Rochefoucauld. You may call every creature under
heaven fool and rogue, and your auditor will join with
you heartily : hint to him the slightest of his own defects
or foibles, and he draws his rapier. You and he are the
judges of the world, but not its denizens.
xcvn.
Granduke Peter Leopold. A man's vanity tells him
what is honour, a man's conscience what is justice : the
one is busy and importunate in all times and places : the
other but touches the sleeve when men are alone, and, if
they do not mind it, leaves them.
XCVIII. VANITY IN WOMEN.
Vittoria. Vanity in women is not invariably, though
it is too often, the sign of a cold and selfish heart ; in
men it always is : therefore we ridicule it in society, and
in private hate it.
In general, it may be apprehended, we like women
little the better for excelling us even moderately in our
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 211
own acquirements and capacities. But what energy
springs from her weaknesses ! what poetry is the fruit
of her passions !
CleonZ. Take care, then, Aspasia ! do not leave off
entirely all dissimulation. It is as feminine a virtue, and
as necessary to a woman, as religion. If you are with-
out it, you will have a grace the less, and (what you
could worse spare) a sigh the more.
Epicurus. Kindness in ourselves is the honey that
blunts the sting of unkindness in another.
Leontion. Explain to me then, O Epicurus, why we
suffer so much from ingratitude.
Epicurus. We fancy we suffer from ingratitude, while
in reality we suffer from self-love. Passion weeps while
she says, " I did not deserve this from him :" Reason,
while she says it, smoothens her brow at the clear foun-
tain of the heart.
CII.
Bossuet. An ingenuous mind feels in unmerited praise
the bitterest reproof. If you reject it you are unhappy,
if you accept it you are undone.
cm.
Vittoria Colonna. Wishes are by-paths on the declivity
to unhappiness ; the weaker terminate in the sterile sand,
the stronger in the vale of tears.
212 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
CIV.
Wishes are by-paths to unhappiness,
And in the vale of tears they terminate.
CleonZ. Tears, O Aspasia, do not dwell long upon the
cheeks of youth. Rain drops easily from the bud, rests
on the bosom of the maturer flower, and breaks down
that one only which hath lived its day.
CVI.
There are sweet flowers that only blow by night,
And sweet tears are there that avoid the light ;
No mortal sees them ; after day is born
They, like the dew, drop trembling from their thorn.
CVII.
We often hear that such or such a thing " is not worth
an old song." Alas ! how very few things are ! What
precious recollections do some of them awaken ! What
pleasurable tears do they excite ! They purify the stream
of life ; they can delay it on its shelves and rapids ; they
can turn it back again to the soft moss amidst which its
sources issue.
Dr. Johnson (to Home Tooke). Your former conversa-
tion has made me think repeatedly what a number of
beautiful words there are of which we never think of
estimating the value, as there are of blessings. How
carelessly, for example, do we (not we, but people) say,
" I am delighted to hear from you" No other language
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 213
has this beautiful expression, which, like some of the
most lovely flowers, loses its charm for want of close
inspection. When I consider the deep sense of these
very simple and veiy common words, I seem to hear a
voice coming from afar through the air, breathed forth,
and intrusted to the care of the elements, for the nurture
of my sympathy.
CIX.
Milton. The sigh that rises at the thought of a friend
may be almost as genial as his voice. 'Tis a breath that
seems rather to come from him than from ourselves.
CX. FRIENDSHIP.
Pericles. The man who is determined to keep others
fast and firm, must have one end of the bond about his
own breast, sleeping and waking.
CXI.
Sidney. Friendship is a vase, which, when it is flawed
by heat, or violence, or accident, may as well be broken
at once ; it never can be trusted after. The more grace-
ful and ornamental it was, the more clearly do we dis-
cern the hopelessness of restoring it to its former state.
Coarse stones, if they are fractured, may be cemented
again ; precious ones never.
CXII,
Michelangelo. We may make a large hole in a brick
214 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
wall and easily fill it up ; but the slightest flaw in a ruby
or a chrysolite is irreparable. Thus it is in minds. The
ordinary soon take offence and (as they call it) make it
up again ; the sensitive and delicate are long-suffering,
but their wounds heal imperfectly, if at all.
CXIII. TOWN AND COUNTRY.
La Fontaine. The sweetest souls, like the sweetest
flowers, soon canker in cities, and no purity is rarer
there than the purity of delight.
cxiv.
Epicurus. To me there is this advantage in a place
at some distance from the city. Having by no means
the full possession of my faculties where I hear unwel-
come and intrusive voices, or unexpected and irregular
sounds that excite me involuntarily to listen, I assemble
and arrange my thoughts with freedom and with pleasure
in the fresh air, under the open sky : and they are more
lively and vigorous and exuberant when I catch them
as I walk about, and commune with them in silence and
seclusion.
Leontion. It always has appeared to me that conver-
sation brings them forth more readily and plenteously ;
and that the ideas of one person no sooner come out
than another's follow them, whether from the same side
or from the opposite.
Epicurus. They do : but these are not the thoughts
we keep for seed : they come up weak by coming up
close together. In the country the mind is soothed and
satisfied : here is no restraint of motion or of posture.
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 215
These things, little and indifferent as they may seem,
are not so : for the best tempers have need of ease and
liberty, to keep them in right order long enough for the
purposes of composition : and many a froward axiom,
many an inhumane thought, hath arisen from sitting
inconveniently, from hearing a few unpleasant sounds,
from the confinement of a gloomy chamber, or from the
want of symmetry in it. We are not aware of this, until
we find an exemption from it in groves, on promontories,
or along the sea-shore, or wherever else we meet Nature
face to face, undisturbed and solitary.
cxv.
Epicurus. Hither, to these banks of serpolet ; to
these strawberries, whose dying leaves breathe a most
refreshing fragrance ; to this ivy, from which Bacchus
may have crowned himself ; let us retire at the voice of
Discord. Whom should we contend with ? the less ? it
were inglorious : the greater ? it were vain. Do we look
for Truth ? she is not the inhabitant of cities nor delights
in clamour : she steals upon the calm and meditative as
Diana upon Endymion, indulgent in her chastity, en-
couraging a modest, and requiting a faithful love.
Leontion. How Temissa sighs after Truth !
Epicurus. If Truth appeared in daylight among
mortals, she would surely resemble Ternissa. Those
white and lucid cheeks, that youth which appears more
youthful (for unless we are near her we think her yet a
child), and that calm open forehead.
Leontion. Malicious girl ! she conceals it !
Epicurus. Ingenuous girl ! the resemblance was, until
now, imperfect. We must remove the veil ourselves ;
for Truth, whatever the poets may tell us, never comes
2l6 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
without one, diaphanous or opaque. If those who differ
on speculative points, would walk together now and then
in the country, they might find many objects that must
unite them. The same bodily feeling is productive in
some degree of the same mental one. Enjoyment from
sun and air, from exercise and odours, bring hearts
together that schools and council-chambers and popular
assemblies have stood between for years.
CXVI.
Epicurus. O sweet sea-air ! how bland art thou and
refreshing ! Breathe upon Leontion ! breathe upon Ter-
nissa ! bring them health and spirits and serenity, many
springs and many summers, and when the vine-leaves have
reddened and rustle under their feet.
These, my beloved girls, are the children of Eternity :
they played around Theseus and the beauteous Amazon,
they gave to Pallas the bloom of Venus, and to Venus
the animation of Pallas. Is it not better to enjoy by
the hour their soft salubrious influence, than to catch by
fits the rancid breath of demagogues ; than to swell and
move under it without or against our will ; than to
acquire the semblance of eloquence by the bitterness of
passion, the tone of philosophy by disappointment, or
the credit of prudence by distrust? Can fortune, can
industry, can desert itself, bestow on us anything we
have not here ?
Leontion. And when shall those three meet? The
gods have never united them, knowing that men would
put them asunder at their first appearance.
Epicurus. I am glad to leave the city as often as pos-
sible, full as it is of high and glorious reminiscences, and
am inclined much rather to indulge in quieter scenes,
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 217
whither the graces and friendship lead me. I would
not contend even with men able to contend with me.
You, Leontion, I see, think differently, and have com-
posed at last your long-meditated work against the philo-
sophy of Theophrastus.
Leontion. Why not ? he has been praised above his
merits.
Epicurus. My Leontion ! you have inadvertently
given me the reason and origin of all controversial writ-
ings. They flow not from a love of truth or a regard for
science, but from envy and ill-will. Setting aside the
evil of malignity, always hurtful to ourselves, not always
to others, there is weakness in the argument you have
adduced. When a writer is praised above his merits in
his own times, he is certain of being estimated below
them in the times succeeding. Paradox is dear to most
people : it bears the appearance of originality, but is
usually the talent of the superficial, the perverse, and
the obstinate.
CXVII. LOVE OF TRUTH,
Epicurus. Man is a hater of truth, a lover of fiction.
Leontion. How then happens it that children, when
you have related to them any story which has greatly in-
terested them, ask immediately and impatiently, is it
true ?
Epicurus. Children are not men nor women : they
are almost as different creatures, in many respects, as if
they never were to be the one or the other : they are as
unlike as buds are unlike flowers, and almost as blossoms
are unlike fruits. Greatly. are they better than they are
about to be, unless Philosophy raises her hand above
them when the noon is coming on, and shelters them at
2l8 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
one season from the heats that would scorch and wither,
and at another from the storms that would shatter and
subvert them.
CXVIII.
Demosthenes. Who has ever wished to be persuaded
against the grain in any matter of importance or utility ?
A child, if you tell him a horrible or a pathetic story, is
anxious to be persuaded it is true ; men and women, if
you tell them one injurious to the respectability of a
neighbour. Desire of persuasion rests and dies here.
CXIX.
Pollio. In one way or other (if not to you, to them-
selves) most men delight in lying; all in being lied to,
provided the lie be soft and gentle, and imperceptible in
its approaches.
cxx.
Lord Brooke. Hardly anything which we receive for
truth, is really and entirely so, let it appear as plain as it
may, and let its appeal be not only to the understanding,
but to the senses ; for our words do not follow them ex-
actly ; and it is by words we receive truth and express it.
CXXI.
Thought fights with thought : out springs a spark of
truth
From the collision of the sword and shield.
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 2IQ
Rochefoucauld. Many, indeed most people, will differ
from me. Nothing is quite the same to the intellect of
any two men, much less of all. When one says to
another, " I am entirely of your opinion," he uses in
general an easy and indifferent phrase, believing in its
accuracy, without examination, without thought. The
nearest resemblance in opinions, if we could trace every
line of it, would be found greatly more divergent than
the nearest in the human form or countenance, and in
the same proportion as the varieties of mental qualities
are more numerous and fine than of the bodily.
CXXIII. QUICKNESS.
Barrow. Quickness is among the least of the mind's
properties, and belongs to her in almost her lowest state :
nay, it doth not abandon her when she is driven from
her home, when she is wandering and insane. The
mad often retain it : the liar has it, the cheat has it : we
find it on the race-course and at the card-table : educa-
tion does not give it, and reflection takes away from it.
cxxiv.
Demosthenes. It is easier to make an impression upon
sand than upon marble : but it is easier to make a just
one upon marble than upon sand.
cxxv.
Barroi.v. That lesson which a dunce can learn at a
glance, and likes mightily, must contain little, and not
good.
cxxvi.
Cleont. The young mind should be nourished with simple
220 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
and grateful food, and not too copious. It should be little
exercised until its nerves and muscles show themselves,
and even then rather for air than anything else. Study is
the bane of boyhood, the aliment of youth, the indulg-
ence of manhood, and the restorative of age.
Barrow. Do not fear to be less rich in the produc-
tions of your mind at one season than at another.
Marshes are always marshes, and pools are pools ; but
the sea, in those places where we admire it most, is
sometimes sea and sometimes dry land ; sometimes it
brings ships into port, and sometimes it leaves them
where they can be refitted and equipt. The capa-
cious mind neither rises nor sinks, neither labours nor
rests, in vain. Even in those intervals when it loses the
consciousness of its powers, when it swims as it were in
vacuity, and feels not what is external nor internal, it
acquires or recovers strength, as the body does by sleep.
CXXVIII.
Cleont. I do believe, Aspasia, that studious men, who
look so quiet, are the most restless men in existence.
CXXIX. IDLENESS.
Ternissa. Leontion said that even bad writers may
amuse our idle hours. Alas ! even good ones do not
much amuse mine, unless they record an action of love
or generosity. As for the graver, why cannot they come
among us and teach us, just as you do ?
LIFE AND HUMAN NATURE. 221
Epicurus. Would you wish it ?
Ternissa. No, no ; I do not want them : only I was
imagining how pleasant it is to converse as we are doing,
and how sorry I should be to pore over a book instead
of it. Books always make me sigh and think about
other things. Why do you laugh, Leontion ?
Epicurus. She was mistaken in saying bad authors
may amuse our idleness. Leontion knows not then how
sweet and sacred idleness is.
Leontion. To render it sweet and sacred, the heart
must have a little garden of its own, with its umbrage
and fountains and perennial flowers; a careless com-
pany ! Sleep is called sacred as well as sweet by
Homer : and idleness is but a step from it. The idle-
ness of the wise and virtuous should be both, it being
the repose and refreshment necessary for past exertions
and for future : it punishes the bad man, it rewards the
good : the deities enjoy it, and Epicurus praises it.
LOVE, MARRIAGE, AND FAMILY
AFFECTION.
cxxx.
Anaxagoras. Is it not in philosophy as in love? the
more we have of it, and the less we talk about it, the
better.
cxxxi.
Messala. From the mysteries of religion the veil is
seldom to be drawn, from the mysteries of love never.
For this offence the gods take away from us our freshness
of heart and our susceptibility of pure delight. The well
loses the spring that fed it, and what is exposed in the
shallow basin soon evaporates.
Panatius. Where Love finds the soul he neglects the
body, and only turns to it in his idleness as to an after-
thought. Its best allurements are but the nuts and figs
of the divine repast.
CXXXIII.
Aspasia. The happiest of pillows is not that which
Love first presses ; it is that which Death has frowned
on and passed over.
LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 223
CXXXIV.
CleonZ. The very beautiful rarely love at all. Those
precious images are placed above the reach of the Passions.
Time alone is permitted to efface them ; Time, the father
of the gods, and even their consumer.
CXXXV. LOVE'S TIMIDITY.
CleonL Could Sappho be ignorant how infantinely
inarticulate is early love? Could she be ignorant that
shame and fear seize it unrelentingly by the throat, while
hard-hearted impudence stands at ease, prompt at oppor-
tunity, and profuse in declarations !
There is a gloom in deep love, as in deep water : there
is a silence in it which suspends the foot, and the folded
arms and the dejected head are the images it reflects.
No voice shakes its surface : the Muses themselves
appr&ach it with a tardy and a timid step, and with a
low and tremulous and melancholy song.
CXXXVI.
Lord Brooke. Women have no favour t>r mercy for the
silence their charms impose on us. Little are they aware
of the devotion we are offering to them, in that state
whereinto the true lover is ever prone to fall, and which
appears to them inattention, indifference, or moroseness.
CXXXVII.
Lord Brooke. When a woman hath ceased to be quite
the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes.
224 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Sidney. Hush ! I will hear from you no sentiment but
your own, and this can never be yours. Variations there
are of temperature in the finest season ; and the truest
heart has not always the same pulsations. If we had
nothing to pardon or to be pardoned,, we might appear
to be more perfect than we are, but we should in fact be
less so. Self-love is ungenerous and unforgiving; love
grieves and forgives.
CXXXVIII. LOVE AND GENIUS.
Michelangelo. Ah ! there is love too, even here below,
more precious than immortality ; but it is not the love of
a Circe or a Calypso.
Vittoria Colonna. Nor were they happy themselves ;
and yet perhaps they were not altogether undeserving of
it, they who could select for the object of their affections
the courageous, the enduring, and the intelligent. There
are few men at any time whom moral dignity and eleva-
tion of genius have made conspicuous above the mass of
society ; and fewer still are the women who can dis-
tinguish them from persons of ordinary capacity, endowed
with qualities merely agreeable. But if it happens that
a man of highest worth has been read attentively and
thoroughly by those eyes which he has taught the art
of divination, let another object intervene and occupy
their attention, let the beloved be induced to think it a
merit and a duty to forget him, yet memory is not an
outcast nor an alien when the company of the day is
gone, but says many things and asks many questions
which she would not turn away from if she could.
CXXXIX. MARRIAGE.
Mr. Tallboys. Death itself to the reflecting mind is less
LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 225
serious than marriage. The older plant is cut down that
the younger may have room to flourish : a few tears drop
into the loosened soil, and buds and blossoms spring over
it. Death is not even a blow ; is not even a pulsation ;
it is a pause. But marriage unrolls the awful lot of
numberless generations. Health, Genius, Honour, are
the words inscribed on some ; on others are Disease,
Fatuity, and Infamy.
Diogenes. There are many who marry from utter indi-
gence of thought, captivated by the playfulness of youth,
as if a kitten were never to be a cat 1
CXLI.
Marvel. Men who have been unsparing of their wis-
dom, like ladies who have been unfrugal of their favours,
are abandoned by those who owe most to them, and
hated or slighted by the rest. I wish beauty in her lost
estate had consolations like genius.
Parker. Fie, fie I Mr. Marvel ! Consolations for
frailty !
Marvel. What wants them more? The reed is cut
down, and seldom does the sickle wound the hand that
cuts it. There it lies ; trampled on, withered, and soon
to be blown away.
Parker. We should be careful and circumspect in our
pity, and see that it falls on clean ground. Such a laxity
of morals can only be taught in Mr. Milton's school.
He composed, I remember, a Treatise on Divorce, and
would have given it great facilities.
Q
226 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Marvel. He proved by many arguments what requires
but few : that happiness is better than unhappiness ; that,
when two persons cannot agree, it is wiser and more
Christian-like that they should not disagree ; that, when
they cease to love each other, it is something if they be
hindered by the gentlest of checks, from running to the
extremity of hatred ; and lastly, how it conduces to cir-
cumspection and forbearance to be aware that the bond
of matrimony is not indissoluble, and that the bleeding
heart may be saved from bursting.
Parker. Monstrous sophistry ! abominable doctrines !
What more, sir ? what more ?
Marvel. * * * Milton has, I am afraid, imitated too
closely the authoritative voice of the patriarchs, and
been somewhat too Oriental (I forbear to say Scrip-
tural) in his relations as a husband. But who, whether
among the graver or less grave, is just to woman ?
There may be moments when the beloved tells us,
and 1 tells us truly, that we are dearer to her than life.
Is not this enough? is it not above all merit? yet, if
ever the ardour of her enthusiasm subsides ; if her love
ever loses later in the day, the spirit and vivacity of its
early dawn ; if between the sigh and the blush an interval
is perceptible ; if the arm mistakes the chair for the
shoulder ; what an outcry is there ! what a proclamation
of her injustice and her inconstancy ! what an alternation
of shrinking and spurning at the coldness of her heart !
Do we ask within if our own has retained all its ancient
loyalty, all its own warmth, and all that was poured into
it ? Often the true lover has little of true love compared
with what he has undeservedly received and unreasonably
exacts. But let it also be remembered that marriage is
the metempsychosis of women ; that it turns them into
different creatures from what they were before. Liveli
ness in the girl may have been mistaken for good-temper ;
LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 227
the little pervicacity which at first is attractively provok-
ing, at last provokes without its attractiveness : negligence
of order and propriety, of duties and civilities, long
endured, often deprecated, ceases to be tolerable, when
children grow up and are in danger of following the
example. It often happens that, if a man unhappy in
the married state were to disclose the manifold causes of
his uneasiness, they would be found, by those who were
beyond their influence, to be of such a nature as rather to
excite derision than sympathy. The waters of bitterness
do not fall on his head in a cataract, but through a colan-
der ; one, however, like the vases of the Danaides, per-
forated only for replenishment. We know scarcely the
vestibule of a house of which we fancy we have penetrated
into all the corners. We know not how grievously a
man may have suffered, long before the calumnies of the
world befell him as he reluctantly left his house-door.
There are women from whom incessant tears of anger
swell forth at imaginary wrongs; but of contrition for
their own delinquencies, not one.
Milton, in writing his treatise, of which probably the
first idea was suggested from his own residence, was
aware that the laws should provide, not only against our
violence and injustice, but against our levity and incon-
stancy ; and that a man's capriciousness or satiety should
not burst asunder the ties by which families are united.
Do you believe that the crime of adultery has never been
committed to the end of obtaining a divorce ? Do you
believe that murder, that suicide, never has been com-
mitted because a divorce was unattainable? Thus the
most cruel tortures are terminated by the most frightful
crimes. Milton has made his appeal to the authority of
religion : we lower our eyes from him, and point to the
miseries and guilt on every side before us, caused by the
corrosion or the violent disruption of bonds which human-
228 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
ity would have loosened. He would have tried with a
patient ear and with a delicate hand the chord that
offended by its harshness ; and, when he could not reduce
it to the proper tone, he would remove it for another.
CXLII. LOVE OF CHILDREN.
Princess Dashkof. Even the worst husband must have
surely the recollection of some sweet moments. The stern-
est must have trembled, both with apprehension and with
hope, at the first alteration in the health of his consort ;
at the first promise of true union, imperfect without
progeny. Then there are thanks rendered together to
heaven, and satisfactions communicated, and infant words
interpreted : and when the one has failed to pacify the
sharp cries of babyhood, pettish and impatient as sovranty
itself, the success of the other in calming it, and the un-
envied triumph of this exquisite ambition, and the calm
gazes that it wins upon it.
CXLIII.
Milton. Will there never be a time when every mother
will be the priestess of her children and family? Our
duties are simple and learnt easily. No sunrise but
awakens one or other of them into activity and growth.
Boys are educated, girls are not ; yet girls should be
educated first, and taught the most impressively. These
slender and graceful columns are not only the ornament,
but also the support, of society. Men are the braver for
the reverence they bear toward them, and in them do
they find their reward.
LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 229
CXLIV.
Aspasia. We are told by Herodotus that a boy in
Persia is kept in the apartments of the women, and pro-
hibited from seeing his father, until the fifth year. The
reason is, he informs us, that if he dies before this age,
his loss may give the parent no uneasiness. And such
a custom he thinks commendable. Herodotus has no
child, Cleone ! If he had, far other would be his feelings
and his judgment. Before that age, how many seeds are
sown, which future years, and distant ones, mature
successively ! How much fondness, how much gener-
osity, what hosts of other virtues, courage, constancy,
patriotism, spring into the father's heart from the cradle
of his child ! And does never the fear come over him,
that what is most precious to him upon earth is left in
careless or perfidious, in unsafe or unworthy hands?
Does it never occur to him that he loses a son in every
one of these five years ? What is there so affecting to
the brave and virtuous man, as that which perpetually
wants his help and cannot call for it ? What is so differ-
ent as the speaking and the mute ? And hardly less so
are inarticulate sounds, and sounds which he receives
half -formed, and which he delights to modulate, and
which he lays with infinite care and patience, not only on
the tender attentive ear, but on the half-open lips, and on
the eyes, and on the cheeks ; as if they all were listeners.
In every child there are many children ; but coming forth
year after year, each somewhat like and somewhat vary-
ing. When they are grown much older, the leaves (as it
were) lose their pellucid green, the branches their grace-
ful pliancy.
Is there any man so rich in happiness that he can afford
to throw aside these first five years ? is there any man who
can hope for another five so exuberant in unsating joy ?
230 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Aspasia. Where on earth is there so much society as
in a beloved child ? He accompanies me in my walks,
gazes into my eyes for what I am gathering from books,
tells me more and better things than they do, and asks
me often what neither I nor they can answer. When
he is absent I am filled with reflections : when he is
present I have room for none beside what I receive
from him. The charms of his childhood bring me back
to the delights of mine, and I fancy I hear my own
words in a sweeter voice. Will he (O how I tremble at
the mute oracle of futurity !) will he ever be as happy as
I have been ? Alas ! and must he ever be as subject
to fears and apprehensions ? No ; thanks to the gods !
never, never. He carries his father's heart within his
breast : I see him already an orator and a leader, I try
to teach him daily some of his father's looks and gestures,
and I never smile but at his docility and gravity.
How his father will love him ! the little thunderer ! the
winner of cities ! the vanquisher of Cleones !
Cicero. The pleasure a man receives from his children
resembles that which, with more propriety than any other,
we may attribute to the Divinity.
CXLVII.
Marcus Tullius Cicero converses with his brother Quinctus.
Quinctus. Proceed, my brother ! for in every depres-
sion of mind, in every excitement of feeling, my spirits
are equalised by your discourse; and that which you
LOVE, MARRIAGE, FAMILY AFFECTION. 23!
said with too much brevity of our children, soothes me
greatly.
Marcus. I am persuaded of the truth in what I have
spoken ; and yet ah, Quinctus ! there is a tear that
philosophy cannot dry, and a pang that will rise as we
approach the gods.
Two things tend beyond all others, after philosophy, to
inhibit and check our ruder passions as they grow and
swell in us, and to keep our gentler in their proper play :
and these two things are, seasonable sorrow and inoffen-
sive pleasure, each moderately indulged. Nay, there is
also a pleasure, humble, it is true, but graceful and
insinuating, which follows close upon our very sorrows,
reconciles us to them gradually, and sometimes renders
us at last undesirous altogether of abandoning them. If
ever you have remembered the anniversary of some day
whereon a dear friend was lost to you, tell me whether
that anniversary was not purer and even calmer than the
day before. The sorrow, if there should be any left, is
soon absorbed, and full satisfaction takes the place of it,
while you perform a pious office to friendship, required
and appointed by the ordinances of Nature. When my
Tulliola was torn away from me, a thousand plans were in
readiness for immortalising her memory, and raising a
monument up to the magnitude of my grief. The grief
itself has done it : the tears I then shed over her assuaged
it in me, and did everything that could be done for her,
or hoped, or wished. I called upon Tulliola ; Rome and
the whole world heard me : her glory was a part of mine,
and mine of hers ; and when Eternity had received her at
my hands, I wept no longer. The tenderness wherewith
I mentioned and now mention her, though it suspends
my voice, brings what consoles and comforts me : it is the
milk and honey left at the sepulchre, and equally sweet
(I hope) to the departed.
232 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
The gods who have given us our affections, permit us
surely the uses and the signs of them. Immoderate grief,
like everything else immoderate, is useless and pernicious ;
but if we did not tolerate and endure it, if we did not
prepare for it, meet it, commune with it, if we did not
even cherish it in its season, much of what is best in our
faculties, much of our tenderness, much of our generosity,
much of our patriotism, much also of our genius, would
be stifled and extinguished.
When I hear any one call upon another to be manly
and to restrain his tears, if they flow from the social and
kind affections I doubt the humanity and distrust the
wisdom of the counsellor. Were he humane, he would
be more inclined to pity and to sympathise than to lecture
and reprove ; and were he wise, he would consider that
tears are given us by nature as a remedy to affliction,
although, like other remedies, they should come to our
relief in private.
CXLVIII.
Boccaccio. The noble mansion is most distinguished by
the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away ;
and so is the noble mind.
MANNERS, SOCIETY, AND NATIONAL
CHARACTER.
CXLIX. WOMEN'S DRESS.
Cleonl (writing to Aspasia at Athens}. Epimedea,
it appears, has not corrupted very grossly your purity
and simplicity in dress. Yet, remembering your ob-
servation on armlets, I cannot but commend your kind-
ness and sufferance in wearing her emeralds. Your
opinion was formerly that we should be careful not to
subdivide our persons. The arm is composed of three
parts; no one of them is too long. Now the armlet
intersects that portion of it which must be considered as
the most beautiful. In my idea of the matter, the sandal
alone is susceptible of gems, after the zone has received
the richest. The zone is necessary to our vesture, and
encompasses the person, in every quarter of the humanised
world, in one invariable manner. The hair, too, is
divided by nature in the middle of the head. There is a
cousinship between the hair and the flowers ; and from
this relation the poets have called by the same name the
leaves and it. They appear on the head as if they had
been seeking one another. Our national dress, very dif-
ferent from the dresses of barbarous nations, is not the
invention of the ignorant or the slave ; but the sculptor,
the painter, and the poet, have studied how best to
adorn the most beautiful object of their fancies and con-
templations. The Indians, who believe that human pains
OF
XTTTT -'
234 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
and sufferings are pleasing to the deity, make incisions
in their bodies, and insert into them imperishable colours.
They also adorn the ears and noses and foreheads of their
gods. These were the ancestors of the Egyptian ; we
chose handsomer and better-tempered ones for our wor-
ship, but retained the same decorations in our sculpture,
and to a degree which the sobriety of the Egyptian had
reduced and chastened. Hence we retain the only mark
of barbarism which dishonours our national dress, the use
of earrings. If our statues should all be broken by some
convulsion of the earth, would it be believed by future
ages that, in the country and age of Sophocles, the
women tore holes in their ears to let rings into, as the
more brutal of peasants do with the snouts of sows J
CL. SCENTS AND THEIR ASSOCIATIONS.
Aspasia (writing to CleonZ at Miletus}. Thanks for the
verses ! I hope Leuconoe was as grateful as I am, and
as sensible to their power of soothing. Thanks too for
the perfumes ! Pericles is ashamed of acknowledging he
is fond of them ; but I am resolved to betray one secret
of his : I have caught him several times trying them as
he ca'lled it.
How many things are there that people pretend to
dislike, without any reason, as far as we know, for the
dislike or the pretence ! I love sweet odours. Surely
my Cleone herself must have breathed her very soul into
these ! Let me smell them again : let me inhale them
into the sanctuary of my breast, lighted up by her love
for their reception.
But, ah, Cleone ! what an importunate and exacting
creature is Aspasia ! Have you no willows fresh peeled ?
None lying upon the bank, for baskets, white, rounded,
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 235
and delicate, as your fingers ! How fragrant they were
formerly ! I have seen none lately. Do you remember
the cross old Hermesianax ? how he ran to beat us for
breaking his twigs ? and how, after looking in our faces,
he seated himself down again, finished his basket, dis-
bursed from a goat- skin a corroded clod of rancid cheese,
put it in, pushed it to us, forced it under my arm, told
us to carry it home with the gods ! and lifted up both
hands and blest us. I do not wish that one exactly ;
cheese is the cruellest of deaths to me ; and Pericles
abhors it.
I am running over trifling occurrences which you must
have forgotten. You are upon the spot, and have no
occasion to call to memory how the munificent old basket-
maker looked after us not seeing his dog at our heels ;
how we coaxed the lean, shaggy, suspicious animal ; how
many devices we contrived to throw down, or let slip, so
that the good man might not observe it, the pestilence
you insisted on carrying ; how many names we called the
dog by ere we found the true one, Cyrus ; how when
we had drawn him behind the lentisk, we rewarded him
for his assiduities, holding each an ear nevertheless, that
he might not carry back the gift to his master ; and how
we laughed at our fears, when a single jerk of the head
served at once to engulf the treasure and to disengage
him.
I shall always love the smell of the peeled willow.
Have you none for me ? Is there no young poplar then,
with a tear in his eye on bursting into bud ? I am not
speaking by metaphor and Asiatically. I want the pop-
lars, the willows, the water-lilies, and the soft green
herbage. How we enjoyed it on the Mseander ! what
liberties we took with it ! robbing it of the flowers it had
educated, of those it was rearing, of those that came
confidently out to meet us, and of those that hid them-
236 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
selves. None escaped us. For these remembrances,
green is the colour I love best. It brings me to the
Fortunate Island of my Cleone ; it brings me back to
childhood, the proud little nurse of Youth, brighter of
eye and lighter of heart than Youth herself.
These are not regrets, Cleone ; they are respirations
necessary to existence. You may call them half- wishes
if you will. We are poor indeed when we have no half-
wishes left us. The heart and the imagination close the
shutters the instant they are gone.
Do not chide me then for coming to you after the
blossoms and buds and herbage ; do not keep to your-
self all the grass on the Mseander. We used to share it ;
we will now. I love it wherever I can get a glimpse of
it. It is the home of the eyes, ever ready to receive
them, and spreading its cool couch for their repose.
CLI. SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE.
Epicurus. To be wise indeed and happy and self-
possessed, we must often be alone : we must mix as little
as we can with what is called society, and abstain rather
more than seems desirable even from the better few.
Ternissa. You have commanded us at all times to ask
you anything we do not understand : why then use the
phrase "what is called society"? as if there could be a
doubt whether we are in society when we converse with
many.
Epicurus. We may meet and converse with thousands :
you and Leontion and myself could associate with few.
Society ', in the philosophical sense of the word, is almost
the contrary of what it is in the common acceptation.
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 237
CLII.
Epicurus. Dinner is a less gratification to me than to
many : I dine alone.
Ternissa. Why?
Epicurus. To avoid the noise, the heat, and the inter-
mixture both of odours and of occupations. I cannot
bear the indecency of speaking with a mouth in which
there is food. I careen my body (since it is always in
want of repair) in as unobstructed a space as I can, and
I lie down and sleep awhile when the work is over.
Lucullus. To dine in company with more than two is
a Gaulish and a German thing. I can hardly bring myself
to believe that I have eaten in concert with twenty ; so
barbarous and herdlike a practice does it now appear to
me : such an incentive to drink much and talk loosely ;
not to add, such a necessity to speak loud, which is
clownish and odious in the extreme.
Pericles. Politeness is in itself a power, and takes away
the weight and galling from every other that we may
exercise.
CLV.
Pericles. Every time we pronounce a word differently
from another, we show our disapprobation of his manner,
and accuse him of rusticity. In all common things we
must do as others do. It is more barbarous to under-
mine the stability of a language than of an edifice that
hath stood as long. This is done by the introduction of
changes. Write as others do, but only as the best of
238 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
others : and if one eloquent man, forty or fifty years ago,
spoke and wrote differently from the generality of the
present, follow him, though alone, rather than the many.
But in pronunciation we are not indulged in this latitude
of choice ; we must pronounce as those do who favour
us with their audience.
CLVI.
Petrarca. Nobody ever quite forgave, unless in the low
and ignorant, a wrong pronunciation of his name ; the
humblest being of opinion that they have one of their
own, and one both worth having and worth knowing.
CLVII.
Aspasia. Men may be negligent in their handwriting,
for men may be in a hurry about the business of life ; but
I never knew either a sensible woman or an estimable
one whose writing was disorderly.
CLVIII.
Johnson. And pray, now, what language do you like ?
Home Tooke. The best in all countries is that which
is spoken by intelligent women, of too high rank for petty
affectation, and of too much request in society for deep
study.
CLIX.
Cleone. There is nothing in poetry, or indeed in society,
so unpleasant as affectation. In poetry it arises from a
deficiency of power and a restlessness of pretension : in
conversation, from insensibility to the graces, from an
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 239
intercourse with bad company, and a misinterpretation
of belter.
CLX,
Metastasio. False delicacy is real indelicacy. Half-
educated men employ the most frequently circumlocutions
and ambiguities. The plain vulgar are not the most
vulgar.
CLXI. MEN AND DOGS.
M. La Fontaine apologises to M. de La Rochefoucauld.
La Fontaine. You have been standing a long time, my
lord duke : I must entreat you to be seated.
Rochefoucauld. Excuse me, my dear M. La Fontaine ;
I would much rather stand.
La Fontaine. Mercy on us ! have you been upon your
legs ever since you rose to leave me ?
Rochefoucauld. A change of position is agreeable : a
friend always permits it.
La Fontaine. Sad doings ! sad oversight ! The other
two chairs were sent yesterday evening to be scoured and
mended. But that dog is the best - tempered dog ! an
angel of a dog, I do assure you ; he would have gone
down in a moment, at a word. I am quite ashamed of
myself for such inattention. With your sentiments of
friendship for me, why could you not have taken the
liberty to shove him gently off, rather than give me this
uneasiness ?
Rochefoucauld. My true and kind friend ! we authors
are too sedentary; we are heartily glad of standing to
converse, whenever we can do it without any restraint
on our acquaintance.
La Fontaine. I must reprove that animal when he un-
240 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
curls his body. He seems to be dreaming of Paradise
and Houris. Ay, twitch thy ear, my child ! I wish at
my heart there were as troublesome a fly about the other :
God forgive me ! The rogue covers all my clean linen !
shirt and cravat ! what cares he J
Rochefoucauld. Dogs are not very modest.
La Fontaine. Never say that, M. de la Rochefoucauld !
The most modest people upon earth ! Look at a dog's
eyes ; and he half- closes them, or gently turns them
away, with a motion of the lips, which he licks languidly,
and of the tail, which he stirs tremulously, begging your
forbearance. I am neither blind nor indifferent to the
defects of these good and generous creatures. They are
subject to many such as men are subject to : among the
rest, they disturb the neighbourhood in the discussion of
their private causes ; they quarrel and fight on small
motives, such as a little bad food, or a little vain-glory,
or the sex. But it must be something present or near
that excites them ; and they calculate not the extent of
evil they may do or suffer.
Rochefoucauld. Certainly not : how should dogs calcu-
late?
La Fontaine. I know nothing of the process. I am
unable to inform you how they leap over hedges and
brooks, with exertion just sufficient, and no more. In
regard to honour and a sense of dignity, let me tell you,
a dog accepts the subsidies of his friends, but never claims
them : a dog would not take the field to obtain power for
a son, but leave the son to obtain it by his own activity
and prowess. He conducts his visitor or inmate out a-
hunting, and makes a present of the game to him as freely
as an emperor to an elector. Fond as he is of slumber,
which is indeed one of the pleasantest and best things in
the universe, particularly after dinner, he shakes it off as
willingly as he would a gadfly, in order to defend his
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 241
master from theft and violence. Let the robber or assail-
ant speak as courteously as he may, he waives your diplo-
matical terms, gives his reasons in plain language, and
makes war. I could say many other things to his advan-
tage ; but I never was malicious, and would rather let
both parties plead for themselves : give me the dog,
however.
CLXII.
Marvel. I look to a person of very old family as I do
to anything else that is very old, and I thank him for bring-
ing to me a page of romance which probably he himself
never knew or heard about. Usually, with all his pride
and pretensions, he is much less conscious of the services
his ancestor performed, than my spaniel is of his own
when he carries my glove or cane to me. I would pat
them both on the head for it ; and the civiler and more
reasonable of the two would think himself well rewarded.
CLXIII. ENGLISH HOSPITALITY.
The Portuguese prince Dont Miguel describes to his mother
his treatment as a guest in the house of Lord Dudley.
Mother. Did he treat you handsomely, my child ?
Miguel. Handsomely, for a heretic. He gave me
plenty of fish and eggs both Fridays and Saturdays,
People say he has in his service one of the best cooks in
England : yet you will laugh when you hear how he
cooked things.
The eggs in England are not unlike ours. They have
escaped the effects of what is miscalled the Reformation.
Fish, I just now told you, they have in that country : but
they are somewhat deficient in the nobler species no
bonita, no dolphin ;.and porpoises and seals must be ex-
R
242 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
cessively dear, and the fishermen very inexpert in catching
them, not a single slice having ever been offered to me at
the best covered and most delicate table. They seem
really to prefer the coarser kinds. The Mayor of London
sent, as a present to Conde Dudeli, a prodigious fish he
called sturgeon, a sort of dog-fish, but of the mastiff breed,
and uncontrollable by cookery. Perhaps much of the
deal timber, which bears a heavy duty in the port of
London, is smuggled under the name of sturgeon.
Mother. Never hint it to them : let the knaves be
cheated in the customs. Poor Miguel ! so they reduced
thee to eat chips and shavings and splinters and blocks !
What ! nothing more delicate ?
Miguel. I once was served with what I flattered myself
were surely snails, but I found they were only oysters.
Another time, when I fancied I had a fine cuttle-fish
before me, they put me off with a sole.
Mother. Heretics ! heretics ! poor blind creatures !
little better than Moors, Jews, and Freemasons !
Miguel. I' have tasted in England eight or nine different
kinds of soup ; and vainly have I sounded the most promis-
ing of them for a single morsel of fat bacon or fresh pork.
Mother. Have they no chestnuts and acorns, then ? or
are all the pigs kept to clean the streets ?
Miguel. I do not know : but neither fat bacon nor
lean ever enters their soup ; nor does pork, nor sausage,
nor heart, nor liver, nor caviar, nor vetch, nor gourd,
nor oil, nor cheese.
Mother. Ha ! ha ! I see how it is. They must trade
with some nations where cheese, and oil, and caviar, and
gourd, and vetch are always in great demand ; and these
they export for lucre. And perhaps their animals have
no heart or liver within them. But sausage, and pork,
and bacon Son Miguel ! don't you smell something
there ? The English are Jews in disguise : I often thought
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 243
as much. They won't have Virgin, they won't have
Child, they won't have bacon.
Miguel. I did not say quite that. They eat swine-flesh :
bacon has been brought to me at table: I have seen
them eat it, though strangely.
Mother. With what forms and ceremonies ?
Miguel. Little of those ; for in the mere act of eating,
they really are adepts, and very explicit.
Mother. How then ? how then ? I crack to hear.
Miguel. Boiled, actually boiled ! hot, smoking hot !
and served up whole !
Mother. Smoking a little, but put into ice, no doubt,
to render it eatable, with the radishes, figs, shalots, chives,
bean-pods, green almond -shells, liquorice, and stewed
prunes.
Miguel. I never saw those with it all the while I was
in England ; but I once observed it eaten with half-grown
peas ; and another time a Minister of State was so pre-
occupied by stress of business, that he forgot there was
chicken on his plate, and (as I live) ate both together.
Mother. And they gave you neither stewed prunes nor
figs ^ith it ! My son, they slighted you out of hatred
to me, who always had an eye upon them, which they
never could bear. Ham before a queen's son in this naked
fashion ! And forsooth they talk about alliance I
Miguel. It was Friday, and there were several kinds of
fish at table ; and knowing that I could eat little else, and
observing that I had been helped to a slice of turbot, and
had requested a trifle of assafoetida, and a few lumps of
sugar and a pinch of saffron, and a radish and a dande
lion, a servant brought me a lobster, well enough cut into
pieces, but swimming, or bemired rather, in a semi-liquid
244 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
paste of flour and butter : and though he saw I had turbot
before me, and had heard me call for oil and vinegar and
grated goat -cheese, which a civiler valet had already
brought, he bowed with the gravest face in the world,
and offered me the two fish together, to say nothing of
the butter. I took it ill, but sate silent. To appease
my just resentment, the rest of the company did actually
eat both at once, and some of them so heartily, it was
evident they wished me to believe it is the custom of the
country.
Mother. Fit punishment ! though imposed by them-
selves. Strange uncivilised people ! It may be, how-
. ever, that this is their way of fasting : for they have some
notions of religion, though erroneous and foolish.
Miguel. Mother, nothing can escape your sagacity and
penetration : you are perfectly right. And now I re-
member another fast of theirs, kept in perverseness on
Monday. Count Dudeli had partridges at table ; and I
observed that he took a piece of bread poultice, brought
hot to him from a hospital, and ate it with the breast of
the bird. The others thought to get offices under him
by doing the same ; and, although several did it, there
was not one that was forced to leave the company : such
strong stomachs have the English.
CLXV.
Alfieri. The Spaniards have no palate, the Italians no
scent, the French no ear. Garlic and grease and the
most nauseous of pulse are the favourite cheer of the
Spaniard ; the olfactory nerves of the Italian endure any-
thing but odoriferous flowers and essences ; and no sounds
but soft ones offend the Frenchman.
CLXV I.
Boccaccio. The Frenchman is ready to truss you on his
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 245
rapier, unless you acknowledge the perfection of his
humanity, and to spit in your face, if you. doubt for a
moment the delicacy of his politeness.
CLXVII.
Alfieri. It is easier to get twenty oaths and curses from
an Englishman than one tear ; but there are hot springs
at the centre of his heart which bring forth perpetual
fertility. He puts unhappiness down despotically, and
will labour at doing good if you abstain from looking at
him while he does it.
CLXVII I. ITALIAN TASTE AND THE LOVE OF TREES.
Landor, being at Genoa, converses "with his landlord, the
Marchese Pallavicini.
Landor. I am pleased by the palace opposite, not hav-
ing seen in Italy, until now, a house of any kind with
a span of turf before it. Like yours and your neighbour's,
they generally encroach on some lane, following its wind-
ings and angles, lest a single inch of ground should be
lost ; and the roofs fight for the centre of the road. I
am inclined to believe that the number of houses
of which the fronts are uneven, is greater than of
the even, and that there are more cramped with iron
than uncramped. These deformities are always left
visible, though the house be plastered, that the sum
expended on the iron and labour may be evident. If an
Italian spends a livre, he must be seen to spend it : his
stables, his laundry, his domestics, his peasants, must
strike the eye together : his pigstye must have witnesses
like his will. Every tree is accursed, as that of which
the holy cross was fabricated, and must be swept away.
When I resided on the Lake of Como, I visited the
246 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
palace of Marchese Odescalchi. Before it swelled in
majesty that sovran of inland waters ; behind it was a
pond surrounded with brickwork, in which about twenty
young goldfish jostled and gaped for room. The Larius
had sapped the foundations of his palace, and the Mar-
chese had exerted all his genius to avenge himself: he
composed this bitter parody. I inquired of his cousin
Don Pepino, who conducted me, when the roof would
be put on. He looked at me, doubting if he understood
me, and answered in a gentle tone, " It was finished last
summer." My error originated from observing red pan-
tiles, kept in their places by heavy stones, loose, and laid
upon them irregularly.
"What a beautiful swell, Don Pepino, is this upon the
right," exclaimed I. " The little hill seems sensible of
pleasure as he dips his foot into the Larius."
"There will be the offices."
"What! and hide the Grumello? Let me enjoy the
sight while I can. He appears instinct with life, nodding
the network of vines upon his head, and beckoning and
inviting us, while the fig-trees and mulberries and chest-
nuts and walnuts, and those lofty and eternal cypresses,
stand motionless around. His joyous mates, all different
in form and features, push forward ; and if there is
not something in the air, or something in my eyesight,
illusory, they are running a race along the borders. Stop
a moment : how shall we climb over these two enormous
pines ? Ah ! Don Pepino, old trees in their living state
are the only things that money cannot command. Rivers
leave their beds, run into cities, and traverse mountains
for it ; obelisks and arches, palaces and temples, amphi-
theatres and pyramids, rise up like exhalations at its
bidding ; even the free spirit of man, the only thing great
on earth, crouches and cowers in its presence it passes
away and vanishes before venerable trees. What a sweet
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 247
odour is there ? Whence comes it ? Sweeter it appears
to me and stronger than of the pine itself."
" I imagine," said he, " from the linden ; yes, certainly."
" Is that a linden? It is the largest, and, I should
imagine, the oldest upon earth, if I could perceive that it
had lost any of its branches. "
" Pity that it hides half the row of yon houses from
the palace ! It will be carried off with the two pines in
the autumn."
" O Don Pepino," cried I ; "the French, who abhor
whatever is old and whatever is great, have spared it ;
the Austrians, who sell their fortresses and their armies,
nay, sometimes their daughters, have not sold it must
it fall?" * * How many fond and how many lively
thoughts have been nurtured under this tree ! how many
kind hearts have beaten here ! Its branches are not so
numerous as the couples they have invited to sit beside it,
nor its blossoms and leaves together as the expressions of
tenderness it has witnessed. What appeals to the pure
all-seeing heavens ! what similitudes to the everlasting
mountains ! what protestations of eternal truth and con-
stancy ! from those who are now earth; they, and
their shrouds, and their coffins. The caper and fig-tree
have split their monuments, and boys have broken the
hazel-nut with the fragments. Emblems of past loves and
future hopes, severed names which the holiest rites united,
broken letters of brief happiness, bestrew the road, and
speak to the passer-by in vain."
CLXIX. ASPECT OF TOWNS IN FRANCE AND ITALY.
Marchese Pallavicini. Our towns are in much better
style than our villas.
Landor. They indeed are magnificent, and appear the
248 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
more so after the wretched streets of France. In that
country almost everything animated is noisy, and almost
everything inanimate is misshapen. All seems reversed :
the inhabitants of the north are darker than those of the
south : indeed the women of Calais are much browner
than any I have seen in Italy: the children, the dogs, the
frogs, are more clamorous than ours ; the cocks are shriller.
But at worst we are shocked by no contrast, the very
language seeming to be constructed upon stinks ; while in
Italy we cannot walk ten paces without observing the
union of stateliness and filth, of gorgeous finery and
squalid meanness ; and the expressions of vice and slavery
are uttered in the accents of angels. The churches are
fairly divided between piety and prostitution, leaving the
entrance and a few broken chairs to beggary and vermin.
CLXX. RESPECT FOR THE DEAD IN ITALY.
Landor. No people but the English can endure a long
continuation of gravity and sadness : none pay the same
respect to the dead.
English Visitor. Here the common people, and not
only the poorer, but householders and fathers of families,
are thrown together into a covered cart ; and when enough
of them are collected, they are carried off by night, and
cast naked into the ditch in the burial-ground. No sheet
about them, no shroud externally, no coffin, no bier, no
emblem of mortality ; none of sorrow, none of affection,
none of hope. Corpses are gathered like rotten gourds and
cracked cucumbers, and cast aside where none could find if
any looked for them. Among people in easy circumstances,
wife, children, relatives, friends, all leave the house when
one of the family is dying : the priest alone remains with
him : the last sacrament solves every human tie. The
eyes, after wandering over the altered scenes of domestic
MANNERS, SOCIETY, NATIONAL CHARACTER. 249
love, over the silent wastes of friendship, are reconciled
to whatever is most lugubrious in death, and are closed
at last by mercenaries and strangers.
Landor. My children were playing on the truly English
turf before the Campo Santo in Pisa, when he to whom
is committed the business of carrying off the dead, and
whose house is in one corner, came up to them, and bade
them come along with him, telling them he would show
them two more such pretty children. He opened the
doors of a cart-house, in which were two covered carts :
the larger contained (I hear) several dead bodies, stark
naked : in the smaller were two infants, with not even a
flower shed over them. They had died in the foundling
hospital the night before. Such was their posture, they
appeared to hide their faces one from the other, in play.
As my children had not been playing with them, this
appearance struck neither : but the elder said, " Teresa !
who shut up these mimmi ? I will tell papa Why do
they not come out and play till bedtime?"
The " mimmi " had been out, poor little souls ! and
had played till bedtime.
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT.
CLXXI.
Demosthenes. There is one truth above all the rest ;
above all promulgated by the wisdom of legislators, the
zeal of orators, the enthusiasm of poets, or the revelation
of gods : a truth whose brightness and magnitude are
almost lost to view by its stupendous height. If I never
have pointed it out, knowing it as I do, let the forbear-
ance be assigned not to timidity but to prudence.
Eubulides. May I hope at last to hear it ?
Demosthenes. I must conduct you circuitously, and in-
terrogate you beforehand, as those do who lead us to the
mysteries.
You have many sheep and goats upon the mountain,
which were lately bequeathed to you by your nephew
Timocles. Do you think it the most advantageous to let
some mastiff, with nobody's chain or collar about his
neck, run among them and devour them one after another,
or to prepare a halter and lay poison and a trap for him ?
Eubulides. Certainly here, O Demosthenes, you are
not leading me into any mysteries. The answer is plain :
the poison, trap, and halter are ready.
Demosthenes. Well spoken. You have several children
and grandchildren : you study economy on their behalf :
would you rather spend twenty drachmas for fuel, than
three for the same quantity of the same material ?
Eubulides. Nay, nay, Demosthenes, if this is not mys-
tery, it is worse. You are like a teacher to whom a
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 251
studious man goes to learn the meaning of a sentence,
and who, instead of opening the volume that contains it,
asks him gravely whether he has learnt his alphabet.
Trythee do not banter me.
Demosthenes. Tell me, then, which you would rather ;
make one drunken man sober for ever, or ten thousand
men drunk for many years ?
Eubulides. By all the gods ! abstain from such idle
questions.
Demosthenes. The solution of this, idle as you call it,
may save you much more than twenty drachmas. O
Eubulides ! we have seen, to our sorrow and ignominy,
the plain of Cheronaea bestrewn with the bodies of our
bravest citizens ; had one barbarian fallen, they had not.
Rapine and licentiousness are the precursors and the
followers of even the most righteous war. . A single blow
against the worst of mortals may prevent them. Many
years and much treasure are usually required for an un-
certain issue, beside the stagnation of traffic, the prostra-
tion of industry, and innumerable maladies arising from
towns besieged and regions depopulated. A moment is
sufficient to avert all these calamities. No usurper, no
invader, should be permitted to exist on earth.
CLXXII.
Demosthenes. Every man in the world would be a
republican, if he did not hope from fortune and favour
more than from industry and desert ; in short, if he did
not expect to carry off sooner or later, from under another
system, what never could belong to him rightfully, and
what cannot (he thinks) accrue to him from this. To
suppose the contrary, would be the same as to suppose
that he would rather have a master in his house, than
friend, brother, or son ; and that he has both more con-
252 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
fidence and more pleasure in an alien's management of
it, than in his own, or in any persons selected by his
experience and deputed by his choice.
CLXXIII.
Demosthenes. Royalty is fed incessantly by the fuel of
slavish desires, blown by fulsome breath and fanned by
cringing follies. It melts mankind into one inert mass,
carrying off and confounding all beneath it, like a torrent
of ^Etnean lava, bright amid the darkness, and dark
again amid the light.
CLXXIV. THE FATE OF DESPOTISMS.
Demosthenes.' Pythagoras adapted his institutions to
the people he would enlighten and direct. What portion
of the world was ever so happy, so peaceable, so well-
governed, as the cities of Southern Italy? While they
retained his manners they were free and powerful : some
have since declined, others are declining, and perhaps at
a future and not a distant time they may yield themselves
up to despotism. In a few ages more, those flourishing
towns, those inexpugnable citadels, those temples which
you might deem eternal, will be hunted for in their
wildernesses like the boars and stags.
CLXXV. DEMOCRACY.
Machiavelli. Republican as I have lived, and shall die,
I would rather any other state of social life, than naked
and rude democracy ; because I have always found it
more jealous of merit, more suspicious of wisdom, more
proud of riding on great minds, more pleased at raising
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 253
up little ones above them, more fond of loud talking,
more impatient of calm reasoning, more unsteady, more
ungrateful, and more ferocious ; above all, because it
leads to despotism through fraudulence, intemperance,
and corruption. Let Democracy live among the moun-
tains, and regulate her village, and enjoy her chalet ; let
her live peacefully and contentedly amid her flocks and
herds ; never lay her rough hand on the balustrade of the
council-chamber ; never raise her boisterous voice among
the images of liberators and legislators, of philosophers
and poets.
CLXX VI. NAPOLEON AND PERICLES.
Two powerful nations have been vitally affected by
natural calamities. The former of these calamities was
inevitable by human prudence, and uncontrollable by
human skill : the latter was to be foreseen at any distance
by the most ignorant, and to be avoided by the most
unwary. I mean in the first the Plague of the Athenians ;
in the second the starvation of the French. The first
happened under the administration of a man transcend-
ently brave ; a man cautious, temperate, eloquent,
prompt, sagacious, above all that ever guided the coun-
cils and animated the energies of a state : the second
under a soldier of fortune, expert and enthusiastic ; but
often deficient in moral courage, not seldom in personal ;
rude, insolent, rash, rapacious; valuing but one human
life among the myriads at his disposal, and that one far
from the worthiest, in the estimation of an honester and
a saner mind. It is with reluctant shame I enter on a
comparison of such a person and Pericles. On one hand
we behold the richest cultivation of the most varied and
extensive genius ; the confidence of courage, the sedate-
ness of wisdom, the stateliness of integrity ; on the other,
254 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
coarse manners, rude language, violent passions continu-
ally exploding, a bottomless void on the side of truth, and
a rueful waste on that of common honesty * * * So many
pernicious faults were not committed by Xerxes or Darius,
whom ancient historians call feeble princes, as were com-
mitted by Napoleon, whom the modern do not call feeble,
because he felt nothing for others, coerced pertinaciously,
promised rashly, gave indiscriminately, looked tranquilly,
and spoke mysteriously. Even in his flight, signalised by
nothing but despondency, Segur, his panegyrist, hath
clearly shown that, had he retained any presence of mind,
any sympathy, or any shame, he might have checked and
crippled his adversary. One glory he shares with Trojan
and with Pericles, and neither time nor malice can diminish
it. He raised up and rewarded all kinds of merit, even
in those arts to which he was a stranger. In this indeed
he is more remarkable, perhaps more admirable, than
Pericles himself, for Pericles was a stranger to none of
them.
CLXXVII. THE DEATH OF HOFER.
I passed two entire months in Germany, and like the
people. On my way I saw Waterloo, an ugly table for
an ugly game. At Innspruck I entered the church in
which Andreas Hofer is buried. He lies under a plain
slab, on the left, near the door. I admired the magnifi-
cent tomb of bronze, in the centre, surrounded by heroes,
real and imaginary. They did not fight, tens against
thousands ; they did not fight for wives and children, but
for lands and plunder : therefore they are heroes ! My
admiration for these works of art was soon satisfied, which
perhaps it would not have been in any other place. Snow,
mixed with rain, was falling, and was blown by the wind
upon the tomb of Hofer. I thought how often he had
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 255
taken advantage of such weather for his attacks against
the enemies of his country, and I seemed to hear his
whistle in the wind. At the little village of Landro (I
feel a whimsical satisfaction in the likeness of the name
to mine), the innkeeper was the friend of this truly great
man the greatest man that Europe has produced in our
days, excepting his true compeer, Kosciusko. Andreas
Hofer gave him the chain and crucifix he wore three days
before his death. You may imagine this man's enthusiasm,
who, because I had said that Hofer was greater than
king or emperor, and had made him a present of small
value, as the companion and friend of that harmless and
irreproachable hero, took this precious relic from his neck
and offered it to me. By the order of Buonaparte, the
companions of Hofer, eighty in number, were chained,
thumbscrewed, and taken out of prison in couples, to see
him shot. He had about him one thousand florins, in
paper currency, which he delivered to his confessor, re-
questing him to divide it impartially among his unfortun-
ate countrymen. The confessor, an Italian who spoke
German, kept it, and never gave relief from it to any of
them, most of whom were suffering, not only from priva-
tion of wholesome air, to which, among other privations,
they never had been accustomed, but also from scantiness
of nourishment and clothing. Even in Mantua, where,
as in the rest of Italy, sympathy is both weak and silent,
the lowest of the people were indignant at the sight of
so brave a defender of his country, led into the public
square to expiate a crime unheard of for many centuries
in their nation. When they saw him walk forth, with
unaltered countenance and firm step before them ; when,
stopping on the ground which was about to receive his
blood, they heard him with unfaltering voice commend
his soul and his country to the Creator ; and, as if still
under his own roof (a custom with him after the evening
256 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
prayer), implore a blessing for his boys and his little
daughter, and for the mother who had reared them up
carefully and tenderly thus far through the perils of child-
hood ; finally, when in a lower tone, but earnestly and
emphatically, he besought pardon from the Fount of Mercy
for her brother, his betrayer, many smote their breasts
aloud ; many, thinking that sorrow was shameful, lowered
their heads and wept ; many, knowing that it was dan-
gerous, yet wept too. The people remained upon the
spot an unusual time, and the French, fearing some com-
motion, pretended to have received an order from Buona-
parte for the mitigation of the sentence, and publicly
announced it. Among his many falsehoods, any one of
which would have excluded him for ever from the society
of men of honour, this is perhaps the basest ; as indeed
of all his atrocities the death of Hofer, which he had
ordered long before, and appointed the time and circum-
stances, is that which the brave and virtuous will reprobate
the most severely. He was urged by no necessity, he was
prompted by no policy ; his impatience of courage in an
enemy, his hatred of patriotism and integrity in all, of
which he had no idea himself, and saw no image in those
about him, outstripped his blind passion for fame, and
left him nothing but power and celebrity.
The name of Andreas Hofer* will be honoured by pos-
terity far above any of the present age, and together with
the most glorious of the last, Washington and Kosciusko.
For it rests on the same foundation, and indeed on a higher
basis. In virtue and wisdom their co-equal, he van-
quished on several occasions a force greatly superior to
his own in numbers and in discipline, by the courage and
confidence he inspired, and by his brotherly care and
anxiety for those who were fighting at his side. Differ-
ently, far differently, ought we to estimate the squanderers
of human blood, and the scorners of human tears. We
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 257
also may boast of our great men in a cause as great : for
without it they could not be so. We may look back
upon our Blake ; whom the prodigies of a Nelson do not
eclipse, nor would he have wished (such was his gener-
osity) to obscure it. Blake was among the founders of
freedom ; Nelson was the vanquisher of its destroyers.
Washington was both ; Kosciusko was neither ; neither
was Hofer. But the aim of all three was alike ; and in
the armoury of God are suspended the arms the two last
of them bore ; suspended for success more signal and for
vengeance more complete.
I am writing this from Venice, which is among cities
what Shakespeare is among men. He will give her im-
mortality by his works, which neither her patron saint
could do nor her surrounding sea.
CLXXVIII. THE TROUBLES OF IRELAND.
Archbishop Boulter, Primate of Ireland and one of the
Lords Justices, converses with Philip Savage^ Chancel-
lor of the Exchequer.
Boulter. I trust it will ever be found convenient to
appoint men of clemency to the first station, and that I
shall never be forced to exercise on them the powers en-
trusted to me of coercion and control.
It is well when people can believe that their misfortunes
are temporary. How can we apply such a term to pest-
ilence and famine ?
Philip Savage. Surely the violence of the evil eats
away the substance of it speedily. Pestilence and famine
are, and always have been, temporary and brief.
Boulter. Temporary they are, indeed : brief are they,
very brief. But why? because life is so under them.
To the world they are extremely short : but can we say
they are short to him who bears them? And of such
there are thousands, tens of thousands, in this most
S
258 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
afflicted, most neglected country. The whole of a life,
be it what it may be, is not inconsiderable to him who
leaves it ; any more than the whole of a property, be it
but an acre, is inconsiderable to him who possesses it.
Whether want and wretchedness last for a month or for
half a century, if they last as long as the sufferer they are
to him of very long duration. Let us try then rather to
remove the evils of Ireland, than to persuade those who
undergo them that there are none. For, if they could be
thus persuaded, we should have brutalised them first to
such a degree as would render them more dangerous than
they were in the reigns of Elizabeth or Charles.
Boulter. There will never be a want of money, or a
want of confidence, in any well-governed state that has
been long at peace, and without the danger of its inter-
ruption. But a want of the necessaries of life, in pea-
sants or artisans, when the seasons have been favourable,
is a certain sign of defect in the constitution, or of
criminality in the administration. It may not be advis-
able or safe to tell every one this truth : yet it is needful
to inculcate it on the minds of governors, and to repeat it
until they find the remedy : else the people, one day or
other, will send those out to look for it who may trample
down more in the search than suits good husbandry.
CLXXX.
Washington. Look at the nations of Europe, and point
out one, despotic or free, of which so large a portion is
so barbarous and wretched as the Irish. The country is
more fertile than Britain ; the inhabitants are healthy,
strong, courageous, faithful, patriotic, and quick of appre-
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT 259
hension. No quality is wanting which constitutes the
respectability of a state ; yet from centuries of misrule,
they are in a condition more hopeless than any other
nation or tribe upon the globe, civilised or savage.
Franklin. There is only one direct way to bring them
into order, and that appears so rough it never will be
trodden. The chief misery arises from the rapacity of
the gentry, as they are styled, and the nobility who, to
avoid the trouble of collecting their rents from many poor
tenants, and the greater of hearing their complaints, have
leased their properties to what are called middle-men.
These harass their inferiors in the exact ratio of their
industry, and drive them into desperation. Hence sloven-
liness and drunkenness ; for the appearance of ease and
comfort is an allurement to avarice. To pacify and re-
claim the people, leases to middle-men must be annulled ;
every cultivator must have a lease for life, and (at the
option of his successor) valid for as many years afterwards
as will amount in the whole to twenty-one. The extent
of ground should be proportionate to his family and his
means. To underlet land should be punished by law
as regretting.
Washington. Authority would here be strongly exer-
cised, not tyrannically, which never can be asserted of
plans sanctioned by the representatives of a people, for
the great and perpetual benefit of the many, to the small
and transient inconvenience of the few.
CLXXXI. THE GREEK WAR OF LIBERATION.
What those amongst us who are affected by a sense of
national honour most lament, is, that England, whose
generosity would cost her nothing and whose courage
would be unexposed to fatality, stands aloof. An
alliance, offensive and defensive, with Greece would
260 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
render us invulnerable in the only part of the world
where we have lately shown our feebleness. We should
unite to us a maritime power, which within half a
century would of itself be equipollent on the sea with
France ; and we should attract to our merchants those
advantages of commerce in the Levant which at present
lean toward her. The great Chatham, if he had lived
in our days, would have cast on every side around him
the seeds of small maritime and small constitutional
states. We may extend our dominions in many ways ;
we can extend our power in this only. None of our late
ministers have had clear views or steady aims. We have
been hovering on the shores of Greece, until the season is
going by for aiding her ; and another Power will soon
have acquired the glory and the benefit of becoming her
first protectress. If a new world were to burst forth
suddenly in the midst of the heavens, and we were in-
structed by angelic voices, or whatever kind of revelation
the Creator might appoint, that its inhabitants were
brave, generous, happy, and warm with all our sym-
pathies, would not pious men fall prostrate before Him,
for such a manifestation of His power and goodness ?
What then ! shall these very people, these religious, be
the first to stifle the expression of our praise and wonder,
at a marvel far more astonishing, at a manifestation of
power and goodness far more glorious and magnificent ?
The weak vanquish the strong ; the oppressed stand over
the oppressor : we see happy, not them who never were
otherwise, not them who have made no effort, no movement
of their own to earn their happiness, like the creatures of
our imaginary new world, but those who were the most
wretched, and the most undeservedly, and who now,
arising as from the tomb, move the incumbrances of ages
and of nations from before them, and, although at present
but half- erect, lower the stature of the greatest heroes.
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 26 1
We appear to be afraid of the Russians : we tremble
lest they should take possession of Constantinople, and
march to India. The glory of Russia may be increased
by conquest, which cannot be said of other state in
Europe ; but her power of doing injury to the nations of
the West would rather be deferred and diminished by it
than promoted and increased. She would not be able in
half a century to send an army into India, even if she
possessed the dominions of the Turk : they would be far
from affording her any great facility. In less than half a
century it is probable we shall lose that empire ; but we
shall lose it, like every other we have lost and are about
to lose, by alienating the affections of the people. God
grant that Russia may invade and conquer Turkey ! not
that the Russians, or any other people on the Continent,
are a better, a braver, an honester race than the Turks,
but because the policy of the government is adverse to
the progress of civilisation, and bears with brutal heavi-
ness on its cradle. God grant that Russia may possess
her ! not because it will increase her strength, but because
it will enable, and perhaps induce her, to liberate from
bondage more than one brave nation. She cannot hold
Turkey at the extremity of such a lever ; and those who
now run to help her, will slip from under her.
CLXXXII.
We are zealous in protecting from slavery the remotest
nations of Africa, who have always for thousands of years
been subject to that dreadful visitation, and who never have
expected, or even heard tidings of, our generous interfer-
ence. We take them away by righteous force from under the
proudest flag ; we convey them to our own settlements ;
we give them food, clothing, ground, instruction, morals,
religion. Humanity cries out, tell them they are men !
262 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
and we hear her. Is she silent for the Greeks? have
their voices no echo in her breast? do we treat them
cruelly because they have not the advantage of being
barbarous ? do we spurn them because they cling to us ?
is it because they trust only in us, that we reject and re-
pulse them only of all mankind ? The ships of Ismael
Bey repass the Mediterranean and Archipelago, laden
with the sons and daughters of a half-extinguished race :
half-extinguished under our eyes. Their terrors are not
at death; their tears are not for captivity; their loss,
though their country is Greece, is not of country. God
alone can avenge it : God alone must hear it. Some-
thing may surely be done, to alleviate the sufferings of
the few survivors, wandering among naked rocks, or
lifting up their heads from the rushes in the pestilential
marsh. They require of us no land to cultivate, no suste-
nance, no raiment : they implore of us permission to live
under the safeguard of our laws, and to partake with the
most ignorant and ferocious tribes, with murderers and
cannibals, a spare moment of our attention and concern.
Surely, surely this is not too much ; if you consider
that the finest eloquence ever heard within your walls,
was admirable only in proportion as it resembled the
eloquence of their ancestors ; and that gods were bowed
down to and worshipped, by the wisest and most power-
ful nations, for being in form and dignity like them.
CLXXXIII.
General Lacy. The strength of England lies not in arma-
ments and invasions : it lies in the omnipresence of her in-
dustry, and in the vivifying energies of her high civilisation.
There are provinces she cannot grasp ; there are islands
she cannot hold fast : but there is neither island nor
province, there is neither kingdom nor continent, which
POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT. 263
she could not draw to her side and fix there everlastingly,
by saying the magic words Be Free. Every land wherein
she favours the sentiments of freedom, every land wherein
she but forbids them to be stifled, is her own ; a true ally,
a willing tributary, an inseparable friend.
CLXXXIV. ON THE ACCESSION OF A LIBERAL POPE.
Dedication of the first edition of the Hellenics (1847) to the
newly-elected Pope Pius IX.
Never until now, most Holy Father ! did I hope or
desire to offer my homage to any potentate on earth ;
and now I offer it only to the highest of them all.
There was a time when the cultivators of literature
were permitted and expected to bring the fruit of their
labour to the Vatican. Not only was incense welcome
there, but even the humblest produce of the poorest soil.
Verbenam, pueri, ponite Thuraque.
If those better days are returning without what was bad
or exceptionable in them, the glory is due entirely to
your Holiness. You have restored to Italy hope and
happiness ; to the rest of the world hope only. But a
single word from your prophetic lips, a single motion of
your earth-embracing arm, will overturn the firmest seats
of iniquity and oppression. The word must be spoken ;
the arm must wave. What do we see before us ? If we
take the best of rulers under our survey, we find selfish-
ness and frivolity : if we extend the view, ingratitude,
disregard of honour, contempt of honesty, breach of
promises : one step yet beyond, and there is cold-blooded
idiocy, stabbing the nobles at home, spurning the people
everywhere, and voiding its corrosive slaver in the fair
face of Italy. It is better to look no farther, else our
eyes must be riveted on frozen seas of blood superfused
with blood fresh flowing. The same ferocious animal
264 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
leaves the impression of its broad and heavy foot on the
snow of the Arctic Circle and of the Caucasus. And is
this indeed all that Europe has brought forth, after such
long and painful throes ? Has she endured her Marats,
her Robespierres, her Buonapartes, for this? God in-
flicted on the latter of these wretches his two greatest
curses uncontrolled power and perverted intellect ; and
they were twisted together to make a scourge for a nation
which revelled in every crime, but above all in cruelty.
It was insufficient. She is now undergoing from a weaker
hand a more ignominious punishment, pursued by the
derision of Europe. To save her honour, she pretended
to admire the courage that decimated her children : to
save her honour, she now pretends to admire the wisdom
that imprisons them. Cunning is not wisdom ; prevari-
cation is not policy ; and (novel as the notion is, it is
equally true) armies are not strength : Acre and Waterloo
show it, and the flames of the Kremlin and the solitudes
of Fontainebleau. One honest man, one wise man, one
peaceful man, commands a hundred millions, without a
baton and without a charger. He wants no fortress to
protect him : he stands higher than any citadel can raise
him, brightly conspicuous to the most distant nations,
God's servant by election, God's image by beneficence.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
^UNlVl
*St''
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE.
CLXXXV.
Porson. Clear writers, like clear fountains, do not
seem so deep as they are : the turbid look most profound.
CLXXXVI.
Aspasia. The business of philosophy is to examine and
estimate all those things which come within the cognis-
ance of the understanding. Speculations on any that lie
beyond are only pleasant dreams, leaving the mind to the
lassitude of disappointment. They are easier than geo-
metry and dialectics ; they are easier than the efforts of a
well-regulated imagination in the structure of a poem.
Diogenes. I meddle not at present with infinity or
eternity : when I can comprehend them I will talk about
them. You metaphysicians kill the flower-bearing and
fruit - bearing glebe with delving and turning over and
sifting, and never bring up any solid and malleable mass
from the dark profundity in which you labour. The in-
tellectual world, like the physical, is inapplicable to profit
and incapable of cultivation a little way below the surface
of which there is more to manage, and more to know,
than any of you will undertake.
Plato. It happens that we do not see the stars at even-
266 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
tide, sometimes because there are clouds intervening, but
oftener because there are glimmerings of light ; thus
many truths escape us from the obscurity we stand in ;
and many more from that crepuscular state of mind,
which induces us to sit down satisfied with our imagina-
tions and unsuspicious of our knowledge.
Diogenes. Keep always to the point, or with an eye
upon it, and instead of saying things to make people stare
and wonder, say what will withhold them hereafter from
wondering and staring. This is philosophy; to make
Temote things tangible, common things extensively useful,
useful things extensively common, and to leave the least
necessary for the last. I have always a suspicion of
sonorous sentences. The full shell sounds little, but
shows by that little what is within. A bladder swells
out more with wind than with oil.
CLXXXVIII.
Plato. My sentences, it is acknowledged by all good
judges, are well constructed and harmonious.
Diogenes. I admit it : I have also heard it said that
thou art eloquent.
Plato. If style, without elocution, can be.
Diogenes. Neither without nor with elocution is there
eloquence, where there is no ardour, no impulse, no
energy, no concentration. Eloquence raises the whole
man : thou raisest our eyebrows only. We wonder, we
applaud, we walk away, and we forget. Thy eggs are
very prettily speckled ; but those which men use for their
sustenance are plain white ones. People do not every
day put on their smartest dresses ; they are not always in
trim for dancing, nor are they practising their steps in all
places. I profess to be no weaver of fine words, no dealer
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 267
in the plumes of phraseology, yet every man and every
woman I speak to understands me.
Plato. Which would not always be the case if the
occulter operations of the human mind were the subject.
Diogenes. If what is occult must be occult for ever,
why throw away words about it? Employ on every
occasion the simplest and easiest, and range them in the
most natural order. Thus they will serve thee faithfully,
bringing thee many hearers and readers from the intel-
lectual and uncorrupted. All popular orators, victorious
commanders, crowned historians, and poets above crown-
ing, have done it.
CLXXXIX.
Barrow (to Newton}. I do not urge you to write in
dialogue, although the best writers of every age have
done it : the best parts of Homer and Milton are speeches
and replies, the best parts of every great historian are the
same : the wisest men of Athens and of Rome converse
together in this manner, as they are shown to us by Xeno-
phon, by Plato, and by Cicero. Whether you adopt such
a form of composition, which, if your opinions are new,
will protect you in part from the hostility all novelty
(unless it is vicious) excites ; or whether you choose to
go along the unbroken surface of the didactic ; never
look abroad for any kind of ornament. Apollo, either
as the god of day or the slayer of Python, had nothing
about him to obscure his clearness or to impede his
strength.
cxc.
Barrow. Never try to say things admirably ; try only
to say them plainly ; for your business is with the con-
siderate philosopher, and not with the polemical assem -
bly. If a thing can be demonstrated two ways, demon-
268 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
strata it in both : one will please this man, the other that ;
and pleasure, if obvious and unsought, is never to be
neglected by those appointed from above to lead us into
knowledge. Many will readily mount stiles and gates.
to walk along a footpath in a field, whom the very sight
of a bare public road would disincline and weary ; and
yet the place whereto they travel lies at the end of each.
Your studies are of a nature unsusceptible of much decora-
tion : otherwise it would be my duty and my care to warn
you against it, not merely as idle and unnecessary, but as
obstructing your intent. The fond of wine are little fond
of the sweet or the new : the fond of learning are no
fonder of its must than of its dregs. Something of the
severe hath always been appertaining to order and to
grace : and the beauty that is not too liberal is sought
the most ardently and loved the longest.
CXCI.
Archdeacon Hare. Wherever there is a word beyond
what is requisite to express the meaning, that word must
be peculiarly beautiful in itself, or strikingly harmonious ;
either of which qualities may be of some service in fixing
the attention and enforcing the sentiment. But the pro-
per word in the proper place seldom leaves anything to
be desiderated on the score of harmony. The beauty of
health and strength is more attractive and impressive
than any beauty conferred by ornament.
CXCII.
Demosthenes. Whatever is rightly said, sounds rightly.
CXCIII.
Epicurus. Natural sequences and right subordination
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 269
of thoughts, and that just proportion of numbers in the
sentences which follows a strong conception, are the con-
stituents of true harmony.
Chesterfield. Cicero was himself a trifler in cadences,
and whoever thinks much about them will become so,
if indeed the very thought when it enters is not trifling.
Chatham. I am not sure that it is ; for an orderly and
sweet sentence, by gaining our ear, conciliates our affec-
tions ; and the voice of a beggar has often more effect
upon us than his distress.
cxcv.
Pollio. Cicero sometimes is exuberant. Conciseness
may be better : but where there is much wealth we may
excuse a little waste, especially when it falls not un-
worthily. I confess to you I love a nobility and ampli-
tude of style, provided it never sweeps beyond the subject.
There are people who cut short the tails of their dogs ;
and such dogs are proper for such masters : but the
generous breeds, coursers of the lordly stag, and such as
accompanied the steps of Hippolytus and Adonis, were
unmutilated.
Horne Tooke. Those only can be called great writers
who bring to bear on their subject more than a few high
faculties of the mind. I require in him whom I am to
acknowledge for such, accuracy of perception, variety of
mood, of manner, and of cadence ; imagination, reflection,
force, sweetness, copiousness, depth, perspicuity. I re-
270 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
quire in him a princely negligence of little things, and a
proof that although he seizes much, he leaves much (alike
within his reach) unappropriated and untouched.
cxcvn.
Alfieri. To constitute a great writer the qualities are,
adequate expression of just sentiments, plainness without
vulgarity, elevation without pomp, sedateness without
austerity, alertness without impetuosity ; thoughts offered
^~not abruptly, nor ungraciously, nor forced into us, nor
...stamped upon us: they must leave room for others to
\ bring forward theirs, and help in suggesting them.
^"Vigorous that appears to ordinary minds which attracts
the vulgar by its curtness and violence : but coarse tex-
tures are not always the strongest, nor is the loudest
voice always the most commanding.
CXCVIII. SEDATENESS IN POETRY.
Aspasia. No writer of florid prose ever was more than
a secondary poet. Poetry, in her high estate, is delighted
with exuberant abundance, but imposes on her worshipper
a severity of selection. She has not only her days of
festival, but also her days of abstinence, and, unless upon
some that are set apart, prefers the graces of sedateness
to the revelry of enthusiasm.
Boccaccio. What is there lovely in poetry unless there
be moderation and composure ? Are they not better
than the hot uncontrollable harlotry of a flaunting, dis-
hevelled enthusiasm ? Whoever has the power of creating,
has likewise the inferior power of keeping his creations in
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 27!
order. The best poets are the most impressive, because
their steps are regular ; for without regularity there is
neither strength nor state. Look at Sophocles, look at
^Eschylus, look at Homer.
CC. PINDAR.
Landor. We have lost the greater and (some believe)
the better part of Pindar's poetry : what remains is more
distinguished for an exquisite selection of topics than for
enthusiasm. There is a grandeur of soul which never
leaves him, even in domestic scenes ; and his genius
does not rise on points or peaks of sublimity, but per-
vades the subject with a vigorous and easy motion, such
as the poets attribute to the herald of the gods.
CCI. LATIN STYLES.
Supposing the first of Virgil's Eclogues to have appeared
seven years after the death of Catullus, and this poet to
have composed his earliest works in the lifetime of
Lucretius, we cannot but ponder on the change of the
Latin language in so short a space of time. Lucretius
was by birth a Roman, and wrote in Rome ; yet who
would not say unhesitatingly, that there is more of what
Cicero calls urbane in the two provincials, Virgil and
Catullus, than in the authoritative and stately man who
leads Memmius from the camp into the gardens of Epi-
curus. He complains of poverty in the Latin tongue;
but his complaint is only on its insufficiency in philo-
sophical terms, which Cicero also felt twenty years later,
and called in Greek auxiliaries. But in reality the lan-
guage never exhibited such a profusion of richness as in
the comedies of Plautus, whose style is the just admira-
tion of the Roman orator.
272 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
ecu. VIRGIL'S DIDO.
Without the sublime, we have said before, there can
be no poet of the first order : but the pathetic may exist
in the secondary ; for tears are more easily drawn forth
than souls are raised. So easily are they on some occa-
sions, that the poetical power needs scarcely be brought
into action ; while on the others the pathetic is the very
summit of sublimity. We have an example of it in the
Ariadne of Catullus : we have another in the Priam of
Homer. All the heroes and gods, debating and fighting,
vanish before the father of Hector in the tent of Achilles,
and before the storm of conflicting passions his sorrows
and prayers excite. But neither in the spirited and
energetic Catullus, nor in the masculine and scornful and
stern Lucretius, no, nor in Homer, is there anything so
impassioned, and therefore so sublime, as the last hour
of Dido in the &neid. Admirably as two Greek poets
have represented the tenderness, the anguish, the terrific
wrath and vengeance of Medea, all the works they ever
wrote contain not the poetry which Virgil has condensed
into about a hundred verses : omitting as we must, those
which drop like icicles from the rigid lips of ^Eneas ; and
also the similes which, here as everywhere, sadly inter-
fere with passion.
ccin.
If there are fine things in the Argonautics of Apol-
lonius, there are finer still in those of Catullus. In rela-
tion to Virgil, he stands as Correggio in relation to
Raphael : a richer colourist, a less accurate draftsman ;
less capable of executing grand designs, more exquisite
in the working out of smaller. Virgil is depreciated by
the arrogance of self-sufficient poets, nurtured on coarse
fare, and dizzy with home-brewed flattery. Others, who
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 273
have studied more attentively the ancient models, are
abler to show his relative station, and readier to venerate
his powers. Although we find him incapable of contriv-
ing, and more incapable of executing, so magnificent a
work as the Iliad, yet there are places in his compared
with which the grandest in that grand poem lose much
of their elevation. Never was there such a whirlwind of
passions as Virgil raised on those African shores, amid
those rising citadels and departing sails. When the
vigorous verses of Lucretius are extolled, no true poet,
no sane critic, will assent that the seven or eight examples
of the best are equivalent to this one : even in force of
expression, here he falls short of Virgil.
CCIV.
There are four things requisite to constitute might,
majesty, arid dominion, in a poet : these are creativeness,
constructiveness, the sublime, the pathetic. A poet of
the first order must have formed, or taken to himself and
modified, some great subject. He must be creative and
constructive. Creativeness may work upon old materials ;
a new world may spring from an old one. Shakespeare
found Hamlet and Ophelia ; he found Othello and Desde-
mona ; nevertheless he, the only universal poet, carried
this, and all the other qualifications, far beyond the reach
of competitors. He was creative and constructive, he
was sublime and pathetic, and he has also in his humanity
condescended to the familiar and the comic. There is
nothing less pleasant than the smile of Milton ; but at
one time Momus, at another the Graces, hang upon the
neck of Shakespeare.
Petrarca. A poet often does more and better than he
T
274 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
is aware at the time, and seems at last to know as little
about it as a silkworm knows about the fineness of her
thread.
CCVI.
Aspasia. For any high or any wide operation, a poet
must be endued, not with passion indeed, but with power
and mastery over it ; with imagination, with reflection,
with observation, and with discernment.
CCVII.
It is only the wretchedest of poets that wish all they
ever wrote to be remembered : some of the best would
be willing to lose the most.
CCVIII.
Boccaccio. Good poetry, like good music, pleases most
people, but the ignorant and inexpert lose half its plea-
sures, the invidious lose them all. What a paradise lost
is here !
CCIX. THE ORIGINS OF POETRY.
Petrarca. I see no reason why we should not revert,
at times, to the first intentions of poetry. Hymns to the
Creator were its earliest efforts.
Boccaccio. I do not believe a word of it, unless He
himself was graciously pleased to inspire the singer ; of
which we have received no account. I rather think it
originated in pleasurable song, perhaps of drunkenness,
and resembled the dithyrambic. Strong excitement alone
could force and hurry men among words displaced and
exaggerated ideas.
Believing that man fell, first into disobedience, next
into ferocity and fratricide, we may reasonably believe
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 2/5
that war-songs were among the earliest of his intellectual
exertions. When he rested from battle he had leisure to
think of love ; and the skies and the fountains and the
flowers reminded him of her, the coy and beautiful, who
fled to a mother from the ardour of his pursuit. In after
years he lost a son, his companion in the craft and in the
forest : images too grew up there, and rested on the
grave. A daughter, who had wondered at his strength
and wisdom, looked to him in vain for succour at the
approach of death. Inarticulate grief gave way to pas-
sionate and wailing words, and Elegy was awakened.
We have tears in this world before we have smiles, Fran-
cesco ! we have struggles before we have composure ; we
have strife and complaints before we have submission
and gratitude. I am suspicious that if we could collect
the "winged words" of the earliest hymns, we should
find that they called upon the Deity for vengeance.
Priests and rulers were far from insensible to private
wrongs. Chryses in the Iliad is willing that his king and
country should be enslaved so that his daughter be sent
back to him. David in the Psalms is no unimportunate
or lukewarm applicant for the discomfiture and extermi-
nation of his adversaries : and among the visions of
felicity, none brighter is promised a fortunate warrior,
than to dash the infants of his enemy against the stones.
CCX. POETRY AND HISTORY.
Aspasia. We make a bad bargain when we change
poetry for truth in the affairs of ancient times, and by no
means a good one in any.
Remarkable men of remote ages are collected together
out of different countries within the same period, and per-
form simultaneously the same action. On an accumula-
tion of obscure deeds arises a wild spirit of poetry ; and
276 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
images and names burst forth and spread themselves,
which carry with them something like enchantment, far
beyond the infancy of nations. What was vague imagina-
tion settles at last and is received for history. It is diffi-
cult to effect and idle to attempt the separation : it is like
breaking off a beautiful crystallisation from the vault of
some intricate and twilight cavern, out of mere curiosity
to see where the accretion terminates and the rock begins.
CCXI. THE PROVINCE OF HISTORY.
Pericles. May our first Athenian historian not be the
greatest, as the first of our dramatists has been, in the
opinion of many. ^Eschylus was the creator of Tragedy,
nor did she ever shine with such splendour, ever move
with such stateliness and magnificence, as at her first
apparition on the horizon. The verses of Sophocles are
more elaborate, the language purer, the sentences fuller
and more harmonious ; but in loftiness of soul, and in the
awfulness with which he invests his characters, ^Eschylus
remains unrivalled and unapproached.
We are growing too loquacious, both on the stage
and off. We make disquisitions which render us only
more and more dim-sighted, and excursions that only con-
sume our stores. If some among us who have acquired
celebrity by their compositions, calm, candid, contem-
plative men, were to undertake the history of Athens from
the invasion of Xerxes, I should expect a fair and full
criticism on the orations of Antiphon, and experience no
disappointment at their forgetting the battle of Salamis.
History, when she has lost her muse, will lose her dignity,
her occupation, her character, her name. She will wander
about the Agora ; she will start, she will stop, she will
look wild, she will look stupid, she will take languidly to
her bosom doubts, queries, essays, dissertations, some of
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 277
which ought to go before her, some to follow, and all to
stand apart. The field of History should not merely be
well tilled, but well peopled. None is delightful to me,
or interesting, in which I find not as many illustrious
names as have a right to enter it. We might as well in
a drama place the actors behind the scenes, and listen to
the dialogue there, as in a history push valiant men back,
and protrude ourselves with husky disputations. Show
me rather how great projects were executed, great advan-
tages gained, and great calamities averted. Show me the
generals and the statesmen who stood foremost, that I
may bend to them in reverence ; tell me their names,
that I may repeat them to my children. Teach me
whence laws were introduced, upon what foundation laid,
by what custody guarded, in what inner keep preserved.
Let the books of the treasury lie closed as religiously as
the Sibyl's ; leave weights and measures in the market-
place, Commerce in the harbour, the Arts in the light
they love, Philosophy in the shade : place History on her
rightful throne, and, at the sides of her, Eloquence and
War.
CCXII.
Bishop Parker. The Italians, who far excel us in the
writing of history, are farther behind the ancients.
Marvel. True enough. From Guicciardini and Machia-
velli, the most celebrated of them, we acquire a vast quan-
tity of trivial information. There is about them a saw-
dust which absorbs much blood and impurity, and of
which the level surface is dry : but no traces by what
agency rose such magnificent cities above the hovels of
France and Germany : none
ut fortis Etruria crevit.
278 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
or, on the contrary, how the mistress of the world sank
in the ordure of her priesthood
Scilicet et rerumfacta est nequissima Roma.
We are captivated by no charms of description ; we are
detained by no peculiarities of character : we hear a
clamorous scuffle in the street, and we close the door.
How different the historians of antiquity ! We read
Sallust, and always are incited by the desire of reading
on, although we are surrounded by conspirators and bar-
barians : we read Livy, until we imagine we are standing
in an august pantheon, covered with altars and standards,
over which are the four fatal letters that spellbound all
mankind. 1 We step forth again among the modern
Italians : here we find plenty of rogues, plenty of receipts
for making more ; and little else. In the best passages
we come upon a crowd of dark reflections, which scarcely
a glimmer of glory pierces through ; and we stare at the
tenuity of the spectres, but never at their altitude.
Give me the poetical mind, the mind poetical in all
things ; give me the poetical heart, the heart of hope and
confidence, that beats the more strongly and resolutely
under the good thrown down, and raises up fabric after
fabric on the same foundation.
Parker. At your time of life, Mr. Marvel ?
Marvel. At mine, my lord bishop ! I have lived with
Milton. Such creative and redeeming spirits are like
kindly and renovating Nature. Volcano comes after
volcano, yet covereth she with herbage and foliage, with
vine and olive, and with whatever else refreshes and
gladdens her, the Earth that has been gasping under the
exhaustion of her throes.
Parker. He has given us such a description of Eve's
beauty as appears to me somewhat too pictorial, too
luxuriant, too suggestive, too I know not what,
i S. P. Q. R.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 279
Marvel. The sight of beauty, in her purity and beati-
tude, turns us from all unrighteousness, and is death to
sin.
The Abbe Delille. Milton is extremely difficult to trans-
late ; for however noble and majestic, he is sometimes
heavy, and often rough and unequal.
Landor. Dear Abbe ! porphyry is heavy, gold is
heavier : Ossa and Olympus are rough and unequal : the
steppes of Tartary, though high, are of uniform elevation :
there is not a rock, nor a birch, nor a cytisus, nor an
arbutus, upon them, great enough to shelter a new-dropt
lamb. Level the Alps one with another, and where is
their sublimity? Raise up the vale of Tempe to the
downs above, and where are those sylvan creeks and
harbours in which the imagination watches while the
soul reposes ; those recesses in which the gods partook
the weaknesses of mortals, and mortals the enjoyments of
the gods !
Marvel. He must be a bad writer, or however a very
indifferent one, to whom there are no inequalities. The
plants of such tableland are diminutive and never worth
gathering. What would you think of a man's eyes to
which all things appear of the same magnitude and at
the same elevation? You must think nearly so of a
writer who makes as much of small things as of great.
The vigorous mind has mountains to climb and valleys to
repose in. Is there any sea without its shoals ? On that
which the poet navigates, he rises intrepidly as the waves
rise round him, and sits composedly as they subside.
280 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
CCXV.
Metastasio. It must be confessed that whatever is far
removed from fashionable life and changeable manners
is best adapted to the higher poetry. We are glad and
righteously proud to possess two worlds, the one at present
under our feet, producing beef and mutton ; the other,
on which have passed before us, gods, demigods, heroes,
the Fates, the Furies, and all the numerous progeny of
never-dying, never-aging, eternally parturient Imagina-
tion. Great is the privilege of crossing at will the rivers
of bitterness, of tears, of fire, and to wander and converse
among the Shades.
ccxvi.
Porson. You poets are still rather too fond of the un-
substantial. Some will have nothing else than what they
call pure imagination. Now, air-plants ought not to fill
the whole conservatory ; other plants, I would modestly
suggest, are worth cultivating, which send their roots
pretty deep into the ground. I hate both poetry and wine
without body. Look at Shakespeare, Bacon, and Milton ;
were these your pure -imagination men? The least of
them, whichever it was, carried a jewel of poetry about
him worth all his tribe that came after. Did the two of
them who wrote in verse build upon nothing ? Did their
predecessors ? And pray whose daughter was the muse
they invoked? Why Memory's. They stood among
substantial men and sang upon recorded actions. The
plain of Scamander, the promontory of Sigeum, the
palaces of Tros and Dardanus, the citadel in which the
Fates sang mournfully under the image of Minerva, seem
fitter places for the Muses to alight on than artificial
rockwork or than faery-rings. But your great favourite,
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 28 1
I hear, is Spenser, who shines in allegory, and who, like
an aerolith, is dull and heavy when he descends to the
ground.
Southey. He continues a great favourite with me still,
although he must always lose a little as our youth declines.
Spenser's is a spacious but somewhat low chamber, hung
with rich tapestry, on which the figures are mostly dis-
proportioned, but some of the faces are lively and beauti-
ful ; the furniture is part creaky and worm-eaten, part
fragrant with cedar and sandal -wood and aromatic
gums and balsams ; every table and mantelpiece and
cabinet is covered with gorgeous vases, and birds, and
dragons, and houses in the air.
CCXVII.
Landor. The heart is the creator of the poetical world ;
only the atmosphere is from the brain. Do I then under-
value imagination ? No indeed : but I find imagination
where others never look for it : in character multiform
yet consistent
CCXVIII.
Vittoria Colonna. The human heart is the world of
poetry ; the imagination is only its atmosphere. Faeries,
and genii, and angels themselves, are at best its insects,
glancing with unsubstantial wings about its lower regions
and less noble edifices.
CCXIX. MILTON.
Milton, in this Paradise Regained, seems to be subject
to strange hallucinations of the ear ; he who before had
greatly excelled all poets of all ages in the science and
display of harmony. And if in his last poem we exhibit
282 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
his deficiencies, surely we never shall be accused of dis-
respect or irreverence to this immortal man. It may be
doubted whether the Creator ever created one altogether
so great ; taking into our view at once (as much indeed as
can at once be taken into it) his manly virtues, his super-
human genius, his zeal for truth, for true piety, true
freedom, his eloquence in displaying it, his contempt of
personal power, his glory and exaltation in his country's.
ccxx.
Marvel. Good prose, to say nothing of the original
thoughts it conveys, may be infinitely varied in modula-
tion. It is only an extension of metres, an amplification
of harmonies, of which even the best and most varied
poetry admits but few. Comprehending at once the
prose and poetry of Milton, we could prove, before " fit
audience," that he is incomparably the greatest master of
harmony that ever lived.
CCXXI. MILTON AND JOHNSON.
Warton and Johnson are of opinion that Milton is
defective in the sense of harmony. But Warton had lost
his ear by laying it down on low swampy places, on
ballads and sonnets ; and Johnson was a deaf adder coiled
up in the brambles of party prejudices. He was acute
and judicious, he was honest and generous, he was for-
bearing and humane : but he was cold where he was
overshadowed. The poet's peculiar excellence, above all
others, was in his exquisite perception of rhythm, and in
the boundless variety he has given it, both in verse and
prose. Virgil comes nearest to him in his assiduous study
of it and in his complete success.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 283
CCXXII. FRENCH PROSE.
Salomon. Several of the French prose writers are more
harmonious than the best of ours.
Alfieri. In the construction of their sentences they have
obtained from study, what sensibility has denied them.
Rousseau is an exception : he beside is the only musical
composer that ever had a tolerable ear for prose. Music
is both sunshine and irrigation to the mind ; but when it
occupies and covers it too long, it debilitates and corrupts
it. Sometimes I have absorbed music so totally, that
nothing was left of it in its own form : my ear detained
none of the notes, none of the melody : they went into
the heart immediately, mingled with the spirit, and lost
themselves among the operations of the fancy, whose
finest and most recondite springs they put simultaneously
and vigorously in motion. Rousseau kept it subordinate ;
which must always be done with music as well as with
musicians. He excels all the moderns in the harmony of
his periods.
Salomon. I have heard it reported that you prefer
Pascal.
Alfieri. Certainly on the whole I consider him the
most perfect of writers.
CCXXIII. ADDISON.
Home Tooke. I have always been an admirer of Addi-
son, and the oftener I read him, I mean his prose, the
more he pleases me. Perhaps it is not so much his style,
which, however, is easy and graceful and harmonious, as
the sweet temperature of thought in which we always find
him, and the attractive countenance, if you will allow me
the expression, with which he meets me upon every occa-
sion. It is very remarkable, and therefore I stopped to
284 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
notice it, that not only what little strength he had, but
even all his grace and ease, forsake him when he ventures
into poetry.
CCXXIV. GIBBON.
Landor. Gibbon's manner, which many have censured,
I think, in general, well suited to the work. In the
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire^ there is too much
to sadden and disgust : a smile in such a narrative on
some occasions is far from unacceptable : if it should be
succeeded by a sneer, it is not the sneer of bitterness,
which falls not on debility ; nor of triumph, which accords
not with contempt. The colours, it is true, are gorgeous,
like those of the setting sun ; and such were wanted. The
style is much swayed by the sentiment. Would that
which is proper for the historian of Fabius and Scipio, of
Hannibal and Pyrrhus, be proper, too, for Augustulus
and the Popes ?
CCXXV. WORDSWORTH.
Landor. In Wordsworth's poetry there is as much of
prose as there is of poetry in the prose of Milton. But
prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry :
on the other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a
moderate weight of prose.
CCXXVI. PRAISE AND CENSURE.
Landor. It is becoming and decorous that due honours
be paid to Wordsworth ; undue have injured him. Dis-
criminating praise mingled with calm censure is more
beneficial than lavish praise without it. Respect him ;
reverence him ; abstain from worshipping him. Remem-
ber no ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few
things burn out sooner.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 285
Cleont. Let us enjoy, whenever we have an opportunity,
the delight of admiration, and perform the duties of
reverence.
Archdeacon Hare. It is cruel and inhuman to withhold
the sustenance which is necessary to the growth, if not the
existence, of genius ; sympathy, encouragement, commen-
dation. Praise is not fame ; but the praise of the intelligent
is its precursor.
CCXXIX.
Archdeacon Hare. Opinion on most matters, but
chiefly on literary, and above all on poetical, seems to
me like an empty egg-shell in a duck -pond, turned on
its stagnant water by the slightest breath of air ; at one
moment the cracked side nearer to sight, at another the
sounder, but the emptiness at all times visible.
In selecting a poet for examination, it is usual either
to extol him to the skies, or to tear him to pieces and
trample on him. Editors in general do the former :
critics on editors more usually the latter.
ccxxxi.
Salomon. He who first praises a book becomingly, is
next in merit to the author.
ccxxxn.
Person. Periodical critics were never so plentiful as
286 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
they now are. There is hardly a young author who does
not make his first attempt in some review ; showing his
teeth, hanging by his tail, pleased and pleasing by the
volubility of his chatter, and doing his best to get a
penny for his exhibitor and a nut for his own pouch, by
the facetiousness of the tricks he performs upon our heads
and shoulders.
CCXXXIII.
Person. Those who have failed as painters turn picture-
cleaners, those who have failed as writers turn reviewers.
Orator Henley taught in the last century that the readiest-
made shoes are boots cut down : there are those who
abundantly teach us now, that the readiest-made critics
are cut-down poets. Their assurance is, however, by no
means diminished from their ill-success.
CCXXXIV.
Petrarca. Why cannot we be delighted with an author,
and even feel a predilection for him, without a dislike to
others ?
Boccaccio. The eyes of critics, whether in commending
or carping, are both on one side, like a turbot's.
ccxxxv.
Petrarca. No criticism is less beneficial to an author or
his reader than one tagged with favour and tricked with
courtesy. The gratification of our humours is not the
intent and scope of criticism, and those who indulge in it
on such occasions are neither wise nor honest.
CCXXXVI.
Cicero. In literature great men suffer more from their
little friends than from their potent enemies.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 287
CCXXXVII.
Vittoria Colonna. Sometimes we ourselves may have
exercised our ingenuity, but without any consciousness
of spleen or ill-humour, in detecting and discussing the
peculiar faults of great poets. This has never been done,
or done very clumsily, by our critics, who fancy that a
measureless and shapeless phantom of enthusiasm leaves
an impression of a powerful mind, and a quick apprehen-
sion of the beautiful.
"Who," they ask us, "who would look for small
defects in such an admirable writer ? Who is not trans-
ported by his animation, and blinded by his brightness?"
To this interrogation my answer is,
"Very few indeed ; only the deliberate, the instructed,
and the wise. Only they who partake in some degree of
his nature know exactly where to find his infirmities."
CCXXXVIII.
Southey. It is fortunate we have been sitting quite
alone while we detected the blemishes of a poet we both
venerate. 1 The malicious are always the most ready to
bring forward an accusation of malice : and we should
certainly have been served, before long, with a writ
pushed under the door.
Landor. Are we not somewhat like two little beggar-
boys, who, forgetting that they are in tatters, sit noticing
a few stains and rents in their father's raiment ?
Southey. But they love him.
CCXXXIX.
Boccaccio. The generous man, such as you, praises and
censures with equal freedom, not with equal pleasure :
1 Milton.
288 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
the freedom and the pleasure of the ungenerous are both
contracted, and lie only on the left hand.
Petrarca. When we point to our friends an object in
the country, do we wish to diminish it ? do we wish to
show it overcast ? Why then should we in those nobler
works of creation, God's only representatives, who have
cleared our intellectual sight for us, and have displayed
before us things more magnificent than Nature would
without them have revealed ?
CCXL.
Boccaccio. Beware of violating those canons of criticism
you have just laid down. We have no right to gratify
one by misleading another, nor, when we undertake to
show the road, to bandage the eyes of him who trusts
us for his conductor. In regard to censure, those only
speak ill who speak untruly, unless a truth be barbed by
malice and aimed by passion. To be useful to as many
as possible is the especial duty of a critic, and his utility
can only be attained by rectitude and precision. He
walks in a garden which is not his own ; and he neither
must gather the blossoms to embellish his discourse, nor
break the branches to display his strength. Rather let
him point to what is out of order, and help to raise what
is lying on the ground.
Petrarca. Auditors, and readers in general, come to
hear or read, not your opinion delivered, but their own
repeated. Fresh notions are as disagreeable to some as
fresh air to others ; and this inability to bear them is
equally a symptom of disease. Impatience and intoler-
ance are sure to be excited at any check to admiration in
the narratives of Ugolino and of Francesca : nothing is
to be abated : they are not only to be admirable, but
entirely faultless.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 289
Boccaccio. You have proved to me, that in blaming our
betters, we ourselves may sometimes be unblamed. When
authors are removed by death beyond the reach of irrita
tion at the touch of an infirmity, we best consult their
glory by handling their works comprehensively and un-
sparingly. Vague and indefinite criticism suits only slight
merit, and presupposes it. Lineaments irregular and
profound as Dante's are worthy of being traced with
patience and fidelity. In the charts of our globe we find
distinctly marked the promontories and indentations, and
oftentimes the direction of unprofitable marshes and im-
passable sands and wildernesses : level surfaces are un-
noted. I would not detract one atom from the worth of
Dante ; which cannot be done by summing it up exactly,
but may be by negligence in the computation.
CCXLI. DANTE'S PAOLO AND FRANCESCA.
Boccaccio. Ah ! had Dante remained through life the
pure solitary lover of Bice, his soul had been gentler,
tranquiller, and more generous. He scarcely hath de-
scribed half the curses he went through, nor the roads
he took on the journey: theology, politics, and that
barbican of the Inferno, marriage, surrounded with its
Selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte.
Admirable is indeed the description of Ugolino, to who-
ever can endure the sight of an old soldier gnawing at
the scalp of an old archbishop.
Petrarca. The thirty lines from
Ed io senil
are unequalled by any other continuous thirty in the
whole dominions of poetry.
Boccaccio. Give me rather the six on Francesca : for
if in the former I find the simple, vigorous, clear narra-
tion, I find also what I would not wish, the features of
u
290 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Ugolino reflected full in Dante. The two characters are
similar in themselves ; hard, cruel, inflexible, malignant,
but, whenever moved, moved powerfully. In Francesca,
with the faculty of divine spirits, he leaves his own nature
(not indeed the exact representative of theirs) and con-
verts all his strength into tenderness. The great poet,
like the original man of the Platonists, is double, possess-
ing the further advantage of being able to drop one half
at his option, and to resume it. Some of the tenderest
on paper have no sympathies beyond : and some of the
austerest in their intercourse with their fellow-creatures
have deluged the world with tears. It is not from the
rose that the bee gathers her honey, but often from the
most acrid and the most bitter leaves and petals.
Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
Esser baciato di cotanto amante,
Questi, che mai da me nonfia diviso !
La bocca mi bacib tutto tremante.
Galeotlofu il libro, e chi lo scrisse.
Qualgiorno piu non m leggemmo avante.
In the midst of her punishment, Francesca, when
she comes to the tenderest part of her story, tells it with
complacency and delight ; and instead of naming Paolo,
which indeed she never has done from the beginning, she
now designates him as
Questi che mai dame nonfia diviso !
Are we not impelled to join in her prayer, wishing
them happier in their union ?
Petrarca. If there be no sin in it.
Boccaccio. Ay, and even if there be God help us !
What a sweet aspiration in each cesura of the verse !
three love-sighs fixed and incorporate ! Then, when she
hath said
La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante^
she stops : she would avert the eyes of Dante from her :
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 29 1
he looks for the sequel : she thinks he looks severely :
she says,
" Galeotto is the name of the book,"
fancying by this timorous little flight she has drawn him
far enough from the nest of her young loves. No, the
eagle beak of Dante and his piercing eyes are yet over
her.
" Galeotto is the name of the book."
"What matters that?"
"And of the writer."
"Or that either?"
At last she disarms him : but how ?
" That day we read no more."
Such a depth of intuitive judgment, such a delicacy of
perception, exists not in any other work of human genius ;
and from an author who, on almost all occasions, in this
part of the work, betrays a deplorable want of it.
Petrarca. Perfection of poetry ! The greater is my
wonder at discovering nothing else of the same order or
cast in this whole section of the poem. He who fainted
at the recital of Francesca,
" And he who fell as a dead body falls,"
would exterminate all the inhabitants of every town in
Italy ! What execrations against Florence, Pistoia, Siena,
Pisa, Genoa ! What hatred against the whole human
race ! what exultation and merriment at eternal and im-
mitigable sufferings ! Seeing this, I cannot but consider
the Inferno as the most immoral and impious book that
ever was written. Yet, hopeless that our country shall
ever see again such poetry, and certain that without it our
future poets would be more feebly urged forward to ex-
cellence, I would have dissuaded Dante from cancelling
it, if this had been his intention. Much, however, as I
admire his vigour and severity of style in the description
of Ugolino, I acknowledge with you that I do not dis-
2Q2 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
cover so much imagination, so much creative power, as
in the Francesca.
CCXLIL VERBAL CRITICISM, WITH AN EXAMPLE.
Alfieri. There are those who would persuade us that
verbal criticism is unfair, and that few poems can resist
it. The truth of the latter assertion by no means establishes
the former : all good criticism hath its foundation on
verbal. Long dissertations are often denominated criti-
cisms, without one analysis ; instead of which it is
thought enough to say; " There is nothing finer in our
language we can safely recommend imbued M'ith the
true spirit destined to immortality, etc."
A perfect piece of criticism must exhibit where a work
Is good or bad ; "why it is good or bad ; in what degree
it is good or bad ; must also demonstrate in what manner
and to what extent the same ideas or reflections have
come to others, and, if they be clothed in poetry, why,
by an apparently slight variation, what in one author is
mediocrity, in another is excellence.
I have never seen a critic of Florence or Pisa or
Milan or Bologna, who did not commend and admire
the sonnet of Cassiani on the rape of Proserpine, without
a suspicion of its manifold defects. Few sonnets are
indeed so good ; but if we examine it attentively, we
shall discover its flaws and patches.
" Dte im alto strido, gittb ifiori, e volta
A IF improvisa mano che la time,
Tutta in se per la tema onde fu colta
La Siciliana vergine si strinse."
The hand is inadequate to embrace a body ; strinse,
which comes after, would have done better : and the two
last verses tell only what the two first had told, and
feebly : nothing can be more so than the tema ondefu colta.
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 293
" // nero dio la calda bocca involta
D' ispido pelo a ingordo bacio spinse,
E di stigia fuligin con lafolta
Barba Peburnea gola e il sen le tinse. "
Does not this describe the devils of our carnival, rather
than the majestic brother of Jupiter, at whose side upon
asphodel and amaranth the sweet Persephone sits pen-
sively contented, in that deep motionless quiet which
mortals pity and which the gods enjoy ; rather than him
who, under the umbrage of Elysium, gazes at once upon
all the beauties that on earth were separated ; Helena
and Eriphyle, Polyxena and Hermione, Deidameia and
Deianeira, Leda and Omphale, Atalanta and Cydippe,
Laodameia with her arm round the neck of a fond youth
whom she still seems afraid of losing, and, apart, the
daughters of Niobe, though now in smiles, still clinging
to their parent.
CCXLIII. OF IDIOM.
Demosthenes. I have been careful to retain as much
idiom as I could, often at the peril of being called ordi-
nary and vulgar. Nations in a state of decay lose their
idiom, which loss is always precursory to that of freedom.
What your father and your grandfather used as an ele-
gance in conversation, is now abandoned to the populace,
and every day we miss a little of our own, and collect a
little from strangers : this prepares us for a more intimate
union with them, in which we merge at last altogether.
Every good writer has much idiom ; it is the life and
spirit of language ; and none such ever entertained a fear
or apprehension that strength and sublimity were to be
lowered and weakened by it.
CCXLIV. OF QUOTATION.
Lucian. Before I let fall a quotation I must be taken
294 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
by surprise. I seldom do it in conversation, seldomer in
composition ; for it mars the beauty and unity of style ;
especially when it invades it from a foreign tongue. A
quoter is either ostentatious of his acquirements, or doubt-
ful of his cause. And, moreover, he never walks grace-
fully who leans upon the shoulder of another, however
gracefully that other may walk.
CCXLV. VULGARISMS.
Home Tooke. No expression can become a vulgarism
which has not a broad foundation. The language of the
vulgar hath its source in physics : in known, compre-
hended, and operative things : the language of those who
are just above the vulgar is less pure, as flowing from
what they do not in general comprehend. Hence the
profusion of broken and ill-assorted metaphors, which we
find in the conversation of almost all who stand in the
intermediate space between the lettered and the lowest.
CCXLVL GALLICISMS AND LATINISMS.
Barrow. Our language bears gallicisms better than
latinisms, but whoever is resolved to write soberly must
be contented with the number of each that was found
among us in the time of the Reformation.
CCXLVII. ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHY AND DICTION.
Archdeacon Hare. In some of your later writings, 1
perceive, you have not strictly followed the line you for-
merly laid down for spelling.
Landor. I found it inexpedient ; since whatever the pains
I took, there was, in every sheet almost, some deviation
on the side of the compositor. Inconsistency was forced
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 295
on me against all my struggles and reclamations. At last
nothing is left for me but to enter my protest, and to take
the smooth path instead of the broken-up highway.
Archdeacon Hare. It is chiefly in the preterites and
participles that I have followed you perseveringly. We
are rich in having two for many of our verbs, and unwise
in corrupting the spelling, and thereby rendering the
pronunciation difficult. We pronounce "astonisht," we
write astonished or astonish 'd ; an unnecessary harshness.
Never was spoken drop^W, or looped, or hop^W, or
prop//; but dropt, etc. ; yet, with the choice before us,
we invariably take the wrong. I do not resign a right to
"astonis^^" or " diministof. " They may, with many
like them, be useful in poetry ; and several such termina-
tions add dignity and solemnity to what we read in our
church, the sanctuary at once of our faith and of our
language.
Landor. In more essential things than preterites and
participles I ought rather to have been your follower than
you mine. No language is purer or clearer than yours.
Vigorous streams from the mountain do not mingle at
once with the turbid lake, but retain their force and their
colour in the midst of it. We are sapt by an influx of
putridity.
Archdeacon Hare. Come, come ; again to our spelling-
book.
Landor. Well then, we differ on the spelling of honotir,
favour, etc. You would retain the u : I would reject it,
for the sake of consistency. We have dropt it in author,
emperor, ambassador. Here again, for consistency and
compliancy, I write " embassador," because I write, as
all do, " embassy." I write theater, sepulch<?r, meter, in
their English form rather than the French. The best
authors have done it; all write "hexameter,'* and
"pentameter."
296 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
Archdeacon Hare. It is well to simplify and systematize
wherever we can do it conveniently.
Landor. And without violence to vested rights ; which
words have here some meaning. Why " #mend " if
" emendation "? Why not " pontz/," if " caitz/"?
Archdeacon Hare. Why then should grandeur be left
in solitary state ? The Englishman less easily protrudes
his nether jaw than the Frenchman, as " grander" seems
to require. Grandeur (or grander, if you will have it so)
sounds better.
Landor. I will have it so ; and so will you and others
at last.
Archdeacon Hare. Meanwhile, let us untie this last knot
of Norman bondage on the common law of language in
our land.
Landor. Set about it : no authority is higher than
yours : I will run by the side of you, or be your herald,
or (what better becomes me) your pursuivant.
There is an affectation of scholarship in compilers of
spelling-books, and in the authors they follow for ex-
amples, when they bring forward phenomena and the like.
They might as well bring forward mysteria. We have no
right to tear Greek and Latin declensions out of their
grammars : we need no vortices when we have vortexes
before us ; and while we have memorandums , factotums,
ultimatums^ let our shepherd dogs bring back to us by
the ear such as have wandered from the flock.
Archdeacon Hare. We have "stimuli/"; why "stim-
uli ? " why " stimuh' " ? why " recipe " ? why " i&ceipt " ?
we might as reasonably write "deceipt" and "conceipt."
I believe we are the only people who keep the Dramatis
Persona on the stage, or announce their going off by
" Exeunt : " "exit " for departure is endurable, and kept
in countenance by transit : let us deprecate the danger
of hearing of a friend's obit, which seems imminent : a
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 297
" post-obit" is bad enough: an item I would confine to
the ledger. I have no mind for animus.
Landor. Beside these there are two expressions either
of which is quite enough to bring down curses and mor-
tality on the poet. " Stand confest " (even if not written
"confess'd ") is one; " unbidden tears" the other. I
can imagine no such nonsense as unbidden tears. Why
do we not write the verb control with an e at the end,
and the substantive with u as soul? we might as reason-
ably write whol for whole : very unreasonably do we
write wholly with a double 1 ; wholy and soly might fol-
low the type of holy. We see printed befal with one 1,
but never fal, and yet in the monosyllable we should not
be doubtful of the accentuation. It is but of late that
we contro/, reca/, appa/; we do not yet rol. Will any
one tell me who put such a lazy beast to our munition-
train, and spelt on the front of the carriage ammunition ?
We write enter and inter equally with a single final r :
surely the latter wants another.
Archdeacon Hare. What is quite as censurable, while
we reject the good of our own countrymen, we adopt the
bad of the forener. We are much in the habit of using the
WOrd^&ttrt&r. Surely we might let the French take and
torture our freebooter. In our fondness for making verbs
out of substantives, we even go to the excess of flibuster-
ing. And now from coarse vulgarity let us turn our eyes
toward inconsiderate refinement. When I was a boy
every girl among the poets was a nymph> whether in
country or town. Johnson countenanced them, and,
arm-in-arm with Pope, followed them even into Jeru-
salem. " Ye nymphs of Solyma," etc.
Landor. Pity they ever found their way back !
1
OF
TT "XT t-T-r- - , -.
298 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
CCXLVIII.
Archdeacon Hare. Unhappily for us, we are insensible
of the corruptions that creep yearly into our language.
At Cambridge or Oxford (I am ignorant which of them
claims the glory of the invention), some undergraduate
was so facetious as to say, " Well, while you are discuss-
ing the question, I will discuss my wine. " The graceful-
ness of this witticism was so captivating, that it took pos-
session not only of both universities, but seized also on
' ' men about town. " Even the ladies, who preserve the
purity of language, caught up the expression from those
who were libertines in it.
Landor. Chesterfield and Horace Walpole, who arb
among the most refined of our senators, have at present
no more authority in language than in dress. By what
we see, we might imagine that the one article is to be
cast aside after as short a wear as the other. It occurs
to me at this moment, that, when we have assumed the
habiliments of the vulgar, we are in danger of contracting
their coarseness of language and demeanour.
Archdeacon Hare. Certainly the Romans were togati
in their tongue, as well as in their wardrobe. Purity and
gravity of style were left uncontaminated and unshaken
by the breath of Tiberius and his successor. The Anto-
nines spoke better Latin than the Triumvir Antonius ;
and Marcus Aurelius, although on some occasions he pre-
ferred the Greek, was studious to maintain his own idiom
strong and healthy. When the tongue is paralysed, the
limbs soon follow. No nation hath long survived the
decrepitude of its language.
There is perpetually an accession of slang to our ver-
nacular, which is usually biennial or triennial.
Landor. I have been either a fortunate or a prudent
man to have escaped for so many years together to be
LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE. 299
"pitched into" among "giant trees," "monster meet-
ings," "glorious fruit," " splendid cigars, dogs, horses, and
bricks" "palmy days," "rich oddities ;" to owe nobody
a farthing for any other fashionable habits of rude device
and demi-saison texture ; and above all, to have never
come in at the "eleventh hour," which has been sounding
all day long the whole year. They do me a little injustice
who say that such a good fortune is attributable to my
residence in Italy. The fact is, I am too cautious and
too aged to catch disorders, and I walk fearlessly through
these epidemics.
Archdeacon Hare. Simply to open is insufficient : we
"open up" and "open out" A gentleman indues a
coat ; it will be difficult to exue it if he tries ; he must lie
down and sleep in it.
"Foolery" was thought of old sufficiently expressive :
nothing short of ^wzfoolery will do now. To repudiate
was formerly to put away what disgraced us : it now sig-
nifies (in America at least) to reject the claims of justice
and honour. We hear people re-read, and see them re-
write ; and are invited to a spread, where we formerly
went to a dinner or collation. We cut down barracks tc
a single barrack ; but we leave the " stocks " in good
repair. We are among ambitions, and among peoples)
until Sternhold and Hopkins call us into a quieter place,
and we hear once again
"All people that on earth do dwell."
Shall we never have done with "rule and exception"
tl ever and anon" " many a time and oft" ?
CCXLIX.
Landor. So far from innovating, the words I propose
are brought to their former and legitimate station ; you
have sanctioned the greater part, and have thought the
300 REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
remainder worth your notice. Every intelligent and un-
prejudiced man will agree with you. I prefer high
authorities to lower, analogy to fashion, a Restoration to
a Usurpation. Innovators, and worse than innovators
were those Reformers called, who disturbed the market-
place of manorial Theology, and went back to Religion
where she stood alone in her original purity. We English
were the last people to adopt the reformed style in the
calendar, and we seem determined to be likewise the
last in that of language. We are ordered to please the
public ; we are forbidden to instruct it. Not only pub-
lishers and booksellers are against us, but authors too ;
and even some of them who are not regularly in the service
of those masters. The outcry is, " We have not ventured
to alter what we find in use, and why should he ?"
CCL.
Mr. Hartley Coleridge, who inherits the genius of his
father, is incorrect in mentioning me with a set of people
(Elphinstone and Mitford at the head of them) who at-
tempt to spell every word as we pronounce it. What, in
the name of God, is there in common between these folks
and me ? Certainly not this folly : no such idea ever
entered my head.
CCLI.
I am radically a Conservative in everything useful ; and,
during my stay at this inn called Human Life, I would
trust anything to the chambermaids rather than my
English tongue.
III.
PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
TO IANTHE.
CCLII. HOMAGE.
AWAY, my verse ; and never fear,
As men before such beauty do ;
On you she will not look severe,
She will not turn her eyes from you.
Some happier graces could I lend
That in her memory you should live,
Some little blemishes might blend,
For it would please her to forgive.
On the smooth brow and clustering hair
Myrtle and rose ! your wreath combine,
The duller olive I would wear,
Its constancy, its peace, be mine.
CCLIV.
There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you
Heartsease of all earth's flowers most rare j
Bring it ; and bring enough for two.
It often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
304 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
But I am far from sure we do.
O that it were so ! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest ;
I should for ever dream of you.
CCLVI.
All tender thoughts that e'er possessed
The human brain or human breast,
Centre in mine for thee
Excepting one and that must thou
Contribute : come, confer it now :
Grateful I fain would be.
CCLVII.
Pleasure ! why thus desert the hear:
In its spring-tide ?
I could have seen her, I could part,
And but have sigh'd !
O'er every youthful charm to stray,
To gaze, to touch
Pleasure ! why take so much away :
Or give so much ?
CCLVIII. RENUNCIATION.
Lie, my fond heart, at rest,
She never can be ours.
Why strike upon my breast
The slowly passing hours ?
Ah ! breathe not out the name I
That fatal folly stay !
Conceal the eternal flame,
And tortured ne'er betray.
TO IANTHE. , 305
CCLIX.
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more ;
Nor hope I what I hoped before :
But let not this last wish be vain ;
Deceive, deceive me once again 1
CCLX.
So late removed from him she swore,
With clasping arms and vows and tears,
In life and death she would adore,
While memory, fondness, bliss, endears.
Can she forswear ? can she forget ?
Strike, mighty love ! strike, Vengeance ! Soft 1
Conscience must come and bring regret
These let her feel ! nor these too oft 1
CCLXI.
I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew j
She bent her head before my kiss
My heart was sure that hers was true.
Now I have told her I must part,
She shakes my hand, she bids adieu.
Nor shuns the kiss Alas, my heart I
Hers never was the heart for you.
CCLXII. ABSENCE.
lanthe ! you are call'd to cross the sea !
A path forbidden me I
x
306 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Remember, while the sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,
How often we have watch'd him laying down
His brow, and dropp'd our own
Against each other's, and how faint and short
And sliding the support !
What will succeed it now ? Mine is unblest,
lanthe ! nor will rest
But on the very thought that swells with pain.
O bid me hope again !
O give me back what Earth, what (without you)
Not Heaven itself can do,
One of the golden days that we have past ;
And let it be my last !
Or else the gift would be, however sweet,
Fragile and incomplete.
CCLXIII.
Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know
For me, not him, ye flow.
Stay, precious tears ! ah stay ! this jealous heart
Would bid you flow apart,
Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim,
And hope you rise for him.
Your secret cells, while he is present, keep,
Nor, though I'm absent, weep,
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray ;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
TO IANTHE. 307
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have sooth'd it all.
CCLXV. YEARS AFTER.
" Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? "
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,
lanthe said, and look'd into my eyes.
" A.yes t a. yes to both : for memory
Where you but once have been must ever be,
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise."
CCLXVI.
No, my own love of other years !
No, it must never be.
Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas ! but what with me ?
Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve
And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befals ;
I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.
CCLXVII.
I wonder not that youth remains
With you, wherever else she flies :
Where could she find such fair domains,
Where bask beneath such sunny eyes ?
308 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
CCLXVIII.
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down and up again as blithe as ever ;
From you, lanthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples in a sunny river.
Years, many parti-colour'd years,
Some have crept on, and some have flown.
Since first before me fell those tears
I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall : when, carried home,
I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
CCLXX.
Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand, " O ! what a child !
You think you're writing upon stone \ '
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find lanthe's name again.
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES.
CCLXXL ON SWIFT JOINING AVON NEAR RUGBY.
SILENT and modest brook ! who dippest here
Thy foot in Avon as if childish fear
Withheld thee for a moment, wend along ;
Go, follow'd by my song,
Such in such easy numbers as they use
Who turn in fondness to the Tuscan Muse,
And such as often have flow'd down on me
From my own Fiesole.
I watch thy placid smile, nor need to say
That Tasso wove one looser lay,
And Milton took it up to dry the tear
Dropping on Lycidas's bier.
In youth how often at thy side I wander'd !
What golden hours, hours numberless, were squander'd
Among thy sedges, while sometimes
I meditated native rhymes,
And sometimes stumbled upon Latian feet ;
Then, where soft mole-built seat
Invited me, I noted down
What must full surely win the crown,
But first impatiently vain efforts made
On broken pencil with a broken blade.
Anon, of lighter heart, I threw
My hat where circling plover flew,
And once I shouted till, instead of plover,
There sprang up half a damsel, half a lover.
310 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
I would not twice be barbarous ; on I went
And two heads sank amid the pillowing bent.
Pardon me, gentle stream, if rhyme
Holds up these records in the face of Time ;
Among the falling leaves some birds yet sing,
And Autumn has his butterflies like Spring.
Thou canst not turn thee back, thou canst not see
Reflected what hath ceased to be :
Haply thou little knowest why
I check this levity, and sigh.
Thou never knewest her whose radiant morn
Lighted my path to Love ; she bore thy name,
She whom no Grace was tardy to adorn,
Whom one low voice pleas'd more than louder fame :
She now is past my praises : from her urn
To thine, with reverence due, I turn.
O silver-braided Swift ! no victim ever
Was sacrificed to thee,
Nor hast thou carried to that sacred River
Vases of myrrh, nor hast thou run to see
A band of Maenads toss their timbrels high
Mid io-evohes to their Deity.
But holy ashes have bestrewn thy stream
Under the mingled gleam
Of swords and torches, and the chant of Rome
When Wiclif s lowly tomb
Thro' its thick briars was burst
By frantic priests accurst ;
For he had enter'd and laid bare the lies
That pave the labyrinth of their mysteries.
We part but one more look I
Silent and modest brook J
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 31 1
CCLXXII. ABERTAWY.
It was no dull though lonely strand
Where thyme ran o'er the solid sand,
Where snap-dragons with yellow eyes
Looked down on crowds that could not rise,
Where Spring had fill'd with dew the moss
In winding dells two strides across.
There tiniest thorniest roses grew
To their full size, nor shared the dew :
Acute and jealous, they took care
That none their softer seat should share ;
A weary maid was not to stay
Without one for such churls as they.
I tugg'd and lugg'd with all my might
To tear them from their roots outright ;
At last I did it eight or ten
We both were snugly seated then ;
But then she saw a half-round bead,
And cried, Good gracious / how you bleed '
Gently she wiped it off, and bound
With timorous touch that dreadful wound
To lift it from its nurse's knee
I fear'd and quite as much fear'd she,
For might it not increase the pain,
And make the wound burst out again ?
She coax'd it to lie quiet there
With a low tune I bent to hear ;
How close I bent I quite forget,
I only know I hear it yet.
Where is she now ? Call'd far away,
By one she dared not disobey,
To those proud halls, for youth unfit,
Where princes stand and judges sit.
312 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Where Ganges rolls his widest wave
She dropped her blossom in the grave ;
Her noble name she never changed,
Nor was her nobler heart estranged.
CCLXXIII. ROSE AYLMER.
Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine !
What every virtue, every grace !
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eye?
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
CCLXXIV. TO j. s.
Many may yet recall the hours
That saw thy lover's chosen flowers
Nodding and dancing in the shade
Thy <dark and wavy tresses made :
On many a brain is pictured yet
Thy languid eye's dim violet,
But who among them all foresaw
How the sad snows that never thaw
Upon that head one day should lie
And love but glimmer from that eye.
CCLXXV. A FIESOLAN IDYL.
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires,
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES.^^^H-
And softer sighs that know not what they want,
Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seem'd to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walk'd off? 'Twere most ungrateful : for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ;
I saw the foot that, although half- erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted : I held down a branch
314 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
And gather'd her some blossoms ; since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way thro'
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun ;
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said, " You find the largest."
"This indeed,"
Cried she, ' ' is large and sweet. " She held one forth.
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt.
I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part
Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back
The boon she tender' d, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
CCLXXVI. FIESOLAN MUSINGS.
Let me sit here and muse by thee
Awhile, aerial Fiesole !
What has the zephyr brought so sweet ?
'Tis the vine-blossom round my seat.
Ah ! how much better here at ease
And quite alone to catch the breeze,
Than roughly wear life's waning day
On rotten forms with Castlereagh,
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 315
'Mid public men for private ends,
A friend to foes, a foe to friends !
Long since with youthful chases warm,
And when ambition well might charm,
And when the choice before me lay,
I heard the din and turned away.
Hence oftentimes imperial Seine
Hath listen'd to my early strain,
And past the Rhine and past the Rhone
My Latian muse is heard and known.
Nor is the life of one recluse
An alien quite from public use.
Where alders mourned their fruitless beds
A thousand cedars raise their heads,
And from Segovia's hills remote,
My sheep enrich my neighbour's cote.
The wide and easy road I lead
Where never paced the harness' d steed,
Where hardly dared the goat look down
Beneath her parent mountain's frown,
Suspended while the torrent-spray
Springs o'er the crags that roll away.
Cares if I had, I turn'd those cares
Toward my partridges and hares,
At every dog and gun I heard,
Ill-auguring for some truant bird,
Or whisker'd friend of jet-tipp'd ear,
Until the frightened eld limp'd near.
These knew me, and 'twas quite enough,
I paid no Morning Post to puff,
Saw others fame and wealth increase,
Ate my own mutton-chop in peace,
Open'd my window, snatch'd my glass,
And from the rills that chirp and pass,
316 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
A pure libation pour'd to thee,
Unsoil'd uncitied Liberty !
Llanthony ! an ungenial clime,
And the broad wing of restless Time,
Have rudely swept thy massy walls
And rock'd thy abbots in their palls.
I loved thee by thy streams of yore,
By distant streams I love thee more ;
For never is the heart so true
As bidding what we love adieu.
Yet neither where we first drew breath,
Nor where our fathers sleep in death,
Nor where the mystic ring was given,
The link from earth that reaches heaven,
Nor London, Paris, Florence, Rome,
In his own heart's the wise man's home.
Stored with each keener, kinder sense,
Too firm, too lofty, for offence,
Unlittered by the tools of state,
And greater than the great world's great.
If mine no glorious work may be,
Grant, Heaven, and 'tis enough for me
(While many squally sails flit past,
And many break the ambitious mast),
From all that they pursue, exempt,
The stormless bay of deep contempt !
CCLXXVII. TO JOSEPH ABLETT.
Lord of the Celtic dells,
Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells
Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance
The plumes of flashy France,
Or, in dark region far across the main,
Far as Grenada in the world of Spain,
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 317
Warriors untold to Saxon ear,
Until their steel-clad spirits reappear ;
How happy were the hours that held
Thy friend (long absent from his native home)
Amid thy scenes with thee I how wide afield
From all past cares and all to come !
What hath Ambition's feverish grasp, what hath
inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ;
What Genius, that should cope
With the heart -whispers in that path
Winding so idly, where the idler stream
Flings at the white-haired poplars gleam for gleam ?
Ablett ! of all the days
My sixty summers ever knew,
Pleasant as there have been no few,
Memory not one surveys
Like those we spent together. Wisely spent
Are they alone that leave the soul content.
Together we have visited the men
Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drowned ;
Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again
That gave the British harp its truest sound ?
Live, Derwent's guest ! and thou by Grasmere's springs !
Serene creators of immortal things. 1
And live too thou for happier days
Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays
Have heart and soul possess'd : 2
Growl in Grim London he who will,
Revisit thou Maiano's hill,
And swell with pride his sun-burnt breast.
1 Southey and Wordsworth. a Leigh Hunt
3l8 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Old Redi in his easy chair
With varied chant awaits thee there,
And here are voices in the grove
Aside my house, that make me think
Bacchus is coming down to drink
To Ariadne's love.
But whither am I borne away
From thee, to whom began my lay !
Courage ! I am not yet quite lost ;
I stepp'd aside to greet my friends ;
Believe me, soon the greeting ends,
I know but three or four at most.
Deem not that time hath borne too hard
Upon the fortunes of thy bard,
Leaving me only three or four :
'Tis my old number ; dost thou start
At such a tale ? in what man's heart
Is there fireside for more ?
I never courted friends or Fame ;
She pouted at me long, at last she came,
And threw her arms around my neck and said,
"Take what hath been for years delay'd,
And fear not that the leaves will fall
One hour the earlier from thy coronal. "
Ablett ! thou knowest with what even hand
I waved away the offer'd seat
Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great,
The rulers of our land ;
Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up,
Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup.
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 319
Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me
My citron groves of Fiesole,
My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook,
My Naiads, with feet only in the brook,
Which runs away and giggles in their faces,
Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places
Tis not Pelasgian wall,
By him made sacred whom alone
'Twere not profane to call
The bard divine, nor (thrown
Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest
Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east.
Here can I sit or roam at will ;
Few trouble me, few wish me ill,
Few come across me, few too near ;
Here all my wishes make their stand ;
Here ask I no one's voice or hand ;
Scornful of favour, ignorant of fear.
Yon vine upon the maple bough
Flouts at the hearty wheat below ;
Away her venal wines the wise man sends,
While those of lower stem he brings
From inmost treasure vault, and sings
Their worth and age among his chosen friends.
Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun
Her zone least opens to the genial heat,
But farther off her veins more freely run :
'Tis thus with those who whirl about the great ;
The nearest shrink and shiver, we remote
May open-breasted blow the pastoral oat.
320 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
CCLXXVIII. TO WORDSWORTH.
Those who have laid the harp aside
And turn'd to idler things,
From very restlessness have tried
The loose and dusty strings,
And, catching back some favourite strain,
Run with it o'er the chords again.
But Memory is not a Muse,
O Wordsworth ! though 'tis said
They all descend from her, and use
To haunt her fountain-head :
That other men should work for me
In the rich mines of Poesie,
Pleases me better than the toil
Of smoothing under hardened hand
With attic emery and oil,
The shining point for Wisdom's wand,
Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills
Descending from thy native hills.
Without his governance, in vain
Manhood is strong, and youth is bold.
If oftentimes the o'erpiled strain
Clogs in the furnace, and grows cold
Beneath his pinions deep and frore,
And swells and melts and flows no more
That is because the heat beneath
Pants in its cavern poorly fed.
Life springs not from the couch of Death,
Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead
Unturn'd then let the mass remain,
Intractable to sun or rain.
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 321
A marsh where only flat leaves lie,
And showing but the broken sky,
Too surely is the sweetest lay
That wins the ear and wastes the day,
Where youthful Fancy pouts alone
And lets not Wisdom touch her zone.
He who would build his fame up high,
The rule and plummet must apply,
Nor say, " I'll do what I have plann'd,"
Before he try if loam or sand
Be still remaining in the place
Delved for each polish'd pillar's base.
With skilful eye and fit device
Thou raisest every edifice,
Whether in sheltered vale it stand.
Or overlook the Dardan strand,
Amid the cypresses that mourn
Laodameia's love forlorn.
We both have run o'er half the space.
Listed for mortal's earthly race ;
We both have crost life's fervid line,
And other stars before us shine :
May they be bright and prosperous
As those that have been stars for us !
Our course by Milton's light was sped,
And Shakespeare shining overhead :
Chatting on deck was Dryden too,
The Bacon of the rhyming crew ;
None ever cross'd our mystic sea
More richly stored with thought than he \
Tho' never tender nor sublime,
He wrestles with and conquers Time.
To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee,
I left much prouder company ;
322 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Thee gentle Spenser fondly led,
But me he mostly sent to bed.
I wish them every joy above
That highly blessed spirits prove,
Save one : and that too shall be theirs,
But after many rolling years,
When 'mid their light thy light appears.
CCLXXIX. TO SOUTHEY.
Indweller of a peaceful vale,
Ravaged erewhile by white-hair'd Dane ;
Rare architect of many a wondrous tale,
Which, till Helvellyn's head lie prostrate, shall remain !
From Arno's side I hear thy Derwent flow,
And see methinks the lake below
Reflect thy graceful progeny, more fair
And radiant than the purest waters are,
Even when gurgling in their joy among
The bright and blessed throng,
Whom on her arm recline
The beauteous Proserpine
With tenderest regretful gaze,
Thinking of Enna's yellow field, surveys.
Alas ! that snows are shed
Upon thy laurel'd head,
Hurtled by many cares and many wrongs !
Malignity lets none
Approach the Delphic throne ;
A hundred lane-fed curs bark down Fame's hundred
tongues.
But this is in the night, when men are slow
To raise their eyes, when high and low,
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 323
The scarlet and the colourless, are one :
Soon sleep unbars his noiseless prison,
And active minds again are risen ;
Where are the curs? dream-bound, and whimpering
in the sun.
At fife's or lyre's or tabor's sound
The dance of youth, O Southey, runs not round
But closes at the bottom of the room
Amid the falling dust and deepening gloom,
Where the weary sit them down,
And Beauty too unbraids, and waits a lovelier crown.
We hurry to the river we must cross,
And swifter downward every footstep wends ;
Happy, who reach it ere they count the loss
Of half their faculties and half their friends !
When we are come to it, the stream
Is not so dreary as they deem
Who look on it from haunts too dear ;
The weak from Pleasure's baths feel most its chilling air
No firmer breast than thine hath Heaven
To poet sage or hero given :
No heart more tender, none more just
To that He largely placed in trust :
Therefore shalt thou, whatever date
Of years be thine, with soul elate
Rise up before the eternal throne,
And hear in God's own voice "Well done."
Not, were that submarine
Gem -lighted city mine,
Wherein my name, engraven by thy hand,
Above the royal gleam of blazonry shall stand ;
Not, were all Syracuse
Pour'd forth before my muse,
324 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
With Hiero's cars and steeds, and Pindar's lyre
Brightening the path with more than solar fire,
Could I, as would beseem, requite the praise
Showered upon my low head from thy most lofty lays
CCLXXX. TO THE SISTER OF ELIA.
Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile !
Again shall Elia's smile
Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more :
What is it we deplore ?
He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years,
Far worthier things than tears.
The love of friends without a single foe :
s. Unequalled lot below !
His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ;
For these dost thou repine ?
He may have left the lowly walks of men ;
Left them he has ; what then ?
Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise ?
Though the warm day is over, yet they seek
Upon the lofty peak
Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows
O'er death's perennial snows.
Behold him ! from the region of the blest
He speaks : he bids thee rest.
CCLXXXI. FAREWELL TO ITALY,
I leave thee, beauteous Italy ! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 325
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believed ?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherish'd thee so little ;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised ;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
For we are fond of thinking where to lie
When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart
Can lift no aspiration reasoning.
As if the sight were unimpair'd by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheered corruption ! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.
CCLXXXII. LANDOR IN ENGLAND TO HIS YOUNGEST
SON IN ITALY.
Carlino ! what art thou about, my boy ?
Often I ask that question, though in vain,
For we are far apart : ah ! therefore 'tis
I often ask it ; not in such a tone
As wiser fathers do, who know too well.
Were we not children, you and I together ?
Stole we not glances from each other's eyes ?
Swore we not secrecy in such misdeeds ?
326 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Well could we trust each other. Tell me then
What thou art doing. Carving out thy name,
Or haply mine, upon my favourite seat,
With the new knife I sent thee over sea ?
Or hast thou broken it, and hid the hilt
Among the myrtles, starred with flowers, behind ?
Or under that high throne whence fifty lilies
(With sworded tuberoses dense around)
Lift up their heads at once, not without fear
That they were looking at thee all the while.
Does Cincirillo follow thee about,
Inverting one swart foot suspensively,
And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp
Of bird above him on the olive-branch ?
Frighten him then away ! 'twas he who slew
Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed,
That feared not you and me alas, nor him !
I flattened his striped sides along my knee,
And reasoned with him on his bloody mind
Till he looked blandly, and half-closed his eyes
To ponder on my lecture in the shade.
I doubt his memory much, his heart a little,
And in some minor matters (may I say it ?)
Could wish him rather sager. But from thee
God hold back wisdom yet for many years !
Whether in early season or in late
It always comes high-priced. For thy pure breast
I have no lesson ; it for me has many.
Come throw it open then ! What sports, what cares
(Since there are none too young for these) engage
Thy busy thoughts ? Are you again at work,
Walter and you, with those sly labourers,
Geppo, Giovanni, Cecco, and Poeta,
To build more solidly your broken dam
Among the poplars, whence the nightingale
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 327
Inquisitively watch' d you all day long ?
I was not of your council in the scheme,
Or might have saved you silver without end,
And sighs too without number. Art thou gone
Below the mulberry, where that cold pool
Urged to devise a warmer, and more fit
For mighty swimmers, swimming three abreast ?
Or art thou panting in this summer noon
Upon the lowest step before the hall,
Drawing a slice of watermelon, long
As Cupid's bow, athwart thy wetted lips
(Like one who plays Pan's pipe), and letting drop
The sable seeds from all their separate cells,
And leaving bays profound and rocks abrupt,
Redder than coral round Calypso's cave?
CCLXXXIII. THOUGHTS OF FIESOLE, FROM TORQUAY
Whatever England's fields display,
The fairest scenes are thine, Torbav !
Not even Liguria's sunny shore
With palm and aloe pleas'd me more.
Sorrento softer tale may tell,
Parthenope sound louder shell,
Amalfi, Ocean's proudest boast,
Show loftier hills and livelier coast,
Where Nereids hear the nightly flute,
And gather fresh such morning fruit
As hangs within their highth, and shows
Its golden gleam through glossy boughs.
But, with thy dark oak-woods behind,
Here stretch'd against the western wind
The sails that from the Zuyderzee
Brought him who left our fathers free.
328 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
Yet (shame upon me !) I sometimes
Have sighed awhile for other climes,
Where, though no mariner, I too
Whistled aloft my little crew :
'Twas now to spar, 'twas now to fence,
'Twas now to fathom Shakespeare's sense,
And now to trace the hand divine
That guided Raffael's faultless line.
And then we wonder who could raise
The massy walls at which we gaze,
Where amid songs and village glee
Soars immemorial Fiesole.
At last we all in turn declare
We know not who the Cyclops were.
" But the Pelasgians ! those are true?"
" I know as much of them as you."
" Pooh ! nonsense ! you may tell us so ;
Impossible you should not know ! "
Then plans, to find me out, they lay,
Which will not fail another day.
England, in all thy scenes so fair,
Thou canst not show what charm'd me there !
CCLXXXIV. ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY.
Not the last struggles of the sun,
Precipitated from his golden throne,
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense ;
But the calm exod of a man
Nearer, though far above, who ran
The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.
Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint !
Thus, O my Southey ! poet, sage, and saint I
L
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 329
Thou, after saddest silence, art removed.
What voice in anguish can we raise,
Or would we ? need we, dare we, praise ?
God now does that, the God thy whole heart loved.
CCLXXXV. ON THE SAME.
It was a dream (ah ! what is not a dream ?)
In which I wander'd thro' a boundless space
Peopled by those that peopled earth erewhile.
But who conducted me ? That gentle Power,
Gentle as Death, Death's brother. On his brow
Some have seen poppies ; and perhaps among
The many flowers about his wavy curls
Poppies there might be ; roses I am sure
I saw, and dimmer amaranths between.
Lightly I thought I leapt across a grave
Smelling of cool fresh turf, and sweet it smelt.
I would, but must not linger ; I must on,
To tell my dream before forgetfulness
Sweeps it away, or breaks or changes it.
I was among the shades (if shades they were)
And look'd around me for some friendly hand
To guide me on my way, and tell me all
That compass'd me around. I wish'd to find
One no less firm or ready than the guide
Of Alighieri, trustier far than he,
Higher in intellect, more conversant
With earth and heaven and whatso lies between.
He stood before me Soutliey.
"Thou art he,"
Said I, "whom I was wishing."
"That I know,
Replied the genial voice and radiant eye.
We may be question'd, question we may not ;
330 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
For that might cause to bubble forth again
Some bitter spring which cross'd the pleasantest
And shadiest of our paths."
" I do not ask,"
Said I, "about your happiness ; I see
The same serenity as when we walk'd
Along the downs of Clifton. Fifty years
Have roll'd behind us since that summer-tide,
Nor thirty fewer since along the lake
Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd,
Through the crisp waves I urged my sideling bark,
Amid sweet salutation off the shore
From lordly Milan's proudly courteous dames."
" Landor ! I well remember it," said he,
" I had just lost my first-born only boy,
And then the heart is tender ; lightest things
Sink into it, and dwell there evermore."
The words were not yet spoken when the air
Blew balmier ; and around the parent's neck
An angel threw his arms : it was that son.
" Father ! I felt you wish'd me," said the boy,
" Behold me here !"
Gentle the sire's embrace,
Gentle his tone. " See here your father's friend !'
He gazed into my face, then meekly said,
" He whom my father loves hath his reward
On earth ; a richer one awaits him here."
CCLXXXVI. TO THE REV. CUTHBERT SOUTH F.Y.
Cuthbert ! whose father first in all our land
Sate in calm judgment on poetic peer,
Whom hatred never, friendship seldom, warp'd.
Again I read his page and hear his voice ;
I heard it ere T knew it, ere T saw
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 331
Who utter' d it, each then to each unknown.
Twelve years had past when upon Avon's cliff,
Hard by his birth-place, first our hands were join'd ;
After three more he visited my home.
Along Llanthony's ruin'd aisles we walk'd
And woods then pathless, over verdant hill
And ruddy mountain, and aside the stream
Of sparkling Hondy. Just at close of day
There by the comet's light we saw the fox
Rush from the alders, nor relax in speed
Until he trod the pathway of his sires
Under the hoary crag of Comioy.
Then both were happy.
War had paused : the Loire
Invited me ; again burst forth fierce War.
I minded not his fury : there I staid,
Sole of my countrymen, and foes abstain' d
(Though sore and bleeding) from my house alone.
But female fear impell'd me past the Alps,
Where, loveliest of all lakes, the Lario sleeps
Under the walls of Como.
There he came
Again to see me ; there again our walks
We recommenced less pleasant than before.
Grief had swept over him ; days darken'd round :
Bellagio, Valintelvi, smiled in vain,
And Monte Rosa from Helvetia far
Advanced to meet us, mild in majesty
Above the glittering crests of giant sons
Station' d around in vain too ! all in vain !
Perhaps the hour may come when others, taught
By him to read, may read my page aright
And find what lies within it ; time enough
Is there before us in the world of thought.
332 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
The favour I may need I scorn to ask.
What sovran is there able to reprieve,
How then to grant, the life of the condemn'd
By Justice, where the Muses take their seat ?
Never was I impatient to receive
What any man could give me : when a friend
Gave me my due, I took it, and no more
Serenely glad because that friend was pleased.
I seek not many, many seek not me.
If there are few now seated at my board,
I pull no children's hair because they munch
Gilt gingerbread, the figured and the sweet,
Or wallow in the innocence of whey ;
Give me wild-boar, the buck's broad haunch give me t
And wine that time has mellow'd, even as time
Mellows the warrior hermit in his cell.
CCLXXXVII. TO THE MEMORY OF JULIUS HARE.
Julius ! how many hours have we
Together spent with sages old !
In wisdom none surpassing thee,
In Truth's bright armour none more bold.
By friends around thy couch in death
My name from those pure lips was heard.
Fame ! how feebler all thy breath
Than virtue's one expiring word !
CCLXXXVIII. TO THE MEMORY OF LADY BLESSINGTON.
Again, perhaps and only once again,
1 turn my steps to London. Few the scenes
And few the friends that there delighted me
Will now delight me : some indeed remain,
Though changed in features friend and scene
both changed!
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 333
I shall not watch my lilac burst her bud
In that wide garden, that pure fount of air,
Where, risen ere the morns are warm and bright,
And stepping forth in very scant attire,
Timidly, as became her in such garb,
She hasten' d prompt to call up slumbering Spring.
White and dim-purple breathed my favourite pair
Under thy terrace, hospitable heart,
Whom twenty summers more and more endear'd ;
Part on the Arno, part where every clime
Sent its most graceful sons to kiss thy hand,
To make the humble proud, the proud submiss,
Wiser the wisest, and the brave more brave.
Never, ah never now, shall we alight
Where the man- queen 1 was born, or higher up
The nobler region of a nobler soul
Where breathed his last the more than kingly man."
Thou sleepest, not forgotten, nor unmourn'd,
Beneath the chestnut shade by Saint Germain ;
Meanwhile I wait the hour of my repose,
Not under Italy's serener sky,
Where Fiesole beheld me from above
Devising how my head most pleasantly
Might rest ere long, and how with such intent
I smooth'd a platform for my villagers,
(Though stood against me stubborn stony knoll
With cross-grain'd olives long confederate)
And brought together slender cypresses
And bridal myrtles, peering up between,
And bade the modest violet bear her part.
Dance, youths and maidens ! though around my grave
Ye dance not, as I wish : bloom myrtles ! bend
Protecting arms about them, cypresses !
I must not come among you ; fare ye well !
l Elizabeth. 2 The Protector. W. S. L.
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS.
CCLXXXIX. AN APOLOGUE ON BYRON, 1 822.
From the Conversation of Bishop Burnet and Humphry
Hardcastle. Byron is shadowedforth under the character
of Mr. George Nelly, and Southey under that of Milton.
Burnet. Who would have imagined that the youth who
was carried to his long home the other day, I mean my
Lord Rochester's reputed child, Mr. George Nelly, was
for several seasons a great poet ? Yet I remember the
time when he was so famous an one, that he ran after Mr.
Milton up Snow-hill, as the old gentleman was leaning on
his daughter's arm from the Poultry, and, treading down
the heel of his shoe, called him a rogue and a liar ; while
another poet sprang out from a grocer's shop, clapping
his hands, and crying, "Bravely done ! by Beelzebub ! the
young cock spurs the blind buzzard gallantly ! " On some
neighbour representing to Mr. George the respectable
character of Mr. Milton, and the probability that at some
future time he might be considered as among our geniuses,
and such as would reflect a certain portion of credit on
his ward, and asking him withal why he appeared to him
a rogue and liar, he replied : "I have proofs known to
few ; I possess a sort of drama by him, entitled Comus,
which was composed for the entertainment of Lord Pem-
broke, who held an appointment under the king, and this
very John has since changed sides, and written in defence
of the Commonwealth."
Mr. George began with satirising his father's friends,
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 335
and confounding the better part of them with all the
hirelings and nuisances of the age, with all the scavengers
of lust and all the link-boys of literature ; with Newgate
solicitors, the patrons of adulterers and forgers, who, in
the long vacation, turn a penny by puffing a ballad, and
are promised a shilling in silver, for their own benefit, on
crying down a religious tract. He soon became recon-
ciled to the latter, and they raised him upon their shoulders
above the heads of the wittiest and the wisest. This
served a whole winter. Afterwards, whenever he wrote a
bad poem, he supported his sinking fame by some signal
act of profligacy, an elegy by a seduction, an heroic by an
adultery, a tragedy by a divorce. On the remark of a
learned man, that irregularity is no indication of genius,
he began to lose ground rapidly, when on a sudden he
cried out at the Haymarket, ' ' There is no God ! " It was
then surmised more generally and more gravely that there
was something in him, and he stood upon his legs almost
to the last. "Say what you will," once whispered a
friend of mine, "there are things in him as strong as
poison, and as original as sin." * * *
At last he is removed from among the living : let us
hope the best ; to wit, that the mercies which have begun
with man's forge tfulness will be crowned with God's for- '
giveness.
CCXC. NOTE TO THE ABOVE, 1824.
Little did I imagine that the extraordinary man, the
worst parts of whose character are represented here,
should indeed have been carried to the tomb so imma-
turely. If, before the dialogue was printed, he had per-
formed those services to Greece which will render his
name illustrious to eternity, those by which he merited
such funereal honours as, in the parsimony of praise,
336 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
knowing its value in republics, she hardly would have
decreed to the most deserving of her heroes, if, I repeat
it, he had performed those services, the performance of
which I envy him from my soul, and as much as any
other does the gifts of heaven he threw away so carelessly,
never would I, from whatever provocation, have written
a syllable against him. I had avoided him ; I had
slighted him ; he knew it : he did not love me ; he could
not. While he spoke or wrote against me, I said nothing
in print or conversation : the taciturnity of pride gave
way to other feelings, when my friends, men so much
better, and (let the sincerity of the expression be ques-
tioned by those who are unacquainted with us) so much
dearer, so much oftener in my thoughts, were assailed by
him too intemperately.
Let any man who has been unfair or injurious to me,
show that he has been so to me only, and I offer him my
hand at once, with more than mere forgiveness.
Alas ! my writings are not upon slate : no finger, not
of Time himself, who dips it in the clouds of years and in
the storm and tempest, can efface the written. Let me
be called what I may I confess it, I am more inconsist-
ent than he was. I do not talk of weeping or bewailing
or lamenting, for I hate false words, and seek with care,
difficulty, and moroseness, those that fit the thing why
then should I dissemble that, if I have shed no tears,
they are at this moment in my eyes ! O that I could
have clasped his hand before he died ! only to make him
more enamoured of his own virtues, and to keep him with
them always !
A word to those who talk of inconsistency. There is
as much of it in him who stands while another moves, as
in him who moves while another stands. To condemn
what is evil, and to commend what is good, is consistent :
to retract an error, to soften an asperity, to speak all the
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 337
good we can, after worse ill than we would, is that and
more. If I must understand the word inconsistency as
many do. I wish I may be inconsistent with all my
enemies. I will take especial care that my inconsistency
never makes me a worse man or a richer.
Landor. I do not assert that my grief remains for days,
or even hours together, violent or unremitted, although
it has done so once or twice : but seldom have I thought
of a friend or companion, be it at the distance of thirty
or forty years, that the thought is not as intense and
painful, and of as long a visitation, as it was at first.
Even those with whom I have not lived, and whom indeed
I have never seen, affect me by sympathy, as though I had
known them intimately, and I hold with them in my walks
many imaginary conversations. If anything could engage
me to visit Rome, to endure the sight of her scarred and
awful ruins, telling their grave stories upon the ground
in the midst of eunuchs and fiddlers ; if I could let charnel-
houses and opera-houses, consuls and popes, tribunes and
cardinals, orators and preachers, clash in my mind, it
would be that I might afterwards spend an hour in soli-
tude where the pyramid of Cestius points to the bones
of Keats and Shelley. Nothing so attracts my heart as
ruins in deserts, or so repels it as ruins in the circle of
fashion. What is so shocking as the hard verity of Death
swept by the rustling masquerade of Life ! and does not
Mortality of herself teach us how little we are, without
placing us amidst the trivialities of patchwork pomp,
where Virgil led the gods to found an empire, where
Cicero saved and Caesar shook the world 1
z
338 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
CCXCII. SHELLEY.
Landor. Let me return to Shelley. Innocent and
careless as a boy, he possessed all the delicate feelings of
a gentleman, all the discrimination of a scholar, and
united, in just degrees, the ardour of the poet with the
patience and forbearance of the philosopher. His gener-
osity and charity went far beyond those of any man (I
believe) at present in existence. He was never known to
speak evil of an enemy, unless that enemy had done
some grievous injustice to another : and he divided his
income of only one thousand pounds, with the fallen and
afflicted.
This is the man against whom such clamours have been
raised by the religious d la mode, and by those who live
and lap under their tables : this is the man whom, from
one false story about his former wife, I had refused to
visit at Pisa. I blush in anguish at my prejudice and
injustice, and ought hardly to feel it as a blessing or a
consolation, that I regret him less than I should have
done if I had known him personally. As to what remains
of him now life is over, he occupies the third place among
our poets of the present age no humble station for no
other age since that of Sophocles has produced on the
whole earth so many of such merits and is incomparably
the most elegant, graceful, and harmonious of the prose-
writers.
CCXCIIL SOUTHEY.
Interest is always excited by him, enthusiasm not
always. If his elegant prose and harmonious verse are
insufficient to excite it, turn to his virtues, to his manliness
in defence of truth, to the ardour and constancy of his
friendships, to his disinterestedness, to his generosity, to
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 339
his rejection of title and office, and consequently of wealth
and influence. He has laboured to raise up merit in
whatever path of literature he found it ; and poetry in
particular has never had so intelligent, so impartial, and
so merciful a judge.
CCXCIV. A CONFESSION OF JEALOUSY.
Jealous, I own it, I was once,
That wickedness I here renounce.
I tried at wit, it would not do ;
At tenderness, that fail'd me too ;
Before me on each path there stood
The witty and the tender Hood.
CCXCV. ROBERT BROWNING.
There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer ; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee,
Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walk'd along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze
Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on *
Beyond Sorrento and Amain, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
CCXCVI. MACAULAY.
The dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more ;
340 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of woman-kind,
Who win their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.
CCXCVII. CHARLES DICKENS.
Dedication of Imaginary Conversation of Greeks and
Romans, 1838.
Friends as we are, have long been, and ever shall be, I
doubt whether I should have prefaced these pages with
your name were it not to register my judgment that, in
breaking up and cultivating the unreclaimed wastes of
Humanity, no labours have been so strenuous, so con-
tinuous, or half so successful, as yours. While the world
admires in you an unlimited knowledge of mankind, deep
thought, vivid imagination, and bursts of eloquence from
unclouded heights, no less am I delighted when I see you
at the schoolroom you have liberated from cruelty, and
at the cottage you have purified from disease.
CCXCVIII. LITERARY ENMITIES.
I regret all enmities in the literary world, and particu-
larly when they are exercised against the ornaments and
glories of our country, against a Wordsworth and a
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 341
Southey. It has been my fortune to love in general
those men most who have thought most differently from
me, on subjects wherein others pardon no discordance.
I think I have no more right to be angry with a man,
whose reason has followed up a process different from
what mine has, and is satisfied with the result, than with
one who has gone to Venice while I am at Siena, and
who writes to me that he likes the place, and that, although
he said once he should settle elsewhere, he shall reside in
that city. My political opinions are my only ones, beyond
square demonstration, that I am certain will never change.
If my muscles have hardened in them and are fit for no
other, I have, not on this account the right or inclination
to consider a friend untrue or insincere, who declares that
he sees more of practical good in an opposite quarter,
to that where we agreed to fix the speculative ; and that
he abandons the dim, astounding majesty of mountain
scenery, for the refreshing greenness and easy paths of
the plain. I have walked always where I must breathe
hard, and where such breathing was my luxury : I now
sit somewhat stiller and have fewer aspirations, but I
inhale the same atmosphere yet.
CCXCIX.
Landor. From my earliest days I have avoided society
as much as I could decorously, for I received more
pleasure in the cultivation and improvement of my own
thoughts than in walking up and down among the
thoughts of others. Yet, as you know, I never have
avoided the intercourse of men distinguished by virtue
and genius ; of genius, because it warmed and invigorated
me by my trying to keep pace with it ; of virtue, that if
I had any of my own it might be called forth by such
vicinity. Among all men elevated in station who have
342 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
made a noise in the world (admirable old expression !)
I never saw any in whose presence I felt inferiority,
excepting Kosciusko. But how many in the lower paths
of life have exerted both virtues and abilities which I
never exerted, and never possessed ! what strength and
courage and perseverance in some, in others what endur-
ance and forbearance 1 At the very moment when most,
beside yourself, catching up half my words, would call
and employ against me in its ordinary signification what
ought to convey the most honorific, the term self -sufficiency,
I bow my head before the humble, with greatly more than
their humiliation. You are better- tempered than I am
and readier to converse. There are half -hours when,
although in good humour and in good spirits, I would
not be disturbed by the necessity of talking, to be the
possessor of all the rich marshes we see yonder. In this
interval there is neither storm nor sunshine of the mind,
but calm and (as the farmer would call it) growing
weather, in which the blades of thought spring up and
dilate insensibly. Whatever I do, I must do in the open
air, or in the silence of night : either is sufficient : but I
prefer the hours of exercise, or, what is next to exercise,
of field-repose.
I know not whether I am proud,
But this I know, I hate the crowd :
Therefore pray let me disengage
My verses from the motley page,
Where others far more sure to please
Pour out their choral song with ease.
And yet perhaps, if some should tire
With too much froth or too much fire ;
There is an ear that may incline
Even to words so dull as mine.
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 343
CCCI.
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow,
Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
They who have coveted may covet now.
Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature,
Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd,
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.
CCCII. THE GENIUS OF GREECE.
Why do I praise a peach
Not on my wall, no, nor within my reach ?
Because I see the bloom
And scent the fragrance many steps from home.
Permit me still to praise
The higher genius of departed days.
Some are there yet who, nursed
In the same clime, are vigorous as the first,
And never waste their hours
(Ardent for action) among meadow flowers.
Greece with calm eyes I see,
Her pure white marbles have not blinded me,
But breathe on me the love
Of earthly things as bright as things above :
There is (where is there not ?)
In her fair regions many a desert spot ;
Neither is Dirce clear,
Nor is Ilissus full throughout the year.
344 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
CCCIII. ON HIS OWN AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENEIA.
From eve to morn, from morn to parting night,
Father and daughter stood before my sight.
I felt the looks they gave, the words they said,
And reconducted each serener shade.
Ever shall these to me be well-spent days,
Sweet fell the tears upon them, sweet the praise.
Far from the footstool of the tragic throne,
I am tragedian in this scene alone.
CCCIV. THE AUTHOR OF " DRY STICKS " TO
HIS READERS.
Among the Dry Sticks many are so slender that they
seem to have been cut after a few years' growth ; others
are knottier and more gnarled than are usually carried
to market, but give out greater heat and burn longer.
Among the varieties may be found a few fragments
seemingly exotic ; pointed leaves hanging grimly to them,
very like those of the pine which grew formerly about
Rome and above Tivoli ; laurels of a species uncultivated
in England ; and prunings which may be taken for olive,
if we judge of them by the smoothness of the bark, the
purity of the flame, and the paucity of the ashes.
We often find in the clouds, in the mountains, in the
fire, and in other objects, resemblances of things quite
different : so it may happen that in some of these Dry
Sticks the observer, if his mood is contemplative, or, more
probably, if he is half- dreaming, shall see somewhat to
remind him of poetry.
cccv.
Landor. I have expunged many thoughts for their close
resemblance to what others had written whose works J
never saw until after. But all thinking men must think,
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. 345
all imaginative men must imagine, many things in com-
mon, although they differ. Some abhor what others
embrace; but the thought strikes them equally. With
some an idea is productive, with others it lies inert. I
have resigned and abandoned many things because I
unreasonably doubted my legitimate claim to them, and
many more because I believed I had enough substance
in the house without them, and that the retention might
raise a clamour in my courtyard.
CCCVI.
Landor. It has been my fortune and felicity, from my
earliest days, to have avoided all competitions. My tutor
at Oxford could never persuade me to write a piece of
latin poetry for the Prize, earnest as he was that his pupil
should be a winner at the forthcoming Enccenia. Poetry
was always my amusement, prose my study and business.
I have published five volumes of Imaginary Conversa-
tions : cut the worst of them through the middle, and
there will remain in this decimal fraction quite enough to
satisfy my appetite for fame. I shall dine late ; but the
dining-room will be well lighted, the guests few and select.
cccvn.
I claim no place in the world cf letters ; I am alone,
and will be alone, as long as I live, and after.
lie who is within two paces of the ninetieth year may
sit down and make no excuses ; he must be unpopular,
he never tried to be much otherwise ; he never contended
with a contemporary, but walked alone on the far eastern
uplands, meditating and remembering.
ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND
DEATH.
CCCIX. TO AGE.
WELCOME, old friend ! These many years
Have we lived door by door :
The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more.
1 was indocile at an age
When better boys were taught,
But thou at length hast made me sage,
If I am sage in aught.
Little I know from other men,
Too little they from me,
But thou hast pointed well the pen
That writes these lines to thee.
Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope
One vile, the other vain ;
One's scourge, the other's telescope,
T shall not see again :
Rather what lies before my feet
My notice shall engage.
ITe who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat
Dreads not the frost of Age.
ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH. 347
CCCX.
Is it not better at an early hour
In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,
Than sit the fire out and go starved to bed ?
CCCXI. TO A PAINTER.
Conceal not Time's misdeeds, but on my brow
Retrace his mark :
I ,et the retiring hair be silvery now
That once was dark :
Eyes that reflected images too bright
Let clouds o'ercast,
And from the tablet be abolish'd quite
The cheerful past.
Vet care's deep lines should one from waken'd mirth
Steal softly o'er,
Perhaps on me the fairest of the earth
May glance once more.
Give me the eyes that look on mine>
And, when they see them dimly shine,
Are moister than they were.
Give me the eyes that fain would find
Some relics of a youthful mind
Amid the wrecks of care.
Give me the eyes that catch at last
A few faint glimpses of the past,
And, like the arkite dove,
Bring back a long-lost olive-bough,
And can discover even now
A heart that once could love.
348 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL
CCCXIII.
To his young Rose an old man said,
; * You will be sweet when I am dead :
Where skies are brightest we shall meet^
And there will you be yet more sweet,
Leaving your winged company
To waste an idle thought on me. "
CCCXTV. THE THREE ROSES,
When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the first
I was walking ; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering ' * Happy as thou art>
Happiness and thou must part "
Many summers have gone by
Since a second Rose and I
(Rose from that same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day
Carried home my tenderest lay ;
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine ;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH. 349
CCCXV.
Various the roads of life ; in one
All terminate, one lonely way.
We go ; and " Is he gone ? "
Is all our best friends say.
CCCXVI.
The day returns, my natal day,
Borne on the storm and pale with snow,
And seems to ask me why I stay,
Stricken by Time and bowed by Woe.
Many were once the friends who came
To wish me joy ; and there are some
Who wish it now ; but not the same ;
They are whence friend can never come ;
Nor are they you my love watch'd o'er
Cradled in innocence and sleep ;
You smile into my eyes no more,
Nor see the bitter tears they weep.
CCCXVII. ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, '
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life, l
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
CCCXVIII. ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.
To my ninth decade I have totter' d on,
And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady ;
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
350 PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL,
CCCXIX. M EMORY.
The Mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory : she has left me ; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas ! alas ! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or uncall 'd
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear :
Of his strange language all I know
Ts, there is not a word of fear.
NOTES.
352
NOTES.
THE following Table is intended to show the chronological relations
of Landor to some of his contemporaries, with the dates of the chief
events in his life, and of the publication of his principal works. The
titles of these are printed in italics.
[Chatterton died. Wordsworth born.]
[Gray died. Scott born.]
[Coleridge born.]
[Goldsmith died. Southey born.]
Born at Warwick, Jan. 30. [Charles Lamb born.]
[Thomas Campbell and Henry Hallam born.]
[Hazlitt born.]
Goes to school at Knowle.
[Johnson died. Leigh Hunt born.]
Goes to school at Rugby. [De Quincey born.]
[Byron born.]
Removed from Rugby.
Resident at Ashbourne, under Dr. Langley.
Ashbourne. [Shelley born.]
Enters at Trinity College, Oxford.
Rusticated ; leaves Oxford ; goes to London.
London ; afterwards Tenby. The Poems of Walter
Savage Landor: London, Cadell and Davies. A
Moral Epistle; respectfidly dedicated to Earl
Stanhope : London, Cadell and Davies. [Keats born
Carlyle born.]
South Wales, Warwick. [Burns died.]
South Wales, Warwick. [B. W. Procter born.]
South Wales. Gebir: a Poem, in seven books : London,
Rivingtons.
Bath ; London ; Brighton. [Hood born.]
Bath, etc. [Cowper died. Macaulay born.] Poems
from the A rabic^ and Persian : Warwick, Sharpe :
and London, Rivingtons.
Bath, etc.
Bath, etc. ; visit to Paris during peace of Amiens.
Poetry by the Author of Gebir: London, Riving-
tons.
Bath, etc. Gebir: a Poem, in seven books. By Walter
Savage Landor. Second Edition : Oxford, Slatter
and Munday. Gebirius : Poema. Scripsit Savagius
Landor : Oxford, Slatter and Munday.
Bath, etc.
Bath, etc. Lander's father dies.
Bath, etc- Simonidea: Bath, Meyler: and London,
Robinson.
Bath, etc. (projects and abandons purchase of an estate
at Loweswater).
NOTES.
353
33
34
Bath, etc. Purchases Llanthony Abbey, Monmouth-
shire ; makes the acquaintance of Southey ; goes
as a volunteer to join the insurgent army in Spain
(August-October). [Lord Houghton born.]
Llanthony, Bath. Three Letters, "written in Spain,
to D. Francisco Riguelme, commanding the Third
Division of the Gallician army. [A. Tennyson, Eliz.
Barrett, W. E. Gladstone, Ch. Darwin, born.]
Llanthony, Bath.
Llanthony, Bath. Marries Julia Thuillier. [Thackeray
born.]
Llanthony, Bath. Count Julian : a Tragedy: London,
Murray. Commentary on Memoirs of Mr. Fox :
London : Murray. [Dickens, R. Browning, J. For-
ster, born.]
Llanthony, Bath.
Leaves Llanthony (May) ; goes to Jersey ; thence,
having left Mrs. Landor in anger, to Tours ; makes
the acquaintance of Francis Hare.
Tours ; rejoined by Mrs. Landor ; Como. Idyllia nova
quinque Heroum atque Heroidum, etc. : Oxford.
Como.
Como. Eldest son, Arnold Savage, born.
Como ; Genoa, Villa Pallayicini.
Pisa ; part of summer at Pistoia.
Pisa. Idyllia Heroica decent, etc. , partim jam primo
fiartim iterum atq. tertioedit Savagi^ls Landor: Pisa.
Pisa; thence to Florence. Poche osservazioni, etc.,
di Walter Savage Landor* gentiluomo inglese ;
Naples. [Keats died.]
Florence; Palazzo Medici. [Shelley died.]
Florence ; Palazzo Medici.
Florence ; Palazzo Medici. Imaginary Conversations
ofL iterary Men and Statesmen. By Walter Savage
Landor, Esq., vols. i. and ii. : London, Taylor and
Hessey. [Byron.died.]
Florence ; Palazzo Medici.
Florence ; Palazzo Medici and Villa Castiglione. Im-
aginary Conversations, etc., vols. i. and ii., second
edition : London, Colburn.
Florence ; Villa Castiglione ; makes the acquaintance
of Lord and Lady Blessington, and accompanies them
on a trip to Naples. Makes the acquaintance of Mr.
Joseph Ablett of Llanbedr.
Florence ; Villa Castiglione. Imaginary Conversa-
tions, etc., vol. iii. : London, Colburn.
Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca (purchased by help of
Mr. Ablett). Lander's mother dies. Madame de
Molande, formerly Mrs. Swift, the lanthe of Landor's
early poetry, comes to Florence with her children.
Imaginary Conversations, etc., vols. iv. and v.
London, Duncan.
Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca. [Hazlitt died.]
Fiesole; Villa Gherardesca. Gebir, Count Julian, and
2 A
354 NOTES.
other Poems. By Walter Savage Landor, Esq. .'
London, Moxon.
Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca ; with a summer and autumn
trip to England, returning in company with Julius
Hare and Dr. Worsley by Innsbruck and Venice.
[Scott died.]
Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca.
Fiesole ; Villa Gherardesca. Citation and Examina-
tion of William Shakespeare, etc. : London, Saun-
ders and Otley. [Coleridge diod. Charles Lamb
died.]
Fiesole : Baths of Lucca and England (leaving at Fiesole
his wife, with whom he had quarrelled, and his
children).
Clifton ; Wales ; London ; Germany. Pericles and
Aspasia, by Walter Savage Ijandor, Esq. : 2 vols. :
London, Saunders and Ot)y. The Letters of a
Conservative, by Walter Sfavage ~Landor : London,
Saunders and Otley.
Wales ; London ; Devonshire; Bath. The Pentameron
and Pentalogia: London, Saunders and Otley.
A Satire on Satirists, and Admonition to Detractors :
London, Saunders and Otley.
Bath.
Bath. Andrea of Hungary, and Giovanni of Naples.
By Walter Savage Landor : London, Bentley.
Bath. [Francis Hare died.]
Bath ; visit to Paris. Fra Rupert : London, Saunders
and Otley.
Bath.
Bath. [Southey died.]
Bath. [Campbell died.J
Bath. [Hood died.]
Bath. The Works of Walter Savage Landor; 2 yols. :
London, Moxon. (Vol. i. contains all the previously
published Imaginary Conversations, with additions
and corrections : vol. ii., a new series of Imaginary
Conversations, together with The Examination of
Shakespeare, Pericles and A spasia, The Pentameron,
the poems previously published in the volume of
1831, besides a number of new poems, including the
Hellenics. This edition, prepared with the help of
Mr. John Forster and Archdeacon Hare, was until
1876 the sole and standard collected edition of
Landor's writings in prose and verse together.)
Bath. The Hellenics of Walter Savage Landor. En-
larged and completed : London, Moxon. Poemata
et Inscriptiones novis auxit Savagius Landor :
London, Moxon.
Bath. The Italics of Walter Savage Landor : London ,
Reynell and Weight. Imaginary Conversation of
King Carlo- Alberto and the Duckess Belgoioisol
London, Longmans, 1848. (J. Ablett died.]
Bath.
69
NOTES.
355
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
76
79
So
Bath. [Lady Blessington died. Wordsworth died.]
Bath. Popery^ British and Foreign. By Walter
Savage Landor: London, Chapman and Hall.
[Madame de Molande died.]
Bath.
Bath. Imaginary Conversations of Greeks and Ro-
mans, by Walter Savage Landor: London, Moxon.
The Last Fruit off an old Tree^ by Walter Savage
Landor: London, Moxon.
Bath. Letters of an American, mainly on Russia and
Revolution. Edited by Walter Savage Landor:
London, Chapman and Hall.
Bath. [Julius Hare died.]
Bath. Antony and Octavius; Scenes for the Study.
By Walter Savage Landor : London, Bradbury and
Evans. Letter from W. S. Landor to R. W.
Emerson : Bath, Williams.
Bath (quarrels and scandals).
Bath; Genoa; Fiesole. Dry Sticks, fagoted by Walter
Savage Landor: Edinburgh, Nichol. Lawsuit con-
sequent on this publication ; trial at Bristol. Landor,
having in the meanwhile left England, is condemned,
costs ; 1000.
Fiesole ; Siena ; Florence. Having found life with
his family at the Villa Gherardesca insupportable, he
settles in lodgings in the Via Nunziatina. The Hel-
lenics of Walter Savage Landor ; etc. New edition,
enlarged: Edinburgh, Nichol. [Leigh Hunt died.
De Quincey died. Macaulay died.]
Florence ; Via Nunziatina.
Florence ; Via Nunziatina.
Florence ; Via Nunziatina.
Florence ; Via Nunziatina. Heroic Idyls, with ad-
ditional Poems. By Walter ' Savage Landor.
[Thackeray died.]
Florence ; Via Nunziatina. Dies September 17.
A final collected and corrected (though not, strictly speaking,
complete) edition of Landor's writings was prepared by Forster
after his death, and published in 1876 with a second edition of the
Life by Forster prefixed (The Works and Life of Walter Savage
Landor, 8 vols. London : Chapman and Hall, 1876). This edition
has, by permission of the publishers, been followed in our text,
except where the reverse is expressly stated. I have adopted, how-
ever, certain formal deviations from it in orthography and punctua-
tion : these consist chiefly in spelling "walked," or in verse "walk'd,"
for Landor's " walkt," and so on in all similar cases (see Preface and
Selections, no. ccxlix.), and in the substitution of the more familiar
sign for the less familiar sign . . used by Landor as its equi-
valent. Other departures from the text of 1876 are specified when
they occur.
356 NOTES.
I. DRAMATIC AND NARRATIVE.
In the notes below, the references which follow the number of
each selection are, first, to the place in the series of Landor's works
where it first appeared ; and second, to the place where it is to be
found in the final collected edition of 1876.
PAGE
3-
Imag. Conv.) v., 1829, p. 95. Afterwards incorporated
in Conversation of Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa :
Epicurus reciting the part of Peleus, and Ternissa
that of Thetis: see Works, 1876, ii. p. 228 ff. Again,
as an independent dialogue, but versified : Hellenics,
2d ed., 1859, p. 187 : Works, 1876, vii. p. 504.
Such an interchange of condolences between the
hero and goddess on the coming fate of their son, as
Landor has here imagined, is not recorded as having
found a place in any ancient treatment of the theme.
1. 17. After "words" is inserted in the later eds.,
" I deposit them in my bosom ; " I have preferred
the original reading of 1829.
1. 9. In the later eds. are omitted the words, " twice
nine have not yet rolled away," which I have retained
from ed. 1829, as being essential to the sense. In this
speech of Thetis, Landor seems to have forgotten, or
not chosen to remember, that the wedding was held
according to tradition at the cave of Cheiron on
Mount Pelion, whence Peleus led his bride, not to
the " halls of Tethys," but to his own palace.
Imag. Con-v. Gr. and Rom., 1853, p. 3 : Works,
1876, ii. p. 3. Again, versified, Hellenics, 2d ed., 1859,
p. 162 : Works, 1876, vii. p. 490.
This interview of Achilles and Helen on Mount Ida
belonged to the early epic traditions of the Trojan
war, and had been related in the lost Kypria of
Stasinus (Proclus, Chrestomath. KOLL /xerd ravra
'EXe*>?7J> eiTLdvfJieL 6ed(ra<r0ai /ecu (
CIVTOVS es rb avrb A(j>podir^ Kal G^rts
1. 8. Landor spells Kalydon, but as he was not consistent
with himself in these matters (see above, p. 6, 1. 32),
wavering, like other scholars, between the use of the
Greek consonant and its Latin equivalent, I have
for the sake of uniformity introduced the latter, both
here and in 11. 32, 33, below.
1. 12. I have omitted from the beginning of this line the
words, " Horrible creatures ! boars, I mean."
Hellenics, 1847, p. 61 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 518.
The re-capture of Helen by Menelaus, and his
averted vengeance, belonged also to the early epic
traditions of Greece. They were related in the
NOTES. 357
'AGE NO.
Lesser Iliad and the Iliugersis: the scene was
figured on one of the earliest recorded works of
Greek art, the chest of Cypselus (Pausan.^ v. 181),
and is depicted on a number of extant vases. Accord-
ing to Stesichorus, the Greeks were about to stone
Helen for her crimes, but at the sight of her beauty
dropped the stones from their hands. See also
Aristoph. Lysistr,, 155.
17. iv. Introduced in Pericles and Aspasia, 1836, p. 266:
Works ; 1876, v. p. 529. Landor represents this
dialogue as the work of Aspasia herself, who sends
it to Cleone at Miletus, explaining its motive
thus, " I imagine Agamemnon to descend from his
horrible death, and to meet instantly his daughter.
By the nature of things, by the suddenness of the
event, Iphigeneia can have heard nothing of her
mother's double crime, adultery and murder."
For Lander's opinion of the merits of this scene, see
Selections, no. ccciii. He wrote afterwards several
other poetical fragments on the same heroic theme.
Two of these, the Death of Clytemnestra and
the Madness of Orestes, were first published in
the Pentalogia, appended to the Pentameron of
Petrarca and Boccaccio (1837). Both were in-
corporated, together with a third fragment, the
Prayer of Orestes at Delphi, in subsequent editions
of Pericles and Aspasia (letters ccxxv.-ccxxix.,
Works, 1846, ii. p. 447 ff. ; 1876, v. p. 535 ff.) These
three are dramatic in form. An independent narra-
tive poem on the sacrifice of Iphigeneia appeared
first, Works, 1846, ii. p. 482, and in subsequent edi-
tions of the Hellenics ; it is included among Lord
Houghton's Selections from Landor in Ward's
English Poets, iv. p. 479. All of these pieces are
fine, but the first, here reprinted, is much the finest ;
the second and third being in my judgment marred
by an excess of the Landorian abruptness. The
obvious and just criticism on the present fragment is
that the disclosure, which is prepared for by such
admirably conceived and beautiful approaches, is
after all never made. The lyrical conclusion, sung
by the chorus of Argive warriors, I have ventured
to omit as not related to the emotions of the father
and daughter at their re-union.
22. v. Works, 1846, ii. p. 193 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 19.
A First Conversation between the same persons
appears Works, 1846, ii. p. 93 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 8.
This, although full of beauties, I have passed by as
not needful to the understanding of the Second
Conversation, of which the excellence is higher and
more sustained. All details in this Conversation are
of Lander's invention, beyond the mere tradition
that Rhodope and ./Esop were fellow-slaves before
358
NOTES.
NO.
Rhodope was taken by Xanthus to Egypt; see
Herodotus, ii. 134, 135, where also (and in Strabo,
xvii. 808, and Athenaeus, xiii. 596) will be found dis-
cussed the questions concerning her supposed real
name Doricha, her relations with the brother of Sappho,
and her identification with Nitocris, Queen of Egypt.
33. vi. Imag. Conv., iii., 1828, p. 133 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 309.
For the facts relating to the death of Marcellus, see
Polybius (x. 32, and the doubtful fragment in Suidas
sub voce "I/xepos), but more particularly Appian,
Hannib., 50, and Plutarch, Marcell., 30. Landor has
taken several details from the last two writers. They
both tell of the reverence paid by Hannibal to the
fallen consul ; of the ring Hannibal took from his
body ; of the escape of the young Marcellus, his son ;
and how his ashes were sent home with honour to
his family. But both Appian and Plutarch represent
Marcellus as already dead when Hannibal came up ;
and the essential idea of the dialogue, that of making
him survive his death-wound long enough to speak
with and learn the generosity of his conqueror, is
Lander's own.
38. vii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 243 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 314. (Had
been originally printed in the Cambridge Philological
Museum, vol. ii., 1833, p. i.)
The main authority for the heroism of Hasdrubal's
wife and the forebodings of Scipio is Appian (Libyc.
130-133) : he expressly describes himself as following
in his account that of Polybius, who was present.
The Conversation is a very long one ; this extract and
the following are its opening and concluding pass-
ages. ^ Hardly any other two in Landor's works
better illustrate his feeling for the genius of Rome
and the genius of Greece respectively. The central
part of the Conversation is taken up with a discussion
on the^ causes of Hannibal's failure to achieve ulti-
mate victory over Rome, and with a long monologue
by Pansetius, relating a social experience of his
youth : from this are taken Selections xxxi. and
xxxii. below.
47. ix. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 475 : Works, 1846, ii. p. 346.
The authorities which Landor has in his mind are
again Appian (Iber. 95-97), and Plutarch, Marius.
3. But this time he has treated them very freely.
The tremendous invention of the "civic fire" and
the famished sentinel are his own. The real his-
tory of the siege, according to Appian, was that
after enduring _eyery extremity of horror and priva-
tion, the surviving inhabitants agreed to surren-
der the town to Scipio, stipulating only for a day's
delay, during which those who preferred death
to such an issue, might put an end to themselves,
which they accordingly did, some one way and
NOTES. 359
PAGE NO.
some another, the remainder afterwards surrendering
(ot 5 TrpHora /JLV CLVTOVS, oi j3ov\b/j.voi, 5te%-
puvro : oi XoiTTOt 5' e^ea-av /c.r.X.)
52. x. Imag. Conv., iii., 1828, p. 107 : Works, 1876,1!. p. 420.
The historical authority whom Landor has had
in his mind is Suetonius, Tib. 7: "Agrippinam
[sc. Vipsaniam], M. Agrippa genitam . . . duxit
uxorem : sublatoque ex eo filio Druso, quamquam
bene convenientem, rursusque gravidam, dimittere,
ac Juliam, Augusti filiam, confestim coactus est
ducere : non sine magno angore animi, cum et
Agrippinae consuetudine teneretur, et Juliae mores
improbaret ; ut quam sensisset sui quoque sub priore
marito appetentem, quod sane etiam vulgo existama-
batur. Sed Agrippinam et abegisse post divortium
doluit ; et seine I omnino ex occursri visam adeo con-
tentis et tiimentibus oculis prosecittus est, ut custo-
ditum sit ne unquam in conspectum ejus posthac
veniret. "
53. ,, 11. 6-14. That in B.C. 6, six years after his divorce from
Vipsania, Tiberius retired for a time into voluntary
exile at Rhodes, is well known. In mentioning this
fact Suetonius writes: " Rhodum enavigavit,
amoenitate et salubritate insulae jam inde cafitus,
cum ad earn ab Armenia rediens appulisset" The
date of the Armenian expedition of Tiberius was
B.C. 20, eight years before his divorce. In putting
into his mouth this reminiscence of happy days spent
by him in youth at Rhodes, Landor is working on the
hint supplied by those incidental words of Suetonius.
55. ,, 1. 14. "Virtuous as I know she is." These words
seem inconsistent, not only with the notorious disso-
luteness into which Julia fell soon after her marriage
with Tiberius, but with the opinion of her attributed
to him at the time of that marriage in the passage
we have just quoted from Suetonius. Landor, how-
ever, might justify himself by another passage of
the same writer : " Cum Julia primo concorditer et
amore mut^^o vixit : mox dissedit," etc.
56. xi. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 509 : Works, 1876, v. p. 215,
63. xii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 79 : Works, 1876, v. p. 232.
The main fact assumed in this dialogue, the capture
and honourable release of the Empress Constance by
Tancred of Sicily, is historical, but not the details.
Among Lander's shorter dialogues are two typical
ones of mediaeval chivalry, this of Tancredi and Con-
stantia, and another Qijohn ofGatint and Joanna of
Kent (Works, 1876, v. p. 199). I have with some
hesitation preferred to give the Sicilian dialogue rather
than the English, not indeed as finer, but as briefer
and simpler.
67. xiii. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 416 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 216.
360 NOTES.
PAGE NO.
Both this and no. xiv. following are extracts
from longer Conversations ; both are introduced
in order to illustrate particular strains in Lan-
dor's work : his strain of Oriental romance, and his
strain of satire against the fanatical and priestly
character. The friendship between Mahomet and a
Nestorian monk is historical : the Byzantine and
Eastern writers generally call the monk Bahira or
Bouhira ; the Western writers of the Middle Age called
him, apparently without any authority, Sergius / see
Prideaux, Life of Mahomet, p. 46.
71. xiv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 81 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 235.
The story of the capture of Fra Filippo Lippi at
Ancona, and his detention as a slave in Barbary, is
given in full by Vasari, but being unsupported by
other evidence, is now generally discredited. The fact
of the painter's friendly relations with Pope Eugenius
IV. is historical. Here is the passage of Vasari on
which Landor has founded the episode which I have
extracted from this Conversation: "E trovandosi
nella marca d'Ancona, diportandosi un giorno con
certi amici suoi in una barchetta per mare, furono
tutti insieme dalle fuste de' Mori che per quei luoghi
scorrevano presi e menati in Barberia, e messo cias-
cuno di loro alia catena e tenuto schiavo ; dove stette
con molto disagio per 18 mesi. Ma perche un giorno,
avendo egli molto in pratica il padrone, gli venne
comodita e capriccio di ritrarlo, preso un carbone
spento dal fuoco, con quello tutto intero lo ritrasse
co' suoi abiti indossp alia moresca in muro bianco.
Onde essendo dagli altri schiavi detto questo al
padrone, perche a tutti un miracolo pareva, non
s'usando il disegno ne la pittura in quelle parti, cio
fu causa della sua liberazione della catena, dove per
tanto tempo era stato tenuto."
78. xv. Last Fmit, 1853, P- 7 : Works, 1876, v. p. 309.
Here again it may be interesting to compare with
Lander's treatment of his theme the text which doubt-
less suggested it to him : " Si trovaya in que' giorni a
Ferrara il celebre P. Francesco Panigarqla . . . Egli
era in molta grazia del Duca e delle Principesse ; il
che saputosi dal Tasso, che gia avea quelche dimesti-
chezza con esso lui, gli scrisse pregandolo che volesse
esergli cortese d'una sua visita ; giacche a lui sarebbe
stato concesso agevolmente di poter venire a vederlo
quando voleva. Se gli raccomando poi, % perche
baciasse umilissimamente le mani in suo nome a Ma-
dama Leonora, se fosse migliorata, facendola sapere,
che ere molto incresciuto del suo male che non avea
pianto in versi per una tacita repugnanza del suo
genio ; ma che se in altro potea servirla gli com-
mandasse, ch' era prontissimo, particplarmente in
cose di poesia piu liete. Non so se il Panigarola
NOTES. 361
PAGE NO.
fosse in tempo di far questo officio ; giacche la Princi-
picessa in vece di migliorare andb peggiorando di
sorte, che alle 10 di Febbrajo del 1581 con santa
resignazione, e co' piu ferventi segni di Cristiana pieta
rese lo spirito a Dio nel quarantacinquesimo anno e
quelche mese dell' eta sua" (Serassi, Vita di Torqriato
Tasso, Rome, 1785). Want of space has prevented
me from coupling with this admirable and touching
short dialogue the earlier and closely related one of
Tasso and his sister Cornelia (Works, 1876, v. p. 269).
81. xvi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 37 : Works, 1876, v. p. 220.
The meeting here supposed between the virgin hero-
ine and the king's mistress is imaginary. Charles VII.
seems not to have come under the influence of Agnes
Sorel until the victorious part of Jeanne's career was
over in 1431. That influence was, however, really
employed to brave him to resolute action against
his enemies ; witness the well-known quatrain of
Francis I. :
" Gentille Agnes, plus d'honneur tu merite
La cause etant de France recouvrer
8ue ce que peut dedans un cloistre ouvrer
lose nonnain ou bien devot hermite."
90. xvii. Imag. Conn., ii., 1824, p. 275 : Works, 1876, v. p. 180.
Equally of Lander's own invention is this scene
between Henry and Anne Boleyn after her condemna-
tion. His chivalrous view of the queen's character is
founded on that of Burnet and the Protestant historians
generally,
94. }J H. 13, 29. At these points I have reverted to the text as
it stood in 1826 (Jmag. C0?iv., ii., 2d ed., p. 53), omit-
ting the additional matter inserted Works, 1846, and
afterwards.
96. xviii. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 49 : Works, 1876, v. p. 177.
100. xix. Appended to Exam, of Shaksfeare, 1834, p. 234 :
Works, 1876, v. p. 90.
In this noble scene, Landor has worked upon the
bald hints of kindness shown by Essex to Spenser after
his return, which are afforded by Ben Jonson, in his
conversations as reported by Drummond of Haw-
thornden, and by Phineas Fletcher. The words of
Jonson as given by Drummond are: "That the
Irish having rob'd Spenser's goods, and burnt his
house and a little child new born, he and his wife
escaped ; and after, he died for lake of bread in King
Street, and refused 20 pieces sent to him by my Lord
of Essex, and said, he was sorrie he had no time to
spend them." Phineas Fletcher writes in the Purple
Island, book I., stanza 20 :
" And had not that great Hart (whose hpnour'd head,
Ah, lies full low) pitied thy woful plight,
3^2 NOTES.
PAGE NO.
There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied,
Unblest, nor graced with any common rite."
101. xix. 1. 5. I have ventured to omit a somewhat lengthy and
coarse anecdote with which Essex at this point is made
to keep the grave business of the dialogue waiting.
106. xx. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 137 : Works, 1876, v. p.
204.
In no other of Lander's dialogues does he rise to
such heights of feeling as in this. His clue to the cha-
racters and bearing of the martyred ladies he found
in Burnet {Hist, of the reign of James II. ), who
writes of Alice, Lady Lisle : " She died with a great
constancy of mind ; and expressed a joy that she
thus suffered for an act of charity and piety ;" and of
Elizabeth Gaunt : " She died with a constancy, even
to a cheerfulness, that struck all that saw it. She
said, charity was a part of her religion, as well as
faith ; this at most was the feeding an enemy ; so
she hoped she had her reward with him, for whose
sake she did this service ; how unworthy soever the
person was, that made so ill a return for it ; she re-
joiced that God had honoured her to be the first that
suffered by fire in this reign ; and that her suffering
was a martyrdom for that religion which was all love."
The two executions are spoken of on the same page
by Burnet ; hence, no doubt, Landor's idea of bring-
ing the two victims together in prison. The historical
fact is that Lady Lisle was condemned and executed
at Winchester during the Bloody Assize in the
summer ; Elizabeth Gaunt, whose trial took place in
the Old Bailey, not till several months afterwards
(Macaulay, Hist, of England, i., 639 ff., 663 ff.).
J part
circumstances are very variously told. This fierce
historical satire has its counterpart in another
Russian conversation of Landor's, that of the Empress
Catharine and Princess Dashkof (Works, 1876, v. p.
208).
xxii. From Landor's early poem of Gebir. Gebir, 1798, p. 3 :
Works, 1876, vii. p. 4. This passage was reprinted
as a separate extract by the author himself in Hel-
lenics, 2d ed., 1859, p. 97.
During Landor's retirement in South Wales (1795-
1798) his friend Rose Aylmer (see Selections cclxxii.
cclxxiii. cccxiv.) lent him The Progress of Romance,
through Times, Countries, and Manners, "with
Remarks on the Good and Bad Effects of it, on
them respectively, in a Coiirse of Evening Con-
versations. By C. R. [Clara Reeve], Author of
The English Baron, The Two Mentors, etc. 2 vols.
NOTES. 363
NO.
Colchester : Keynor ; and London : Robinson.
1785. There are few more inane books ; but
at the end of vol. ii. Landor found a tale which
justly struck him as marked by magnificum quid
sub crepusculo antiquitatis viz. "The History
of Charoba, Queen of -/Egypt : Taken from a His-
tory of Ancient ./Egypt, according to the Tradi-
tions of the Arabians." In her preface the author
states that she has borrowed this tale from The
History of Ancient JEgypt, according to the Tradi-
tions of the Arabians. Written in Arabic, by the
Reverend Doctor Murtadi, the son ofGapiphus, the
son of Chatem, the son of Molsem the Macdesian.
Translated into French by M. Vattier, Arabic
Professor to Louis the 14* h King of France,
Poetical use had already been incidentally made of
the tale in the History of Joseph by Mrs. Rowe,
the friend of Matthew Prior. Landor has treated
his materials with great freedom. The contrast be-
tween the characters and fates of the warlike and
the peaceful brethren is entirely of his_ own con-
triving. There is a shepherd in the original who
wrestles with a nymph, but he is no brother of
Gebir's. Here is the rather pretty passage of
Clara Reeve's text upon which Landor has founded
his own treatment of this episode: "Now the
chief shepherd was a beautiful person, and of a
goodly stature and aspect. One day when he had
committed his flocks to the other shepherds, and
wandered far away from them, he saw a fair young
lady rising out of the sea, who walked towards him
and saluted him graciously. He returned her saluta-
tion, and she began to converse with him. 'Young
man,' said she, ' will you wrestle with me for a wager
that I shall lay against you?' 'What will you lay,
fair lady,' said the shepherd, 'and what can I stake
against you ?' ' If you give me a fall,' said the lady,
'I will be yours, and at your disposal, and if I give
you a fall you shall give me a beast out of your flock.'
' I am content,' said the shepherd, so he went
towards her, and she met him, and wrestled with
him, and presently gave him a fall. She then took a
beast out of the flock, and carried it away with her
into the sea.
"She came every evening afterwards, and did the
same, until the shepherd was desperately in love with
her : So the flock was diminished, and the shepherd
was pining away with love and grief.
" One day King Gebirus, passing by the shepherd,
found him sitting very pensive by his flocks : so he
came near and spoke to him. ' What misfortune hath
befallen thee, shepherd ? why art thou so altered and
dejected? thy flock also diminishes, and gives less
milk every day?' Upon this the shepherd took
364 . NOTES.
PAGE NO.
courage, and told the king all that had befallen him
by the lady of the sea."
119. xxn. 1. i. Thus in the extract as given in Hellenics, 1859.
In other eds. the line runs
" But Gebir, when he heard of her approach."
122. ,, 11. 2-5. The white internal shell of the sepia or cuttle-
fish, often found on the sea-beach.
122. 11. 24-31. This is the famous passage of "the shell,"
echoed by Wordsworth in the Excursion, and by
Byron in the Island. See English Men of Letters ;
Landor, p. 169-70 ; and for Lander's own Latin version
of the lines, which was probably earlier than the
English, see Poemata et Inscriptions , 1847, p. 58.
124. xxiii. From the same, book v., ad init.
This scene is of Landor's invention ; the nurse
figures in the prose original, but without a name ;
Landor has transferred her to the name Dalica,
which in the original is that of a kinswoman of
Charoba's, who becomes queen after her death.
t28. xxiv. From the same, book vii.
130. xxv. From Landor's early poem of Ckrysaor, in Poetry by the
Author of Gebir, 1802, p. i : Works, 1876, vii. p. 456
(where the poem ought to end at p. 461, 1. 20 : what
follows, by an editorial oversight, belonging to a totally
independent piece, Regeneration),
This poem, in its main drift obscure, contains some
of the finest passages of blank verse in Landor's early
high-pitched manner. This of Neptune and the
nymphs, and of the overthrow of Chrysaor, is the best.
The only clue to any conceivable source for such a
myth as Landor seems to have had in his mind, I find
in Diodorus :
5ta]3e/36?7TO yap Ka0' tiXyv T??P olKov^vrjv
6'rt Xpuo-dwp 6 AajScbj' d?r6 rov TT\OIJTOV rty
Trpoayyopiav /SacriAetfei /JLCV a Traces
rpeis 5' '%ei rwv (TWyadrwj/ iroXefUKois,
iffras viovs, diafapoitras rats re pa^cus /ecu rats
ev TOIS ciydoffiv avdpCLyadiciis. Diod., iv. 156.
131. ,, 1. 13 ff. Under the name and figure of the nymph
lone, Landor here alludes, as he had previously
alluded in Gebir, to one Nancy Jones, the object of
one of the amourettes of his Welsh days. She died
a few years afterwards, and Landor printed some
lines to her memory in Simonidea, 1806, p. 14.
132. ,, 1. 2. Thirteen lines are here omitted as unintelligible
without a fuller knowledge than we possess of the
circumstances implied.
132. xxvi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 473: Works, 1876, vii. p. 408.
This and the four next examples are from the group
NOTES. 365
PAGE ^ NO.
of classical poems called by Landor Hellenics. They
owed their origin to the expression by Lady Bles-
sington of a wish that Landor would translate into
English some of his Latin Idyllia Heroica. This he
did, and added to them other classical pieces (and
they are the best) written originally in English.
This tale of Thrasymedes (or Thrasybulus) and the
daughter of Peisistratos has been expanded by Landor
from the brief account in Polysenus, Stratagem, v. 14 ;
see also Plutarch, Apophthegm. , Pet's. 3.
135. xxvii. Works, 1876, ii. p. 481 : Works, 1876, vii. p. 444.
In writing this delightful idyl, Landor has evidently
had somewhat vaguely in his mind a story to which
allusion is made once by Athenaeus, and twice by
Plutarch. It was in reality a story of the colonizing,
not of Lemnos, but of Lesbos, and is quoted by Plu-
tarch from the Lesbian writer Myrsilos. The tale
ran, that an oracle had enjoined the founders of the
colony to cast a virgin alive into the sea during their
voyage, as an offering either to Poseidon or to Am-
phitrite ; that the virgin chosen (called variously
the daughter of Phineus and the sister of Smintheus)
was beloved by Enalos, or Enallos ; who plunged after
her into the sea, where she was cared for by the
Nereids, while he was employed to watch the horses
of Poseidon ; and that by-and-by both were restored
to earth, being safely brought to land at Methymne in
Lesbos, some said by a great wave, others by help
of a dolphin (Plutarch, De solert. anim. 36, Sept.
sap. conviv. 20 : Athenseus, xi. 466).
140. xxviii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 478 ; Works, 1876, vii. p. 422.
It is hardly conceivable that a poem of this perfect
ease and grace, this pure classical charm of imagery
and narrative and sentiment, should not long ago have
established itself, as it must surely one day do, as a
standard favourite with all readers of English poetry.
The Greek story on which it is founded was originally
told by a lost writer of the fifth century B. c. , Charon
of Lampsacus. Reference is made to it Schol. Theocr.
iii. 14 : Schol. Apoll. Rhod. ii. 477 ; and Etym.
Mag. sub v0ce*AfJiadpiJCLS. In the two places last
cited, the outlines of the story are given in almost
identical terms. Rhoecus (Potaos, Lander's Rhaicos
is an error) finds a tree in danger of falling, and has
it stayed with props : the nymph of the tree appears,
thanks him, and asks him what she can do to repay
him : he entreats her love : there are obstacles, but
in the meantime Rhoecus agrees to avoid the society of
mortal women, and a bee acts as messenger between
him and the nymph. One day the bee interrupts him
when he is playing draughts ; he utters an angry ex-
clamation, whereat the nymph taking offence leaves
him desolate. In modern English poetry, Mr. Lowell
366 NOTES.
PAGE NO. 4
has among his early works given another version of
the tale.
149. xxix. Hellenics ', 1847, p. 45. This sequel, to my mind well
worthy of its predecessor, does not appear in the
Works of 1846. Neither did Landor (for what rea-
son I cannot guess) reprint it in the Hellenics of
1859. Hence it has unfortunately dropped out alto-
gether from Mr. Forster's collected edition.
153. xxx. Works, 1846, ii. bis : viz. p. 389, as an episodic poem in
Pericles andAspasia (letter Ixxxv. , Cleone to Aspasia),
and again p. 483, independently among the Hellenics ;
thence reprinted in the Hellenics of 1847 and 1859 :
Works, 1876, once only in Pericles andAspasia, v. p.
384. There are several differences of reading between
the poems as printed in Pericles and Aspasia and in
the Hellenics ; in the text I have ventured to com-
bine what seem to me the best points of both.
I 53- 1-3- Hell., for veined, read slender.
153. 11. 7, 8. Hell., read instead,
Away, and voices like thine own come near
And nearer, and solicit an embrace.
153. ,, 1. ir. Pericl. and Aspas., for Iris stood, read Fate's
shears were.
153. ,, 1. 14. Hell, for those now dim, readout now dim.
153. ,, 1. 15. Hell., for watchfulness, read wakefulness.
153. 1. 19. Perzcl.andAs#.,afterhers, read the further lines:
With her that old boat incorruptible,
Unwearied, undiverted in its course,
Had plash'd the water up the farther strand.
154 xxxi. An episode from the narrative of Pansetius in the dia-
logue of Scipio, Pansetius, and Polybius ; see above,
nos. vii. and viii.
150. xxxii. From the same ; the allegory being, however, complete
in itself. In the description of the figure of Hope,
Landor has inadvertently repeated some phrases from
the description of truth contained in an earlier allegory
in the conversation of the two Ciceros (see Works,
1876, ii. p. 401). Landor excelled in this kind of
composition ; for an example in which the utmost
depth and tenderness of human feeling is combined
with the most lucid grace of imagery, compare no.
xxxvi. below.
158. xxxiii. An episode from the Pentameron of Boccaccio and
Petrarca. Pentameron andPentalogia, 1837, Third
Day's Interview, p. 136 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 478.
165. xxxiv. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview.
167. xxxv. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview. To my mind
a masterpiece hardly matched in the whole range of
imaginative prose literature. Some of the scenery and
incidents of the poet's life at Naples are suggested
NOTES. 367
PAGE NO.
by the confessions put by Boccaccio himself into the
mouth of Fiammetta in his Visione dell' amoroso.
Fiammetta.
172. xxxvi. From the same, Fifth Day's Interview. Separately
reprinted by Landor, in Works, 1846, ii. p. 468.
172. ,, 1. 24. A page or more of the original conversation is
here omitted ; nearly as much was dropped by Lan-
dor himself in the version last referred to.
176. xxxvii. Exam, of Shakspeare, 1834, p. 209: Works, 1876, ii.
p. 544. This is one of the various heads of discourse
which Landor makes Shakspeare quote to Sir Thomas
Lucy, from the mouth of Dr. Glaston, the Oxford
preacher ; see also no. xxxviii. at the beginning of
next section.
II. REFLECTIVE AND DISCURSIVE.
The contents of this section consist for the most part of extracts
selected from Landor's longer prose writings, and especially from
the Imaginary Conversations, viz.
From the Imaginary Conversations.
Aesop and Rhodope. (ist Conv.), Works, 1846, ii. p. 93 : Works,
1876, ii. p. 8. Ixxiv.
Alfieri and Metastasio. Works, 1876, v. p. 127 (first published in
Frasers Magazine, 1856). clx. clxvii. cxcvii. ccxv.
Alfieri and Salomon the Florentine Jew. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p.
257 : Works, 1876, iv. p. 265. clxv. ccxxii. ccxxxi. ccxxxi.
ccxlii.
Barrow and Newton. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. i: Works, 1876,
iv. p. 348. Ixviii. Ixix. Ixxxi. Ixxxiv. cxxiii. cxxv. cxxvii.
clxxxix. cxc. ccxlvi.
Bossuet and the Duchesse de Fontanges. Imag. Conv., iii., 1828,
. 337 : Works, 1876, v. p. 192. Ixxxvi. cii.
er, Archbishop and Philip Savage. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p.
89 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 202. clxxviii. clxxix.
Brooke, Lord and Sir Philip Sidney. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 13:
Worksj 1876, iv. p. 3. xlvii. liii. Ivi. lix. Ixxxii. cxi. cxx. cxxxvi.
cxxxvii.
Catherine, Empress and Princess Dashkof. Imag. Conv., v., 1829,
p. 231 : Works, 1876, v. p. 208. cxlii.
Cicero, Marcus Tullius and Quinctus. ?*'?&& Conv., ii., 1824, p.
349 : Works, 1876, ii. p. 368. Ix. Ixxiii. Ixxvi. cxlvi. cxlvii.
ccxxxvi.
Chesterfield, Lord and Lord Chatham. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p.
291 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 141. cxciv.
Colonna, Vittoria and Michel Angelo. Works, 1846, ii. p. 213 :
Works, 1876, v. p. 278. liv. Ixxx. Ixxxiii. xcviii. ciii. cxii.
cxxxviii. ccxviii. ccxxxvii.
Dante and Beatrice. Works, 1846, ii. p. 152 : Works, 1876, v. p.
249. xlix.
Delille, Abbe and Walter Landor. Imag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 249:
Works, 1876, iv. p. 91. cc. ccxiii. ccxxiv.
368
NOTES.
Demosthenes and Eubulides. I mag. Conv., i., 1824, p. 229 : Works,
1876, ii. p. 130. Ixv. Ixvi. cviii. cxxiv. clxxi. clxxii. clxxiii.
clxxiv. cxcii. ccxliii.
Diogenes and Plato. Imag. Conv., iv., 1829, p. 459: Works, 1876,
ii. p. 64. 1. li. Ixxii. xci. cxl. clxxxvii. clxxxviii.
Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa. Imag. Conv., v. 1829, p. 153:
Works, 1876, ii. p. 190. Iv. Ixxi. Ixxv. Ixxxv. ci. cxiv. cxv.
cxvi. cvii. cxxix. cli. clii. cxciii.
Galileo, Milton, and a Dominican. Works, 1846, ii. p. 234 : Works,
1876, v. p. 80. xc. cix.
Johnson, Dr. and Home Tooke. (ist Conv.), Imag. Conv. ii., 1824,
cliii. ; (20! Conv.), Works, 1846, i. p. 193 : Works, 1876, iv. p.
209. cviii. clviii. ccxxiii. ccxlv.
Lacy, General and Cura Merino. Imag. Conv., ii., 1824, p. 67 :
Works, 1876, vi. p. 41. clxxxiii.
Hare, Archdeacon and Walter Landor. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 97 :
Works, 1876, y. p. 97. cxci. ccxxv. ccxxvi. ccxxviii. ccxxix.
ccxlvii. ccxlviii. ccxlix.
La Fontaine and La Rochefoucauld. Works, 1846, ii. p. 206 : Works,
1876, v. p. 53. Ixxxvii. xcvi. cxiii. cxxii. clxi.
Landor, English Visitor, and Florentine Visitor. Imag. Conv., iii.,
1828, p. 375 : Works, 1876, vi. p. 205. clxx. ccxc.
Lucian and Timotheus. Works, 1846, ii. p. 17 : Works, 1876, ii.
p. 258. xcv. ccxliv.
Lucullus and Caesar. Imag. Conv., iv. 1829, p. 23 : Works, 1876,
ii. p. 350. Ixxvii. Ixxviii. cliii.
Machiavelli and Guicciardini. Works, 1876, v. p. 145. clxxv.
Marvel, Andrew and Bishop Parker. Wjrks, 1846, ii. p. 98 :
Works, 1876, v. p. 3. xlv. xlvi. Iviii. Ixii. Ixiii. Ixvii. xcii. cxi.
clxii. ccxii. ccxiv. ccxx.
Melanchthon and Calvin. Works, 1846, ii. p. 221 : Works, 1876,
v. p. 70. xxxix. xl. xli.
Middletonand Magliabecchi. Imag. Conv., i., 1826, p. 483 : Works,
1876, iv. p. 132. xlviii.
Miguel and his Mother. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p. 445 : Works,
1876, vi. p. 384. clxiii. clviv.
Milton and Marvel. Works, 1876, v., ist Conv., p. 150, 2d Conv.,
p. 156. xliv. Ixxix. cxliii.
Pallavicini, Marchese and Walter Landor. Imag. Conv., i., 1824,
p. 113: Works, 1876, vi. p. 3. clxviii. clxix.
Penn, William, and Lord Peterborough. Imag. Conv., v., 1829, p.
247 : Works, 1876, iii. p. 250. Ixi.
Peter Leopold, Granduke and President du Paty. Imag. Conv.,
i., 1824, p. 167: Works, 1876, iii. p. 45. xcvii.
Pollio, Asinius and Licinius Calvus. Works, 1876, ii. p. 433.
cxix. cxcv.
Romilly and Wilberforce. Works, 1846, ii. p. 197 : Works, 1876,
iii. p. 397. xlii.
Scipio, Polybius, and Pansetius. Works, 1846, ii. p. 243 : Works,
1876, ii. p. 314. cxxxii.
Southey and Landor. Works, 1846, ii. p. 57 : Works, 1876, iv. p.
427. ccxvii. ccxxxviii.
Southey and Porson. Imag. Conv., 1,1824, p. 49! Works, 1876,
iv. p. 1 8. Ixiv. clxxxv. ccxvi. ccxxxii. ccxxxiii.
NOTES. 369
Tibullus and Messala. Works, 1876, ii. p. 407. cxxxi.
Washington and Franklin. Imag. Conv. t ii., 1824, p. 19 : Works,
1876, iii. p. 107. xliii. clxxx.
From Citation and Examination of Shakspeare, 1834: Works,
1876, ii. p. 455. xxxviii. See also no. xxxvii.
From Pericles and Aspasia, 1836 : Works, 1876, v. p. 5.
Hi. Ixxxviii. Ixxxix. xciv. xcix. cv. ex. cxxvi. cxxviii. cxxx. cxxxiii.
cxxxiv. cxxxv. cxliv. cxlv. cxlix. cl. cliv. civ. clvii. clix. clxxxvi.
cxcviii. ccvi. ccx. ccxi. ccxxvii. See also nos. clxxvi. ccl. ccli.
From T^he Pentameron and Pentalogia, 1837, p. 3161 Works,
1876, iii. p. 546. Ixx. cxlviii. clvi. clxvi. cxcix. ccv. ccviii. ccix.
ccxxxiv. ccxxxv. ccxxxix. ccxl. ccxli.
From an article on the Poems of Catullus: Last Fruit, 1853,
p. 237, originally printed in the Foreign Quarterly Review (then
edited by Forster), July 1842 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 379. c. cci. ccii.
cciii. cciv. ccxix. ccxxi. ccxxx. ccxcii.
The remaining nos. in this section are as follows :
PAGE NO.
209 xciii. Works ; 1876, viii. p. 174.
212. civ. Works, 1876, viii. p. 278. cvi. Works, 1876, viii. p. 2.
218. cxxi. Works, 1876, viii. p. _ 164. The above are all examples
of the brief gnomic or proverbial form of verse into
which Landor was accustomed to throw his thoughts,
and often almost exactly the same thoughts as he
puts into the mouth of the interlocutors in his prose
dialogues.
224. cxxxix. From High and Low Life in Italy, a series of papers
in the form partly of correspondence and partly of
dialogue, contributed in 1837 to Leigh Hunt's Monthly
Repository (not reprinted).
253. clxxvi. "From. Reflections on Athens at the decease of Pericles,
appended to ist ed. of Pericles and Aspasia, 1836, ii.
p. 297 (not reprinted).
254. clxxvii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 465 : Works, 1876, v. p. 584.
Written by Landor at Venice in the autumn of 1832,
on his way back from England to Fiesole.
259. clxxxi. > Extracted from the dedication to General Mina (the
761. clxxxii. ) leader of the rebellion in Spain against Ferdinand) of
Imag. Conv., iv. 1829. In later eds. this dedication
was afterwards suppressed, and portions of it, includ-
ing the present extracts, were distributed with modi-
fications among the speakers in the Conversation of
Odysseus, Trelawny, and Tersitza.
263.clxxxiv. Hellenics, 1847, ad init. The recreancy of Pio Nono
from the Liberal cause naturally led to the complete
suppression of this dedication in later eds. I have
inserted it here as the most highly wrought specimen
of Lander's manner in the majestic-declamatory vein
of political writing. " The ferocious animal " is, of
2 B
370 NOTES.
PAGE NO.
course, Russia ; the " nation which revelled in every
crime," France ; and the " weaker hand," that of
Louis Philippe.
300. ccl. ccli. From Letter to an Author, appended to ist ed. of
Pericles and Asfiasia, ii. p. 322 (not reprinted).
III. PERSONAL AND AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.
To IANTHE (see English Men of Letters ; Landor, p. 22).
lanthe is Landor's classic substitute for Jane, the second name of
Sophia Jane Swift. To this lady Landor's somewhat roving affec-
tions during his life at Bath (about 1800-1806) were principally de-
voted, and he held her in great honour and affection ever after.
Her first husband, a collateral descendant of the Dean of St.
Patrick's, died in 1812, and she soon afterwards married M. de
Molande, a French emigre of high family. After the Restoration,
Madame de Molande, who had children by both marriages, went to
live with her second husband in Paris. Being left once more a
widow, she spent two years (1829-31) with her children in Florence,
and passed the remainder of her life between England and France,
dying in Paris in 1851. A few further particulars concerning this
lady will be found in a book of curious gossiping reminiscences,
published anonymously by a still surviving son of her first marriage,
and kindly sent me by the author, viz. Wilhehris Wanderings : an
Autobiography: London, Rivingtons, 1878. I have tried to make
the poems referring to her tell their own story, by arranging them
in a natural sequence. The chronological order of their publication
(which I have indicated in the notes that follow) is of little help
towards such an attempt, inasmuch as some of the earliest written
were not published till long afterwards ; moreover, it is possible that of
the pieces included, one or two may not really refer to lanthe at all.
PAGE NO.
303. cclii. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 289: Works, 1876,
viii. p. 6. ccliii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 624 : Works,
1876, viii. p. 18. ccliv. Dry Sticks, 1858^ p. 157 :
Works, 1876, p. 278. cclv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 621 :
Works, 1876, viii. p. 9.
304. cclvi. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 312 : Works, 1876,
viii. p. 8. cclvii. Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p.
292: Works, 1876, viii. p. 6. cclviii. Works, 1846, ii.
p. 620 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 6.
305. cclix. Works, 1846, ii. p. 626 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 22.
cclx. Gebir, Count J^tl^an, etc., 1831, p. 310 : Works,
1876, viii. p. 24. cclxi. Gebir, Count Julian, etc.,
1821, p. 309 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 22. cclxii. Gebir,
Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 313: Works, 1876, viii.
p. 10.
306. cclxiii. Simonidea, 1806, p. 45: Works, 1876, p. 9. cclxiv.
Gebir, Count Julian, etc., 1831, p. 314 : Works, 1876,
p. 24.
NOTES.
PAGE NO.
307- cclxv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 650 : Works, 1876, viii. p. po
clxvi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 650 : Works, 1876, viii. p.
88. cclxvii. Last Fruit, 1852, p. 192 : Works, 1876,
viii. p. 378.
308. cclxviii. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 160 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 278.
cclxix. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 377 : Works, 1876, viii.
p. 172. -cclxx. Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 230 : Works }
1876, viii. p. 338.
INVOCATIONS AND REMINISCENCES. The selection of poems,
mostly addresses to persons and places, which I have grouped under
this title, all relate to Lander's personal experiences and relations,
and illustrate his life as well as his art. The order in which they
are arranged is that, in the main, of the circumstances to which they
refer, and not the chronological order of their production.
309. cclxxi. Last Fmit, 1853, p. 444 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 229.
Landor was a great lover of brooks and streams ; and
this lyric, in the irregular metre of Lycidas, was
written after a visit paid in old age to one which he
had frequented in his school-days.
310. ,, 1. 12; see note on " lanthe " above, 11. 25 ff. Wicliflfe
died and was buried in Lutterworth churchyard in
1384. In 1415 the Council of Constance decreed that
his bones should be dug up and burnt : on the ex-
press injunction of the Pope, this order was carried
out in 1428, and his ashes were cast into the Swift.
311. cclxxii. Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 157: Works, 1876, vii. p. 320.
Abertawy is the old name for Swansea ; and in the
coast about Swansea and Tenby, Landor in his early
Welsh days (1795-1798) used to roam in company with
his friend Rose Aylmer, the youngest daughter of
Henry, fourth Baron Aylmer. She afterwards went
to India, and died there in 1800. (See no. cclxxiii.
following, and notes to nos. xxxii. cccxiii. and cccxiv.)
312 cclxxiii. Simonidea, 1806, p. 14: Works, 1876, viii. p. 279.
This is the famous little elegy written after hearing
of the death of Rose Aylmer in India. As first
printed in Simonidea, 1. 4 began, "For Aylmer;"
1. 5, "Sweet Aylmer," and in 1. 7, for "memories,"
stood "sorrows ;" it was in the reprint of 1831 that
the piece first attained its present form, and its full
poetical value.
312. cclxxiv. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 173: Works, 1876, viii. p. 279.
I have not been able to ascertain to whom these
beautiful lines were addressed, or at what date
composed.
312. cclxxv. Gebir, Coiint Julian, etc,, 1831, p. 317: Works, 1876,
viii. p. 40. I have given to this piece the title of
"Fiesolan" (instead of Faesulan) "Idyl," from a
I
copy of the poems of 1831, with MS. corrections in
372 NOTES.
PAGE NO.
Lander's handwriting, p. 314 ; after L 6 there fol-
lows in all the editions the lame explanatory line,
(For such appear their petals when detacht) :
surely a disastrous bathos ; I am happy to have the
authority of the same corrected copy of the original
edition for omitting it.
3i4.cclxxvi. Gebir, Count Jidian, etc., 1831, p. 366 : Works, 1876,
viii. pp. 49, 315 ; 11. ii ff. allude to Landor' s sanguinely
undertaken schemes of agricultural improvement at
Llanthony, 1809-14.
316. cclxxvii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 673-: Works, 1876, viii. p. 153.
This ode was addressed by Landor to the cultivated
man and kind friend whose name it bears, after they
had made a tour together in the summer of 1832 from
Mr. Ablett's Welsh home to the lakes, and after
Landor had returned again to Italy. It was first
printed in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, Dec. 3,
1834, in a form considerably varying from that which
it afterwards took, and including some lines to Cole-
ridge, afterwards expunged (see English Men of
Letters ; Landor, p. 143), and next in a little volume
called Literary Hours, by various Friends, privately
printed by Mr. Ablett in 1837, f which a few copies
found their way into circulation, and which contained
also the two odes next following.
320. cclxxviii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 667: Works, 1876, viii. p. 136.
Written about the same time as the last.
322. cclxxix. Works, 1846, ii. p. 670 : ^ Works, 1876, viii. p. 146.
Written about the same time as the last two (in Mr.
Ablett's Literary Hours it bears the date 1833).
324. cclxxx. Works, 1846, ii. p. 673: Works, 1876, viii. p. 133.
Written on hearing the news of Lamb's death in 1834.
324. cclxxxi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 647: Works, 1876, viii. p. 80.
Written on leaving Italy after the great quarrel with
Mrs. Landor in 1835.
325. cclxxxii. Pentameron and Pentalogia, 1837, p. 290 : Works,
1876, iv. p. 537. Written after reaching England on
the same occasion. The poem, in its tenor undis-
guisedly autobiographical, was introduced by Landor
into the Fifth Day's Conversation of Boccaccio and
Petrarca, where Boccaccio recites it as the work of
" a gentleman who resided long in this country, _and
who much regretted the necessity of leaving it ; "
and Petrarca receives it with the comment, " There
have been those anciently who would have been
pleased with such poetry, and perhaps there may be
again." " Cincirillo " is the cat.
327. cclxxxiii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 646 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 78.
328. cclxxxiv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 638 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 56.
329. cclxxxv. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 329 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 196.
NOTES. 373
PAGE NO.
330. cclxxxvi. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 319 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 246.
332. cclxxxvii. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 54: Works, 1876, viii. p. 196.
332. cclxxxviii. Last Frnit, 1853, p. 450 : Works, 1876, pp. 235,
237, 1. 3-
The "wide garden," with its white and purple
lilacs, is the garden of Gore House, Kensington,
where Lady Blessington and Count D'Orsay lived
from 1836 until the final crash of their fortunes in
1849, and where Landor was accustomed to stay for
some weeks almost every year during that interval.
11. 1 6, 1 8 : Landor means Greenwich, where Elizabeth
was born, and Hampton Court, where Cromwell was
seized with his last illness, though he did not in fact
die there, but in London.
CHARACTERS AND CONFESSIONS. Under this heading I have
arranged what seem to me the most characteristic passages, whether
of prose or verse, in which Landor has passed judgment on his con-
temporaries or on himself.
334. cclxxxix. The Conversation of Bishop Burnet and Humphrey
Hardcastle appeared first in Imag. Conv., i. 1824, p.
154. This attack on Byron, clumsy in the main, but
containing one or two strong and effective strokes, was
written during the height of the Satanic School con-
troversy. Southey, in his blundering Vision of Judg-
ment, had quoted a remark on Byron from Landor's
Latin essay appended to the Idyllia Heroica, pub-
lished at Pisa in 1820. Byron had retorted in his
Vision of Judgment, published also at Pisa in Leigh
Hunt's Journal, the Liberal: this was Landor's
rejoinder.
335. ccxc. Appended to the same Conversation in the next edition.
Imag. Conv., i. 2d ed., 1826, p. 220. In later
editions the passage is broken up, and parts of it
distributed between other conversations.
This, dignified palinode speaks for itself : a private
letter (unpublished) written by Landor to Francis
Hare on receipt of the news of Byron's death,
expresses exactly similar feelings.
337. ccxci. From the Conversation of Landor, English Visitor, and
Florentine Visitor, as it first appeared, Imag. Conv.,
iii. 1828, p. 376. Considerable changes were after-
wards made in the text.
338. ccxcii. From the same Conv., same ed. In Works, 1846, the last
words were altered to these : " He occupies, if not the
highest, almcfet the highest, place among our poets of
the present age no humble station and is among
the most elegant, graceful, and harmonious of the
prose writers." In Works, 1876, the passage has
dropped out from the Conversation altogether.
374 NOTES.
PAGE NO
338. ccxciii. From The Poems of Catullus: Last Fruit ', 1853, p.
237 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 379.
339. ccxciv. Heroic Idyls, 1863, p. 218 : Works, 1876, p. 336.
ccxcv. Works, 1846, i. p. 675 : Works, 1876, viii. p.
152. ccxcvi. Works, 1846, i. p. 673 : Works, 1876,
viii. p. 151.
340. ccxcvii. Imag. Conv. Greeks and Romans, 1858, ad init.
ccxcviii. From footnote to Conversation of Southey
and Person, Imag. Conv., i. 2d ed., 1826, p. 59. The
passage was broken up, and incorporated in the Con-
versation of Landor, Florentine Visitor, and English
Visitor.
341. ccxcix. From Conversation of Southey and Landor, Works,
1846 : Works, 1846, ii. p. 57 : Works, 1876, iv. p. 427.
342. ccc. Works, 1846, ii. p. 652 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 95.
343. ccci. Last fruit, 1853, P- 373 Works, 1876, viii. p. 167 :
Last Fruit, p. 401 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 195.
cccii. Last Fruit, 1853, p. 401 : Works, 1876, viii.
p. 195. ccciii. From Satire on Satirists, 1837, p. 23
(not reprinted).
344. ccciv. From Preface to Dry Sticks, 1858 (not reprinted).
cccv. From Conversation of Southey and Landor.
345. cccvi. From Conversation of Archdeacon Hare and Landor.
cccvii. From Letter to Lord Brougham, on the
Neglect of Southey, in Last Fruit, 1853, p. 317
(not reprinted).
ON THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE AND DEATH.
PAGE N9.
346. cccix. Last Fruit, 1853, P- 433 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 221.
347. cccx. Works, 1846, ii. p. 665 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 132.
cccxi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 674 : Works, 1876, viii. p.
156. The painter here addressed is W. Fisher, whose
portrait of Landor, looking up in profile, may be seen
at the National Portrait Gallery, and has been used,
along with the photograph given at the beginning of
Works, 1876, vol. ii., in preparing the spirited en-
graving which Mr. Sherborn has executed for our
title-page. The well-known portrait by Boxall gives
an uncharacteristic and somewhat feebly benignant
view of the " old lion ; " it is with intention that the
more combative and aggressive characters of the
head have been insisted in on our own vignette.
cccxii. Works, 1846, ii. p. 653 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 96.
348. cccxiii. Last Fruit, 1853, P- 37 2 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 166.
cccxiv. Dry Sticks, 1858, p. 115 : Works, 1876, viii.
p. 288. "Rose the First" is, of course, Rose Aylmer,
see nos. cclxxii. cclxxvii. The mother of this young
lady, Lady Aylmer, after the death of her first hus-
band, married a Welsh gentleman, Mr. Howel Price,
NOTES. 375
PAGE NO.
and had by him a daughter, who married Mr. D. M.
Paynter. The daughter of this marriage, christened
Rose in her turn, was Lander's "young Rose" and
"second Rose." By his "tenderest lay "he means
the lines, To a Bride, addressed to her on her
marriage to Mr., now Sir Charles, Sawle, in 1846 ;
see Works, 1876, viii. p. 87. "Rose the Third" is
the daughter of this last marriage, and greatgrand-
niece of the original Rose Aylmer.
349. cccxv. Works, 1846, ii. p. 649 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 87.
cccxvi. Works, 1846, ii. p. 638 : Works, 1876, viii. p.
56. cccxvii. Prefixed to Last Fruit, 1853. For the
circumstances under which the lines were first read
by Landor at breakfast to his friend Miss Eliza Lynn
(now Mrs. Lynn Linton), see that lady's article in
Fraser's Magazine, July 1870. cccxviii. Heroic
Idyls, 1863, p. 212 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 334.
350. cccxix. Heroic Idyls, p. 96 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 308, 11.
6 ff. "That name" is of course lanthe : the
" other bards " are Byron and Shelley. Lander's
poems to Mrs. Swift under the name of lanthe had
first appeared in Simonidea, 1806 : it was in 1813
that the same beautiful name was used by Shelley in
Queen Mob (also as a real name for his infant daugh-
ter), and by Byron in his dedication of Childe Harold
to Lady Charlotte Harley. cccxx. Last Fruit, p.
383 : Works, 1876, viii. p. 178.
THE END.
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